#the cultists were the only people to make her feel any sense of community and emotional support | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quidfree · 4 years ago

Note

prompt: tdbk in a post-apocalyptic setting (HEHEH)

self-servicing AND a helping hand to a friend in need, we love a good strat

this got incredibly out of hand but i hope you enjoy!!

it’s been two months and five days since he last saw someone that katsuki lays eyes on him. two months and five days, and yes, he is fucking keeping score, why wouldn’t he be?

two months and five days is long. two months and five days is long enough that he’s taken up the habit of muttering to himself to fill the air, because dead silence makes him paranoid, always expecting sudden interruption, and he chooses to ignore the fact that muttering to himself is a quirk he might have picked up elsewhere. jesus. if deku, scrawny and asthmatic and perennially, psychotically self-sacrificing, is somehow still alive, he thinks he might be glad to see him again, just out of sheer disbelief.

there’s other people he’d be glad to see. perfect timing, for the zombie apocalypse to erupt right when he’d been on a summer internship in tokyo. to think the old crone had been bitching about it before he’d left- don’t get mugged on the underground, all that shit. like he was some hare-brained tourist. like people didn’t expect him to mug them. whatever. he thinks his parents are safer, out in a smaller city, than anyone has been in tokyo, tells himself it’s not blind hope that makes him explain the radio silence away. it’s statistics, and the geography of the outbreak, and the memory of his mother beating a would-be pickpocket over the head with her shoe until he passed out.

six months ago he’d first walked into his cramped rental flat in tokyo, barely the space to unroll his mat. six days later the pandemic had begun. slowly, first, confusingly, two weeks of shadowing jeanist to court and back while the news got increasingly weirder, and then by the third things took a turn for the fucked, and his parents were calling frantically telling him to come home stat, but by then it was too late. tokyo’s the new york of japan- in sci-fi movies it’s always struck first. the city was on lockdown before he could so much as book a flight out.

that was five months ago. by four and a half his phone carrier service had gone dead.

he doesn’t like to linger on anything, but he especially doesn’t like to linger on what happened between the start and the middle of it, the slow descent from incomprehending disbelief into hell on earth. he doesn’t throw the term around- not one for flowery prose. for the first while there’d been something almost rewarding to it, the whole survival strategy, him and the interns and lawyers at jeanist’s office taking scope of their resources and planning their ways out. now it’s been two months and five days since he’s run into anyone alive, he fails to see the bright side.

the media called them the infected, or the walkers, or some other dumb shit, but everyone knows they’re zombies. it’s some kind of chemical weapon- americans, if you ask him- that’s mutated them, but they’re zombies by anyone’s definition. lumbering, decaying, dead, very keen on extending the invitation. the first time he’d seen one up close- whatever. he’d killed it. he’s killed so many by now he’s lost count, and that’s not an exaggeration. these days he’s not so big on those.

the office had been overrun, in the end. some of the other interns, panicking. bitten. dead. jeanist had held them off while katsuki dragged hysterical staffers out of the window, and the last he’s seen of the man he was catching his unflappable gaze as the doors burst open and jeanist slammed the window shut.

they’d scattered. maybe he would have stayed on, tried the group thing out of a sense of responsibility alone, but there were too many subgroups for him to rotate around. he’d split off, eventually, cut his losses. sometimes he catches someone he recognises walking the streets, wonders when and how and what. he’s still never seen jeanist. he thinks probably he offed himself.

if it ever comes to it that’s what he’s doing. he has a gun ready for it. one bullet. in the apartment he’d stayed in for a while, some forensic doctor’s place, he’d studied the angle that worked best. straight through the temples, angled down.

then there had been that thing with the league. he doesn’t want to think about that, but he does, constantly, because that’s how he knows. two months and five days. the last person he spoke to was that fucking girl.

like zombies weren’t enough- criminals who fancy themselves cultists roam the streets in packs. it’s like every shitty blockbuster movie he’s never bothered to see packed into one.

two months. five days. there’s no way of communicating with the outside world. after he’d shaken off the league he’d had jack shit on him- lost his bag in the initial fight, and his apartment was a lost cause. in the end he’d made his way back to the firm, but that had been a literal dead end too. he’d managed to retrieve, of all things, his phone, skirting the streets around the firm, probably dropped in their original escape. it’s functionally useless but he’s managed to charge it once or twice, stare at old photos and texts that fail to send. he has nothing else of his own except the clothes he’d worn that last day with jeanist.

he’s remade his belongings, obviously. he’s competent, as it turns out, in apocalypses. somehow it doesn’t surprise him. he works out a routine. when he’d first found a hole to burrow himself in post-league he’d spent days just picking up patterns- when, who, from where, how. once he was entirely sure he’d gotten it down to a science he’d risked it back out, mapping the area out incrementally, one rotation at a time. two months and five days in he has it down to an art instead.

he moved regularly for the first month post-league, avoiding anywhere that seemed inhabited by zombies and people alike. can’t trust anyone, and besides it’s way too much of a liability having other people around to get themselves bitten. he can look after himself, but he’s not signing up for charity work. by the second month he’d found his current address, the top floor of a mid-rise apartment complex in meguro city. apartment complexes are risky, but this one’s door locks are still functional, and once he’d cleared out the ground floor and made the rounds to check for stragglers he’d wagered it about as secure as it could get. the stairs are a bitch, but the zombies don’t like them either, preferring to straggle in lobbies, and for another thing the height is convenient. the roof’s close by for a way out, and it gives him a good view of the surroundings.

the apartment itself is nothing special. residential. he picked the cleanest one, which also meant the one half-moved out in a hurry. he pretends like he thinks the owners got out but he spotted a suitcase with their name abandoned in the elevator. the guy was a teacher at the university. the woman was in sales. it’s decent for a tokyo flat, two bedrooms, a bathroom, good kitchen, nice living area. the fridge had been full of expired goods, but the shelves had some cans in them- soup, rice, beans. pots and pans. he’s been working through the floors of the place one room at a time taking inventory, lugging the useful shit back up. nothing beyond the strictly practical- he takes food, medecine, clothes, someone’s watch once, binoculars. he’s not making a home for himself, just stocking up. he sleeps with his bag on his back, the essentials locked and loaded. the gun was an apartment find too.

his biggest problem is transport. he recognised this early on, because so could anyone with half a brain. tokyo’s teeming with public transports overrun by the undead, cars abandoned on the streets, but the actual streets are packed day in and day out. whatever movie said zombies hate the sun was full of shit, because as far as he can tell the only time they actually react to the weather is when it rains. all night and day they’re shuffling in tireless motions around the city, gaining numbers. there’s a rhythm to it, sure- they’re more sluggish at night- but it’s an incessant flow. he can’t drive a car, has found no convenient manual stored nearby, and google went and croaked on him when the electricity did, so there’s no way he can just take advantage of a lull and jump in. by the time he’s figured out how to get any given vehicle to start he’ll be surrounded. even if he could find a way in, there’s no way out- driving through streets packed with zombies is a doomed exercise, especially given that half of the cars in the city are busted or low on fuel.

his current plan involves boats. he’s not sure if zombies can swim yet, but they don’t like the rain so he’s betting no, and even if they do they’d fare no better than a human at climbing a boat from the waters below it. if he can make it to tokyo bay somehow- at least off the coast there’ll be room to manoeuvre. but he needs to figure out the basics of ship-operating first, and also to relocate his supplies nearer to the bay somehow. if he ends up on the open seas he’ll need the food to last him the journey.

so he’s been doing this. rounds, collecting shit. taking inventory. scoping the streets out. he spends the nights planning, the early mornings reading. there’s no power in the building. it’s freezing. six months since his internship, winter rolling in. if he gets to tokyo bay the waters will be frigid, but the sea doesn’t freeze over.

his biggest concern at the moment is hypothermia, if he’s being honest. he’s collected every fucking duvet in the building, it feels like, but there’s only so much he can bury himself under. he’d be warmer if he didn’t insist on bathing in melted snow, but he went so long without washing in autumn that he fucking refuses to waste the opportunity. he smells like some ridiculous apple berry blast bullshit because he’s cycling through shampoos, but sometimes he thinks he’s only sane when he’s brushing his teeth in the mornings so he’s not about to let up on the hygiene.

three and a half months ago he was meant to be back at school. he has no idea what’s happened to his classmates. most of them were home for the summer. he thinks yaoyorozu was abroad. lucky her. kirishima was the last he heard from, all suppressed terror, and even now it makes him feel sick to think about it, because he knows full well the asshole was scared for him. sometimes he thinks about what it would have been like facing this shit as a group, but he never dwells on it. he’s better off alone.

he’s cold. he’s tired. he needs to get to the nearest library, because no one in the building has shit about boats. he doesn’t want to leave the building yet, but he needs a book. can’t go into this shit blind, not without knowing what he’ll need once he gets there. and besides he needs to stay sharp on the streets- get back into the swing of it, literally. one month since he moved in and he’s barely seen a zombie in the rotting flesh. the doors have been holding up, and he’s far up enough that none of the regulars outside can smell him, decide to unionize and break the door down.

he’s had an assortment of weapons, since the start of this. most effective was the gun, also a heavy chair once. his trusty hockey stick had snapped on his way into the building, a month ago, leaving him to fend the last three tenants off with goldfish bowls and doors to the neck. he’s found a sturdy baseball bat since that he’s claimed as new weapon of choice, though never used. he takes this, when he goes. the bat, the backpack that never leaves his back, the longest coat he can find in his collection. not the heaviest, despite the biting cold, because that restrains movement, but the longest, to minimize contact. hat and gloves for the same reason. balaklava just for the cold.

the apartment is empty as he winds his way down, footsteps loud, and it’s dusk- just late enough that the zombies are slower, though not late enough that it really makes a difference. it’s be too dark if it were; he’s trying to save flashlights for real emergencies.

the setagaya library is the only actual library near him, as the maps inform him, but too far to risk. in the address book he finds a local bookshop three blocks away, and it’s there that he heads, already cold to the bone as he grits his teeth and locks the complex door assiduously behind him. there are zombies just across the street beginning to moan in his direction. he ignores them, breaking into a jog.

maybe because their blood doesn’t flow to their brains, maybe because their muscles are deteriorating: zombies aren’t incredibly fast or incredibly intelligent. what they are is resilient, and single-minded. but outrun them and outsmart them he can, and so he does- runs the paths he’s memorized, sticks to corners and shadows and scales ladders and crosses rooftops and just about manages to get to the street in question without even having to swing his bat.

once he gets there, though, he gets swinging. the bookshop is in an unfortunate position, and there’s an entire group parked in front of it. he lets them spot him first, so they break off in his direction, then climbs onto the overturned truck they’ve shifted to and springs back down into the doorframe of the bookshop, kicking the door in before they can register his itinerary. he slams it shut just before a greying hand scratches at it in outrage, heart pounding a steady tattoo, then glances around rapidly. no sign of life, but that means nothing.

there is, then, an unmistakable jingling sound from the very back corner of the room, behind rows and rows of antique-looking books. keys, or metal on metal. movement.

company, katsuki thinks, between anticipation and trepidation. his bat sits comfortably in his hands as he raises it.

jingling, closer, and he moves in on instinct, breathing feeling loud as he brushes past the anthropology section. he can just about see around the corner when a sudden sixth sense makes him whip around, bat swinging down heavily, and just in the nick of time- wood connects with metal, hard, knocking him back a pace as his teeth snap together from the impact, but he’s swinging again in self-defense just as there’s a sharp intake of breath and his brain catches up- red, white, painfully familiar. the bat makes an aborted spasm.

“bakugou,” shouto todoroki says, in disbelieving tones, crowbar lowered but not dropped. katsuki gapes.

“am i fucking hallucinating?”

the crowbar lowers further.

it is him, unmistakably. maybe with someone else he would have hesitated longer, but todoroki's hard not to single out. his red-white hair is tousled, long behind his ears like he's absently tucked it and forgotten about it, and he's grimy, smells sour and dusty, but it's him. katsuki's own hands stay gripped around the bat, their gazes playing some odd symmetrical game as they catalogue each other for the same exact thing- looking for bite-marks. todoroki's less covered than katsuki is, but there's blood on him, old, dried. too old for recent bites, anyways. inconclusive.

"what are you doing in-" todoroki starts, maybe having concluded that there's no way to assess his status with the layers he has on, but then his frown twists. "oh. your internship?"

which answers katsuki's own question, sort of, because now that he thinks of it enji was on that high-profile murder case in the high court. still- still, his brain is stuck on the incongruity of it, shouto todoroki in the apparently living flesh, and it's been two months and five days. he just keeps staring.

"i came for a book," is what leaves his lips, eventually, rough, and his voice sounds hoarse with disuse. it jars him into action, moving past todoroki on auto-pilot, because somehow he can't quite register his presence, doesn't know where to begin. he wasn't factoring this into his day.

it's dark inside, books hard to discern, so he gets his flashlight out, hits it against a shelf so it alights. there's a section on travel near the back. nautical travels of the eastern seas. useless. a map book of the japanese seas- maybe. he mechanically slides it into his bag. his fingers feel rigid. he's still cold. what the fuck is shouto todoroki doing holed up in a bookstore? where is his father? how long has he been here? what is he doing, alive, talking, walking, in the apocalypse, ambling into katsuki's routine with a crowbar in hand?

he can't see or hear him at all. now he's back here he can tell the ringing was rigged up- tiny trap-wires set around the store, what looks like fishing wire with bells attached. smart. of course it is. he's losing his mind. where has the bastard gone? is he even here? it's fucking freezing in the bookstore. where does he sleep? he hadn't looked starving. actually he hadn't looked anything- just blank as usual, barring the surprise. fuck! he's been staring at the same book for a good thirty seconds without registering the title.

beginner's guide to boating. miraculous. he nearly breaks todoroki's kneecaps when he sees his legs appear silently next to him.

"fuck! don't sneak up on me, you asshole!"

"boats," todoroki says. "that's your plan?"

it makes him flare hot with something like rage, because he doesn't fucking want input on it, doesn't want to be told odds, and it has him on his feet, slamming todoroki back into the opposite bookshelf within seconds.

"mind your own damn business!"

todoroki seems mildly startled at best, shifting a little so a book isn't digging into his neck, and for a moment katsuki is distracted by the scalding warmth of him under his arm. he doesn't know when he last came into contact with a living body. it's disorienting. he thinks probably it was the senior partner who fell down the stairs, minutes before the zombies swarmed the lobby, pulse skittering frantically with fear.

he drops todoroki, steps back. two months five days. maybe he's gone a little crazy.

whatever! whatever. he's fully functioning, he has his book, he's leaving. he's going to be off-schedule at this rate, times gone muddy with distraction. even without touching him he feels like there's residue warmth on his palm, making the rest of him shiver by contrast. if the zombies could have just gotten properly active in summer...

he's halfway to the door when he remembers- again- todoroki is actually there, watching him inscrutably from the bookshelf, swaying a little on his feet. despite himself he turns to stare back. he doesn't know what to- this wasn't in the plan, he doesn't know. he's going anyways.

it's because he's staring-cum-glaring at todoroki that he sees his eyes widen, and then he's leaping forwards on instinct as the window in the door shatters, decaying arm bursting through as loud moaning suddenly fills the dead silence.

"shit!"

"it's because there's two of us," todoroki reasons, in a tone like he's annoyed with himself for not realising this, which would make katsuki feel marginally better about his own stupid lack of thought if he wasn't so pissed. he'd counted on the zombies losing interest on his presence once he was out of sight, but the smell of two live humans in close proximity would obviously keep some of them near.

"is there another way out of this place?"

"back entrance, but it leads into a dead-end alley," todoroki retorts, suddenly functioning, eyeing the creaking door as thumping intensifies from the other side. "there's a way to scale onto the drain-pipe above but it wasn't made to take two people's weight."

"shit," katsuki curses, feelingly. "where's the drain-pipe lead?"

"roof. i don't know if either of us could scale it fast enough for the other to follow before they get there."

katsuki looks at him, crouched calmly stacking something or other into a loose duffel bag, rusty crowbar by his feet, then looks back to the groaning door. his gut tightens with a sort of pissed off fatalism.

"how long 'd it take you to get to the roof? five minutes?"

"i could do it in three, maybe less," todoroki estimates. "it's slower with the frost."

three minutes. katsuki hoists the bat higher, takes a step then two back from the door.

"fine. go. i'll follow."

"bakugou-"

"it's the most logical fucking plan of action," katsuki snaps, eyes still on the door, adrenaline spiking. "if you get up there before i get outside i can make it to the drainpipe before anyone nabs me. i can hold them off for three fucking minutes. and you're the one who knows the way up. you go."

"i know," todoroki says, which makes katsuki glance back at him, finds his face set with nothing but fixed determination. "i was going to say to give me your bag. it'll make it easier to climb."

there's something about this that makes katsuki's head briefly thud with something like a pounding headache, lungs gone tight, but he refocuses, blinks away the dizzy spell. the last fucking thing he wants is to give the bag away, but unless the plan goes as hoped he's dead anyways, so there's no point in arguing.

he shrugs his backpack off, slides the gun out, shoves it into his back pocket. todoroki fastens the straps around his shoulders without comment, then turns and runs, not wasting any time. it makes something in him-

the door breaks in.

there's five of them at least, the ones from before. the first one goes down with a direct hit to the head, skull caving in with a crunching sound, but he has to retreat immediately, make them spread out of their pack formation as he zig-zags back through the rows of books. they're slower than humans but not slow, breaking into a fast paced shuffle after him; he turns a sharp corner, doubles back as fast as he can to catch a second one from behind. crack, snap. the one in front lunges back before he can swing again, sending him running back; he jumps onto the seller's counter, dodging an arm, then brings the bat down full-force onto the zombie's neck. three. there's another one nearing the broken door, the other two circling back to the front at the commotion. he jumps over the counter, ducking under an arm, knocks into the nearest bookshelf with all of his weight, sending it sprawling towards the door, books flying and frame landing awkwardly across the doorframe. it doesn't block entry, but it befuddles the would-be incomers.

there's an arm grabbing his shoulder; he dodges a gaping mouth, bat spinning to hit at the rotting jaw, once, twice, bones splintering decisively on the second hit, but the last straggler is on him and the others are crawling in through the door. he runs, down to the back of the store, nearly trips over todoroki's traps himself as he goes, miraculously jumps clean of them as his pursuers stumble. it gives him the seconds to jump up to the back portion of the shop, grab a nearby chair and throw it at the advancing huddle, knocking them back a step, then turn sharply into a row, sprinting down to the back of the room where the emergency exit sign hangs half-broken. it's closed, likely behind todoroki, but he slams through it before any of the zombies near, staggers at the sharp gust of cold air that hits once he's out. the sun is nearly set, casting a red haze over the alley, and there's a pack of six zombies right beneath the glinting drainpipe, still trailing after todoroki's scent, moaning around the corner signalling backup. fuck.

there's a loud scraping from above, then todoroki's head appears over the edge of the roof, something grey and unwieldy in his hands; a satellite dish comes falling down, catching speed as it goes. it hits the pack dead-centre, crushing two of the zombies into pieces on impact, others reeling backwards in confusion, and he doesn't have the time to question his odds four-on-one. he runs in while they're still dazed, beats one into the wall, head splattering, turns and swings into the second as it zeroes in on him, head collapsing inward and drenching him in blood. the other two are too close to hit; he twists, jumps back, curses, eyes the alley entry where others have scented blood. fucking- no, two on one, god, he's not dying two on one, not after the bullshit he's been through. he kicks heavily into the one's chest, just missing the hand trying to nab his ankle, which sends it knocking into the other, and like that they're just aligned enough that he yells and slams the bat through the first one's head, in three rapid blows, hitting the one behind it on the third as bits of skull go flying. it's not enough to take it out; he hits again, manic, and it gets him on the second go. then he's scrambling to the drain pipe, mindful of the others closing in, shoves his bat down the back of his shirt and under his waistband before he throws himself at the drainpipe.

"brace against the wall," todoroki calls, almost in the moment he does so, hands slip-sliding on the damp pipe as his boots hit concrete; there are arms nearing, outstretched, but he bunches his stomach and drags himself up, feet first then arms, side of his arm scraping heavily against the wall as he moves almost horizontally upwards, fingers clenched around metal. the fucking gloves are no help; he pauses, braced and shaking with tension, to rip his gloves off with his teeth, one hand then the next, dropping to the floor below as his bare palms hit the freezing metal.

he's so cold it hurts, but he's halfway up the wall. methodically he moves. one foot. other foot. one hand. other hand. stomach muscles, straining, arms pulling. up a fraction. then another. then another.

"wait," todoroki says, closer than he feels, and he glances up for the first time, finds him an arm and a half's length away. "you'll slide at the top."

"then what the fuck do you suggest i do?" katsuki bites, half a yell, too strained to scream. todoroki leans, heavy, arms outstretched.

"do one more. then take my hand."

katsuki wishes he could spit on him. todoroki's expression has gone tight like he knows what he's thinking, like he's not sure katsuki won't let himself fall all the way down rather than put himself into the uncalloused hands of shouto todoroki.

the pipe creaks. katsuki moves up, ignores the way his blood boils, eyes the outstretched hands. he can hear todoroki breathing, hot against the cold air.

"drop me and i'll turn you."

he braces. one hand leaves the pipe, and for a godawful moment he's grasping at nothing. their hands connect, rearrange themselves; todoroki has a death-like grip on his wrist. his foot slides. the second hand is thrown rather than extended, and todoroki's eyes flash alarmingly as their fingers brush and miss, but he doesn't fall, hangs there by an arm for a heartbeat, jolt like he's dislocated his shoulder before his boot catches something and he shoves upwards, todoroki grabbing hold of his hand and yanking full-body at him.

katsuki falls over the top of the roof in disjointed movements, the both of them half-hitting each other as momentum carries them down, lands with an elbow in todoroki's stomach and a hit of tile to the jaw.

his head spins; he shoves up immediately, falls back down when his arms protest, adrenaline pounding hysterically. his limbs are shaking with belated exertion. todoroki is still holding his wrists, punishingly tight, his breaths heavy nearby. his body is still hot beneath him.

he scrabbles backwards, onto his knees, todoroki dropping his hands and dragging himself up to his elbows. for a moment they stare at each other, panting loudly.

he wants to yell at him but the words don't come. two months, five days. it's not even todoroki's fault, really. he was living there unperturbed. there's a flush of exertion over his cheeks now, and maybe he's just gone crazy what with the constant thinking about unbeating hearts but he feels a little obsessively interested in the visible flow of blood beneath his skin, wants him pink all over if that'll prove him living a minute longer.

he shakes himself, exhales in a burst.

"are you all right?" todoroki asks, and up close katsuki realises his voice is hoarser too. in the shop he'd been too dumbstruck to register it, but it's there beneath his normal cadence, a scratchy undertone. he hasn't spoken in a while either. something about it-

all right, he'd asked. unbitten, he means. katsuki shakes his head.

"we need to get going."

he hadn't meant the 'we', but he thinks at some point when todoroki's fingers dug into his arm hard enough to pierce flesh the message had gotten under his skin too. they're not fucking splitting up now. of course they're not. this isn't model un or a baseball match; it doesn't matter that the guy drives him insane. and this is todoroki, too- excruciatingly hyper-competent at every challenge life throws at him. if there's anyone less likely to rely on katsuki for the next however-long until one of them is forced to shoot the other, he hasn't met them.

"where?"

"my place. 's not far. how d'you get down from here?"

"the next building over has a fire-escape."

"fine. let's go then."

todoroki hands him back his backpack. he hits his bat against the wall to shake some bits of bone and flesh off, eyes unfocused on the task. he thinks desensitisation is the word. it's maybe the third or fourth time he's fought them off without registering anything about them once. usually he gets stuck on some detail or other, schoolgirl shirt or smile wrinkles. freckles. proof of life. there's that movie he watched once with kirishima and the rest of them, some kind of sci-fic thing, and at the end when the monsters come the dad shoots his whole family dead to spare them. turns out it's the military instead, come to rescue them. kirishima had cried.

questions pile up in his throat. he forces them down.

they jump from the rooftop to the next with relative ease, the gap narrow, his foot just catching on the edge before he rights himself. the fire escape is solid where the drain pipe wasn't. he wonders how in the fuck todoroki ended up here, in some old bookstore.

he's gotten good at scaling shit. he thinks in another life he'd have made a top-grade gymnast, or a superhero. when he'd broken out of the league's hold he'd made a spiderman worthy leap onto a clothes-line.

they make it back to the apartment as the sun vanishes, late, and because they're late his perfect scheduling is off, leaves them facing a pack of easily a dozen zombies swarming around the doors. there's another way in through the side, but it requires forcing a door open that he doesn't have keys for, and that means an entry-risk.

"i'll clear a way to the door," he says, hoisting his bat higher. "you keep them off my back."

todoroki follows his gaze, nods.

they advance in the dark, close together, and it's bizarre having someone breathing down his neck after so long, makes him on edge, expecting a bite that never comes. when the first zombie starts turning their way he breaks into a run, brings the bat down fast and heavy so it connects with a sick thud, flashlight clicking to life where he holds it between his teeth. it blinds one zombie long enough that he gets it too, and then it's chaos, flashlight swinging drunkenly as he batters this way and that, fighting off the clawing arms with irate kicks and loud swearing. if there's one thing he fucking loathes about the apocalypse it's how touchy-feely everyone is, all endlessly grasping hands and drooling maws straining for a piece of him. it makes his skin crawl, which makes him see red, which makes him go through fights like this, all furious movement, too keyed up to feel afraid. he never goes into a fight expecting to lose.

behind him, around him, wet crunching and moans track todoroki closing the pack; in off-beat synchronisation they move their way through the group, dropping bodies as they go. he's by the door before he knows it, light catching the heavy glass, switches the bat to one hand as he drags out the keys. the first time he'd gotten in the door had been open; his luckiest find since was the functioning key, sealing him out of harm's way. he's efficient with it, no fumbling, has it in and open in the time todoroki exhales sort of shortly as their backs connect. bakugou yanks the key out in the same movement he grabs blindly at todoroki's collar with his bat-holding hand, hooking a finger to swing him through the door and diving after him to slam the door shut on a wrist, bone snapping and the hand falling limply to the floor as they put their weight on the door for as long as it takes him to lock it again.

todoroki's crowbar is sopping red, guts in his hair; he casts a look around, doesn't even ask if katsuki thinks the door will hold, if katsuki has thought of their scent luring zombies in. most people would have.

he has, obviously. thought of it. that's why he lives on the top floor. the scent doesn't linger. doesn't matter if there's two of them up there. the door holds for as long as the stragglers press up against it, but as soon as they're out of sight the zombies will drift again.

they make their way up the stairs. he's warmer now, purely from the exercise. heat rises. another reason he lives at the top. doesn't feel like it when he's freezing his ass off at night, but he knows his science.

they make it to the top floor in silence, and he pushes his door open (unlocked, this one, because by the point anyone reaches him up here he'll be long gone), goes for the camping lamp on the floor, trudges along with it in hand. remembers his houseguest.

"kitchen's there. there's a bathroom. two rooms. living room. no power or running water but i have some water in the bathtub if you want to wash."

"it's nice," todoroki says, and the worst thing is he sounds like he means it, almost politely. it makes katsuki stop dead to look at him, struck again by how unreal it all feels, but it almost feels reassuringly normal, staring at todoroki in disbelief. in the bad lighting he looks otherworldly, even despite the filth and zombie gunk he's covered in, all half-lit and angelic like something out of a hazy dream.

"i can't fucking believe it's actually you, half 'n half."

it escapes him unthinkingly, but it's true, and besides that it has the unforeseen consequence of making todoroki's composure fracture, shoulders rising and falling on a mute laugh, exhausted wryness in the tilt of his head. for a split second his gaze is dizzyingly and uncharacteristically frank, almost intimate.

"the feeling is mutual."

if the moment stretches he might do something wholly deranged; he rolls his aching shoulder, gestures to the bathroom.

"you go first. you reek."

todoroki says his thanks to his back as he retreats.

he returns to routine. strips, despite how fucking cold he is, wraps his shoulder tight enough that it hurts, rubs alcohol onto the more worrying cuts and scrapes. drags some bedding to the second room, then drags himself to the kitchen, shivering, mentally redoing his maths, then pulling out his notebook to jot down the edited stock. pauses, hesitates. in the margin under the date he writes: found half 'n half. it's not a diary, but he feels like he should make note.

todoroki appears silently in the doorframe, wrapped in a towel and scrubbed red, and there's something reassuring about how clean he looks, balanced out by how disturbing it is to see him so casually bare. he's barely glanced up at him that he drops the towel.

"the fuck-"

todoroki just turns in a neat 360, then wraps himself back up. katsuki snaps his jaw shut, ears burning but head clear. no bites. right. the previous times- whatever. reluctantly he stands and turns. when todoroki eyes his boxers he glares.

"you don't think you would have noticed if i got bitten on the dick today?"

he's not entirely sure todoroki won't fight him on it, but he concedes after a moment's assessing stare, shifts from foot to foot.

"you can have some of my shit to wear," katsuki says, pointing to the wardrobe he's requisitioned. "some of it's too big. should fit."

todoroki just nods, follows suit.

he wonders, as he scrubs himself down with a bucketful of water, teeth chattering and bath-tub still half full, if todoroki was always so goddamn quiet or if he's traumatised or some shit. the guy was always the annoying silent type, but he doesn't remember him this monosyllabic. habit, probably. what does he know.

he dresses, layers up, shoves his dirty clothes with todoroki's in the basket. when it fills he'll dunk the whole lot into a tub of his used water, but until there's that many dirty clothes he leaves them out.

todoroki is sat on the couch wrapped in blankets and wearing someone's dad's heavy knitwear, illuminated by (of all things) a gas lamp that katsuki had found but never managed to light. so the asshole has matches.

"you hungry?" katsuki asks, really only to make him speak. todoroki nods, counter-productively, but he's talking next.

"don't waste your food on me."

"shut up, asshole," katsuki mutters, on instinct, fatigue setting into him. jesus. the martyrs he's surrounded with. "you can make the next grocery run."

todoroki only looks at him longly, but he follows him into the kitchen, eats the cold soup without complaint. he likes cold food, katsuki thinks, then stops at the thought. he has no idea how he knows it. it feels like a memory from a different life. he likes cold food. like that matters.

it's not very late, though it's pitch black out. he goes to bed early these days to make the most of the sunlight. he's not sure what to do with todoroki, though rationally that's not his concern.

he can't find it in himself to ask the obvious questions. it's partly because he doesn't want to hear the answers and partly because he doesn't want to have to give his own. it's not like they were fucking bosom buddies before this all went down- he's past hating the guy, despite how unbearable he finds him, would call them something adjacent to friends under duress, but it's not like they make a point of hanging out outside of class. and todoroki's a terrible conversationalist, always.

even so. two months, five days. he wants to talk, if only for the pleasure of getting to call him a superior bastard, if only to know that he's still the same confounding weirdo whose face he wears. it's not even the words, really- he wants to hear a pulse beat near him, to catch alert eyes on his, to watch his chest rise and fall. alive.

he can't believe the asshole stripped naked like that. pale flesh all over, but not that diseased grey tint, just regular winter cold, like the inside of a peach. bruises and scratches littering his limbs. nasty half-healed scar like someone had tried to gut him with a knife.

his lips are peeling when he licks them. he found vaseline in someone's drawer but he uses it sparingly. whenever he goes outside his lips crack to the point of blood. against the glow of the stove he can see only half of his new flatmate where he sits surveying his newly clean crowbar.

"what's in the duffel?"

he'd have bristled more at the invasion, pragmatic though it is, but todoroki only shifts obligingly to raise it to his lap.

"medical kit- bandages, aspirin, tweezers, needle and thread. three water bottles. instant noodles. biscuits. matchbox. a city map. a change of shoes. a space blanket. my wallet. wire. rope. an alarm clock. a mechanic's manual." he pauses, feels around, drags out a glass bottle. "this."

it's vodka, of all the things. katsuki half wants to laugh.

"you drink now?"

"kept me warm," todoroki shrugs. which is, maybe, all there is to it. maybe not.

"i'll run you through inventory in the morning," katsuki says, if reluctantly. best todoroki knows what they have on hand, despite how little he feels like letting him into his notebook. it's not like he's deku, writing down his little feelings all over it, but it feels revealing anyways, for todoroki to know what he's been tracking.

there's nothing else for them to talk about without heading into dangerous territory. todoroki packs his things back into the bag, careful, and katsuki is sick of his own weird emotional breakdown, doesn't know where this sudden needy cloying bullshit is even coming from.

two months five days, his brain says, chipper, and then offers to rewind the days preceding that. he hisses through his teeth before he remembers he has company.

"i'm going to bed. 's fuck all to do without wasting light. stay high up if you want to go exploring."

todoroki has gone back to muteness, because he only nods as katsuki glowers at nothing in particular and makes his way back to his room, unhappy at the sight of his diminished bedding. it's not like he's actually able to use the whole apartment's bedding anyways- too unwieldy, too heavy, whatever- but the three duvets and two quilts had been working well enough to insulate him against the chill, and with two sacrificed he's resigned to a night of tossing and turning.

fuck his life. he thinks maybe the reason he's been having these fits of weirdness across the days is just fatigue. between the nightmares and the cold and the actual zombie break-ins over the past six months he doesn't think he's managed a single night's good sleep beyond the times he's blacked out. he feels untethered, at times both more and less emotional than he's used to being.

no surprise that having a real life human being around- and one that he knows at that- is making him almost ill with conflicting urges. part of him wants to lock todoroki out in a cold sweat and never lay eyes on him again. part of him wants to cut him open and grab at his beating heart just to confirm he's not alone. the rest of him lies there wondering what the fuck is wrong with his brain.

he lies there for maybe an hour trying to get to sleep, but his mind has kicked into overdrive in the way that it does every goddamn night nowadays, replaying scenes he didn't even notice in the moment. one of the zombies by the bookstore had barely reached his shoulder. when he'd washed his bat there had been bits of an eye clinging to the base.

he's too busy being cold and annoyed and possibly hysterical to notice the soft footfall until it's close, jerking up on instinct to brandish his bat, but he can tell by the moonlight filtering in slivers through his blinds that it's todoroki, if the lack of shuffling hadn't given it away.

"what the hell is wrong with you?"

"i didn't mean to startle you," todoroki says. monotone, but in an off way, almost dreamy, like he's asleep. it makes katsuki's skin prickle with foreboding; he stares at the little he can see of his face, alert now.

"then what do you want?"

"you sound cold," todoroki says. still in the doorframe, unmoving. he wishes there was more light.

"it's the middle of winter, jackass, of course i'm cold. can you fuck off?"

"my father is dead," todoroki says, completely unprompted, voice not changing in timbre in the slightest, and it makes katsuki's heart jump before he sits fully upright, trying harder to make his face out.

enji todoroki, gone. he guesses he'd known that on some level, for todoroki to be roaming around like a ghost, but it doesn't compute. jesus. maybe todoroki's actually fucking lost it since. he imagines two months and five days tracking back to losing his father, feels that gut-punch of paralysis in his stomach.

he's so caught on processing it that he doesn't even register todoroki is climbing into the bed before he's halfway under the sheets.

"what the fuck are you doing?" his voice half-breaks on it, rising in sheer disbelief as he jerks violently back, because seriously- there's insane and there's insane, and he's starting to suspect todoroki is so out of it he'd snap his neck in his sleep.

todoroki has the audacity to shush him, distracted, and it takes katsuki actually grabbing him hard by the shoulder, braced to hit at the slightest flicker of intent, to stop him in his tracks.

"hey, asshole, i'm talking to you! are you out of your goddamn mind?"

where he's stopped now todoroki's one eye catches the moonlight, big and dark and eerie. he blinks slowly like he's coming out of a trance.

"oh, i-" he pauses. his pulse is sluggish under katsuki's hands, skin fire-hot. feverish, maybe. shit. feverish, very possibly. he'd had no layers in that shitty bookshop. "sorry."

he says it like he's not sure he means it. katsuki doesn't let up with his grip.

"how long you been sick, icyhot?"

"sick," todoroki repeats, processing it. his gaze sharpens. "days. i think maybe- what day is it?"

"wednesday. thirteenth."

"six days, then," todoroki says, quiet. their gazes catch, more consciously now. "i'm fine. the adrenaline helped."

"sit still," katsuki warns, and then pulls up quickly, shrugs his backpack off, digs out the medical kit. he has a decent stock of medicine in the apartment, enough that he only hesitates a beat before pulling out the advil bottle, unscrewing the cap to fill it. he knows the dosage by heart. "drink."

he nearly drops the whole bottle when todoroki just obediently sticks his mouth to the rim of the cap instead of taking it himself, hot breath fanning over his fingers as he drinks. it makes his own pulse go skittering with discomfort when he fills it a second time, brandishes it back. the cap is sticky and wet when he screws it back on; todoroki is still half-sitting where he told him to when he's done his bag up and slid it back onto his back.

"why'd you tell me about your dad just then?" katsuki asks, despite himself, if only to fill the silence.

"did i?" todoroki asks, on an exhale, visible eye swivelling to him. "i don't know. i was thinking about the cold, i think. he wasn't cold in the end."

he resists the urge to check his temperature. probably it got worse once he tried to go to sleep, all the residue adrenaline gone. it can't have been peaking all day, or they'd have never made it out in the first place. and it's not from a bite. just a fever. he's medicated. he'll sleep it off.

"i'm not crazy," todoroki informs him, suddenly cool, not so hazy. "just sick. i could hear you tossing and turning. that's why i came."

"why're you in my bed?" katsuki shoots back, on the edge of combative, not really. maybe he's a little relieved. he's a lot pissed off, even though he knows todoroki probably genuinely didn't realise what a state he was in the last week, might have actually been trying to make sense of his fluctuating mood himself. no shit he'd been so weird when they first ran into each other.

"i'm not sure," todoroki admits. "it seemed important at the time."

this makes him want to laugh, though he doesn't. the cracked-open raw part of him that still smarts loudly whenever he thinks of jeanist thinks he missed him somehow.

"glad we solved that mystery. get out now."

todoroki makes to move, stops when they're facing each other, blue eye white-pale on his. "actually i remember now, i think."

"i swear to god, half 'n half..."

"you're cold," todoroki repeats, factual, then back to floaty. "and i couldn't hear..."

he doesn't expect him to do what he does, which is why he doesn't stop him when he puts a too-hot palm directly over his heart, doesn't even pull back when he pushes, knocking him onto the bed.

"todoroki-"

"it's fine," todoroki says, scratchy, sweat-warm. he slides onto his own side in a heavy, graceless motion. face to face, half an arm between them, palm stuck to his chest. "it's fine."

it's the scratchiness that wins him over, or maybe the fever flush of him. todoroki may be fucked in the head but he's not, which is why he knows full well he's being insane by not shoving him out. it's just that on some extremely uncomfortable and deranged level he gets it, because he's been tracking his pulse like a shark since they first ran into each other. there's something less insane beneath it too, pragmatic acknowledgment that it is actually a great deal warmer when there's body heat to share, but he knows full well he'd have toughed it out, six months ago, sent him back to bed and spent the night half-awake in spiteful resignation.

it's six months later, though, and somewhere along the line he's been rewired wrong. he thinks it's not unlikely that he's just this desperate for a full night's sleep.

it doesn't really matter why, though. he lets him stay. in the morning if todoroki is back to himself he'll see right through whatever he says, and on balance he doesn't fucking care.

he's so fucking tired. two months and five days, six months and three. the last time someone touched him for more than a second without trying to kill him it was a crying intern, this bespectacled guy whose name he'd never bothered to learn choking on his own blood as he clutched katsuki's wrist for comfort. before that he thinks it was his mother, exchanging their usual routine of brusque ruffling before he got on the train. he hasn't cried since the start of this, but he feels like crying now, hot throbbing behind his eyes. he sucks in a breath, forces it down. time and place. he's said it like a mantra since the start, like there's ever going to be one.

todoroki is fast asleep, but his hand's still there. his fingers have curled into the wool.

two months and five days, he thinks again, remembering other hands, clutching his face, pinning his arms. that's changed now, he realises. still marks the date, but not the last time he's spoken to someone.

ten minutes, thirty seconds. he reaches to pull the covers higher over todoroki's shoulders, feels his stomach constrict when his hand brushes medicine-sticky lips in passing.

maybe todoroki can sail. that's a rich kid thing to do. he'll have to ask in the morning.

he falls asleep within fifteen minutes, forty seconds of todoroki, and doesn't wake until the sun rises.

#qui ecrit #deandra #tdbk #qui repond #prompts #bnha #mha #lashawn beyond is living rn #todobaku #apocalypse au

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grailfinders · 3 years ago

Text

Fate and Phantasms #166

Bonjour and Bienvenue boys and belles to another bit on the BB Channel! For today we’re building the boisterous baroness of bacchanalia as one bit Berserk Bewitchment Bloodline, one bit Battery Builder, all for badass beatdowns! All this brouhaha is to say we’re building and buffing the beauteous brat known as BB.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet here!

Next up: Hacking the planet? I think you misheard.

Race and Background

The evil AI from the moon BB is about as Custom a Lineage as they come, giving you +1 Dexterity and Intelligence. She also comes packed with Darkvision to dunk on those foolish human eyes and the Lucky feat to tip the scales in your favor by re-rolling attacks, checks, or saves that directly involve you three times per long rest. Games aren’t fun if they’re fair, silly!

Again, Evil AI from The Moon isn’t going to be a background you can find in most games of D&D. That being said, she certainly likes to put on shows of life and death, so once you get past their obsession with fire I’d bet she’d find a lot of common ground with Rakdos Cultists. This gives her proficiency with Acrobatics and Performance so you too can twirl around on stage and put a little flair into your attacks.

This background also gives you an additional bunch of spells to tack onto your spell lists. When you unlock spellcasting in the first place, you get Fire Bolt, Vicious Mockery, Burning Hands, Dissonant Whispers, and Hellish Rebuke. Your free second level spells are Crown of Madness, Enthrall, and Flaming Sphere. Third level is Fear and Haste, fourth is Confusion and Wall of Fire, and your free fifth level spell is Dominate Person. Don’t look at me like that, how else are you going to keep your daughters in line? BB doesn’t rely on fire that much -yet- but the other spells are absolutely in her wheelhouse. And giving a computer virus a fire wall is just plain funny.

Ability Scores

As a hyper-advanced AI from the future, it’d be a little weird if your Intelligence wasn’t your highest ability score. Your smarts are almost as obvious as how great a kouhai you are, so make your Charisma the next highest. Your Dexterity is pretty good too- that outfit probably isn’t armor, at least not in the practical sense. Your Constitution isn’t too bad either. The saying goes, “if it bleeds, you can kill it,” but you’re made out of data so you don’t bleed at all. Your Strength isn’t anything to write home about, but you can warp reality, so why would you need to lift? Dump Wisdom. You’re not exactly the most stable person in Chaldea.

Class Levels

1. Artificer 1: First level artificers get Magical Tinkering, so now you can put minor magical effects into tiny objects. Most of them probably aren’t that practical, but every event shop needs some junk.

You can also cast Spells this level, using your Intelligence to prepare and cast them. On top of your rakdos spells, you can use Lightning Lure and Mage Hand to mess with people. You can also prepare first level spells, like Identify to scan enemies for their status effects, Tasha’s Caustic Brew to re-enact your extra attack card, and Cure Wounds for a bit of maintenance on your spirit origin. It takes work to look this good, y’know!

Finally, you get proficiency with Constitution and Intelligence saves, as well as Arcana and Medicine. You were built to look after humans, and you obviously know a lot about tech.

2. Artificer 2: Second level artificers can Infuse Items to turn dumb ol’ mundane objects into magical objects! You learn four infusions right now, but you can only keep two of them available at a time, and you can swap them out between long rests. Really lean into it, make the rest of the party fight for the affection of their kouhai.

As far as your actual infusions go, Mind Sharpener is a great one for spellcasters, letting them force their concentration to stick even if they fail a save as a reaction. You can also use an Enhanced Arcane Focus to make your spells even stronger. For magic items, the classic Bag of Holding is always in fashion, and Sending Stones will help bring party communication into the 21st century.

3. Sorcerer 1: Being smart is nice, but it’s time to make things a bit more.. interesting. As a sorcerer, you get another Spell list that uses your Charisma to cast. You also get your own home game version of BB slots thanks to your Wild Magic Surge. When you cast a sorcerer spell that uses a spell slot, your DM can make you roll a d20. On a one, you then have to roll on the wild magic surge table.

If that’s not wacky enough for you, the Tides of Chaos can speed things up. Once per long rest, you gain advantage on one attack, check, or save of your choice. Your DM can also force you to roll on the WMS table when you’d normally get a WMS to recharge it.

You get cantrips like Friends, to make friends with Senpai; Message, to send calls to Senpai; Light, to help with Senpai’s dumb human eyes; and Minor Illusion, for some cheap holograms. For first level spells, Mage Armor makes that outfit less of a tactical issue, and Tasha’s Caustic Brew frees up some prep slots for artificer spells.

4. Sorcerer 2: Second level sorcerers are Fonts of Magic, giving you sorcery points equal to your sorcerer level each long rest. Right now they can be used to refill spell slots, or you can empty spell slots to get more points.

You can also cast Magic Missile for some caster balls. I know you’re not a caster, but you do run around with a magic wand, it’s not that wild a concept.

5. Sorcerer 3: Third level sorcerers get second level spells, as well as Metamagic to make them a little bit more you flavored. Distant Spell doubles the range of a spell (or gives it a range of 30′ if it’s touch), while Subtle Spell lets you cast a spell without all that vocal or somatic component nonsense. Why waste time chanting when you could spend it narrating?

You can also cast Enhance Ability to alter your data in favor of one kind of skill checks, gaining advantage on them for the duration. You also double your carrying capacity for strength checks, avoid small falling damage with dexterity checks, or gain temporary HP with constitution checks.

6. Sorcerer 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Charisma to make Senpai notice you. And also to make your sorcerer spells harder to avoid.

You can also cast Prestidigitation to make more small magical effects, or Alter Self to further improve your being. When you cast it, you pick one of three modes. Mode 1 gives you a swimming speed and the ability to breathe underwater. Mode 2 lets you change appearance as an action for the duration, and Mode 3 lets you grow Natural Weapons that are magical against resistances. Honestly Mode 3′s a bad matchup for you, but you’re an independent AI who don’t need no humanity, I’ll let you make your own decisions.

7. Sorcerer 5: Fifth level sorcerers get Magical Guidance, letting you spend 1 sorcery point to re-roll a failed skill check. You can also cast third level spells like Dispel Magic to bonk Kiara back into horny jail. Probably. We haven’t built her yet, still not entirely sure how that’s going to work.

8. Sorcerer 6: Sixth level wild mages can Bend Luck, using their reaction and 2 sorcery points to add or subtract 1d4 to another creature’s attack, check, or save. You love playing games, but more in the ‘dungeon master’ sense.

You can also cast Clairvoyance to set up your very own BB channel studio wherever you’ve been before.

9. Artificer 3: Third level artificers can always find the Right Tool for the Job, creating whatever tools you might need over the course of a short rest. Thanks to being an Artillerist, you can also bring one of those weird geometric enemies from the CCC event to the battlefield in the form of an Eldritch Cannon, creating a freestanding small cannon or a handheld tiny one. They’re pretty customizable, but they all come in one of three flavors. Flamethrowers deal AoE fire damage, Force Ballistas deal single-target force damage and throw people around, and Protectors give out temporary HP.

You also get the freebie spells Shield and Thunderwave.

10. Artificer 4: Use this ASI to bump up your Intelligence for better artificer spells.

11. Sorcerer 7: Seventh level sorcerers get fourth level spells, like Ego Whip! If your target fails an intelligence save, they get disadvantage on all attacks, checks, and saves, and it can’t cast spells. At the end of each turn it can try to make another intelligence save (still at disadvantage), but tbh most creatures aren’t that bright compared to you.

12. Sorcerer 8: Another ASI already? Bump up your Charisma to make it even harder to break out of your ego whip, and also grab Banishment so you can deal with that giant pain in your behind, Kingprotea (note: this level description does not contain the opinions of fateandphantasms. fateandphantasms does not condone any kind of Kingprotea hating.)

13. Sorcerer 9: Fifth level spell time! Grab Creation so you can warp reality and make pretty much whatever you might need out of thin air!

14. Artificer 5: Fifth level artillerists can make Arcane Firearms this level, adding 1d8 to artificer spell damage cast from a specific focus. This also means that your artificer spells and sorcerer spells can finally come out of the same wand, though I doubt most DMs would care to correct you before now.

You can also cast the freebie spells Scorching Ray and Shatter now, since you can learn 2nd level artificer spells. Use Heat Metal if you’re feeling sadistic, Invisibility or Spider Climb for some hacks, or grab Lesser Restoration for some cursed cupid cleansing.

15. Artificer 6: Your Tool Expertise doubles the proficiency of all tool-based checks, but you also get two more infusions, and one more concurrent infusion to boot! A Spell-Refueling Ring will give you more energy to deal with your many, many, problem children, while a Radiant Weapon will just make your wand shinier. Not that it’s a bad reason to grab it.

16. Artificer 7: At seventh level, you can speed up your processors to have Flashes of Genius, using your reaction to add your intelligence modifier to an ability check or saving throw nearby. You can use this Intelligence Modifier times per long rest.

17. Sorcerer 10: Your newest metamagic option lets you twin spells, turning a one-target spell into a two target spell. Now you can keep both your daughters under control at once with one casting of Dominate Person!

You also get the Mending cantrip, because let’s be real your outfit probably doesn’t look as good as it did 17 levels ago. Finally, you get the spell Far Step to bip and bop all over the place as you see fit. Remember, if you teleport off camera it’s not cheating!

18. Sorcerer 11: Eleventh level sorcerers get sixth level spells, like Tasha’s Otherworldly Guise! If you’re going to wear a nurse outfit, it might as well come with superpowers. You get immunities to certain damages and conditions, you can fly, your AC goes up, and your weapon attacks use your spellcasting modifier, are magical, and you can attack twice per action. Ramming a giant needle into somebody never felt so right!

19. Sorcerer 12: For your last ASI, grab the Tough feat. All these sorcerer levels have not done your HP total any favors.

20. Sorcerer 13: Your capstone level nets you a seventh level spell, so grab Plane Shift so you can finally escape the Mooncell and show Senpai all the hard work you’ve done!

Pros:

You have a ton of ways to cheat at dice, manipulating the world to always work in your favor. Re-roll dice with magical guidance and lucky, or just stick a finger on the scale with bend luck and flash of genius. Either way, your party will be thankful to have you.

You also make a decent variety caster thanks to the variety of technological goodies at your disposal. Support team communication with sending stones, spy on people with clairvoyance, create whatever the party might need with creation, or just blow people up with thunderwave and your eldritch cannon. You come packing a little bit of everything.

You’re particularly good at shutting down one or two opponents, with Ego Whip destroying their ability to do much of anything, Enthrall and Fear keeping you their main focus, or Banishment shoving them out of existence entirely.

Cons:

Those wild magic surges can bite you in the ass just as much as they help you, so try to make sure you don’t spin a bankrupt on the BB slots. Seriously though they can straight up kill your entire party at level 1. Don’t be unlucky.

Having a bit of everything means you aren’t focused on any one thing. Builds like Ishtar and -god help me- Mephistopheles?? beat you in magic damage, Scheherazade and Kogil beat you for utility, and Medea Lily and Irisviel beat you for healing. It must be nice to have so many senpais though!

Trying to keep on top of all those checks and saves means you’ll burn through your sorcery points really fast, so just... don’t push yourself too hard, you might not like what happens when you run out of power.

#fate grand order #fgo #D&D 5e #DND #BB #Sorcerer #Artificer

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lunariumarcs · 4 years ago

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The Shadow Prime thing.

[after his failure to keep Catra and Glimmer contained, Horde Prime captures another prisoner in the hopes that she might have some value to him]

Shadow Weaver tested the bounds of her magic as she waited to be retrieved from her cell. The shadows responded to her call, as they always had, but they did so without motivation. They would not be effective in a fight. She tried to search for any hint of darkness on the ship and found that she could sense a large mass of it at the center of the space craft. It pulsed with irrational need and the sins of a prideful man. Her cell was three levels up from the source but she could not recall following any stairs to get there. Perhaps the floor was uneven and progressed at a slight angle, like a giant, spiraling ramp. Or perhaps there were teleportation pads between floors and she just hadn’t seen one yet.

She inspected the room silently. The bed was docked on either side by two side tables. The one on the right held nothing. The one on the left contained a book. Horde Prime’s insignia had been pressed into the cover. Inside were writings of cultist rhetoric. After thumbing through the pages, she put it back. She never cared for anyone’s rules and she was not about to start.

She lay on the bed and did not move for hours. If there were cameras in her cell, the only thing Prime would observe of his prisoner would be her infinite reservoir of self control.

After several hours, the cell door slipped open and two clones stepped up to collect her. She did not move, even as they spoke.

“The Lord requests your presence, madam Weaver.” One said politely.

“If he wishes to see me, he can come up here and ask me himself.” Shadow Weaver answered to the ceiling.

“Is something troubling you, my lady of darkness?“ The clone asked after a moment of silence. His intonation had changed. He sounded authoritative and entitled. He held the voice of a king who had seldom lost to anyone. That power she felt from the center of the ship, pulsed now at the foot of her door. The magic of Obtainment swirled within her and she smiled.

“Lovely to see you, Horde Prime. I keep hearing about you.”

“Naturally. Why don’t you allow my clones to escort you and we can introduce ourselves properly?”

Shadow Weaver finally sat up to look at him, “I don’t make for very pleasant company.”

“I would not be asking if I didn’t wish it. You will come to see me if you value your freedom.”

The clone blinked and he returned back to himself - a lost man on the path to purity. Horde Prime’s signature had left and returned to where it came from. She slid off the bed and allowed the clones to lead her to their master.

She frowned when she realized they had moved a floor down. Prime’s signature indicated as much. But the floor didn’t descend at a gradient and she had no memory of a teleportation pad. She kept her mind sharp and leaned more focus into her environment and her actions. They kept walking. The corridors wound around each other like tree branches. Everything looked exactly the same. She wondered how the clones were able to transverse such confusing architecture.

It was too late when she noticed that they had dropped down another floor. She decided to puzzle over it later and calmed herself so she could properly greet and assess Etheria’s new overlord.

They came into a grand room, guarded by more clones. Prime lounged in his throne and managed to look both pleased and menacing. He sat taller than most of the objects in the room. His aura filled the grand room, from the floor to the top of the twenty foot ceiling. Shadow Weaver quelled the Obtainment magic. They would have to feed later. He stood to greet her, arms open wide.

“Welcome, my lady of darkness. It is so lovely to have you here.”

“Nobody has ever said that to my face without later redacting their sentiments.” Shadow Weaver commented offhandedly, “Please spare me the theatrics. I’m only here because you seem have business with me. What do you want?”

Prime scowled, “I can see how, as one of the most powerful magical entities on Etheria, you might feel entitled to direct the conversation. But you are standing in the hall of my light. There are no shadows here, no darkness that will bend to your magic. I will negotiate my terms with you when I feel it is necessary.”

“You sound just like Hordak.”

“Well, of course. I made him in my image. I might have to do the same to you, if you keep with your current attitude.”

“You can hardly blame me. I’m imprisoned here, on this ship, away from my home.”

“Home?” He laughed as he circled her, “You have no home. I know all about your history - your lovely Hordak showed me everything. You’ve been a traitor your whole life. What’s one more defection before everything Etheria once was is lost?” His large frame towered over hers in an effort to intimidate her. She kept her posture relaxed and met his gaze with indifference.

“You wish for me to join you?” She asked skeptically.

“There will be terms, of course, but in a simple word, yes.”

“And will we discuss these terms? Or do I have to endure another round of your plastic pleasantries?”

“We’ll save that conversation for dinner. For now, I want to give us a chance to get to know each other. Come, I wish to show you something.”

She had no choice but to follow him from the throne room, down the twisting halls and into another set of chambers. Otherworldly artifacts decorated the room. Paintings and weapons of distant civilizations mounted the walls, books and odd trinkets sat on shelves and several rugs covered the floor.

“This is my trove of rare and valuable artifacts. It’s a collection curated from all over the galaxy.” He said proudly.

Shadow Weaver couldn’t help but wonder at it all. Other creatures had created, sold, bought, possessed and held these items in their hands. So much history was stored in this room. She noticed an empty pedestal by the large window.

“It’s... impressive.” She noted without colour in her voice, “Why feel the need to show me? Are you not worried that I may break something?”

“A little.” His fourth eye shifted to the pedestal at the window, “But I feel it is my responsibility to show you the rich history of the worlds I’ve seen”

“And yet you eradicated each and every one of them.”

“Because their people refused to see that they had deteriorated from greatness. They denied my light and without much else to do to persuade them, they had to be purged. It was for the sake of their own good.” His teeth clenched to hold back a wave of anger and disappointment. He saw himself as a protector of the universe. The worlds he destroyed was out of his sense of responsibility to the galaxies - a responsibility to chase away the darkness. Perhaps that was his mission at one point. There were ulterior motives to his mission - motives to rule the galaxy and control everything, from the atomic cycles to the construction of civilizations.

“I kept their possessions to preserve their history, to keep their memories alive.”

“What do you wish to collect from Etheria - so you can commemorate its people... my people?” She asked.

“Originally, I wanted Queen Angella’s wings. She was such a beacon in the fight against my little brother. He had nightmares about her for several months following a bad encounter with her. And she was immortal - that is most definitely a rarity in this universe. You can imagine my disappointment when I found out that she was no longer part of this world.”

Shadow Weaver imagined Prime taking a large scalpel to the angel’s wings, pushing the blade through feathers, flesh and bone. Quickly, she pushed the thought from her mind. “She’s only stuck between worlds, why not build another portal and retrieve her?”

“My lady, do you know how resource intensive portal building is? Besides, I found something better.”

Shadow Weaver waited wordlessly for him to tell her, head tilted to the side and hands clasped in front of her. She had a feeling she knew what he might say.

“The Heart of Etheria. A weapon of magic, preserved inside your planet. I’ll condense it down to the size of a watermelon and put it right at the helm of my collection.” He indicated the pedestal, “I used to have something else to occupy that space. However, it has most unfortunately been disposed of.”

“What do you mean?” Why would Prime do away with one of his precious trophies?

“You ask so many questions, my lady.” he chuckled, “Let me have a turn.” He tapped his chin in mock thought, “Why do you insist on hiding your pretty face from me?”

She scoffed, “Pretty.”

“Horde Prime knows all.” He walked into her personal space and drew a curious finger along the cheek of her mask. “It’s quite hard to speak to you when this thing is in the way.

Shadow Weaver looked up into his face and made no move to stop him.

“You’re so still. Does it not bother you that I might rip your protection away?”

“There are worse things, Horde Prime.”

“Fascinating.” he whispered, “stronger hearts have quivered at the very mention of my name yet yours...” he slipped his fingers under the neck of her gown and shoved them against her jugular, “doesn’t so much as even move!”

“My heart has not moved for over thirty years. I doubt it will start now.”

He kept his hand resting against her neck and removed her mask with his other. She enjoyed the stunned look on his face as he looked into hers. His features remained smooth but she saw the way his extra eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

Prime hardly had his pupils attended to the one single thing, she’d found. Now, she watched them move in unison, across the valleys of scars the burrowed into her aged skin.

She took the mask from him and with her free hand, guided his to the side of her face.

“You are a man of exploration and observation, it seems. It is how you communicate” she said, “You see what is broken and your reflexes tell you to fix it.”

“Are you asking me to heal your scars?”

“Hardly. But healing is your first language. Your tongue speaks through carpentry just as your hands work to build. Observe me, Horde Prime. Communicate with me and perhaps you might land yourself a very good deal.”

He chuckled low in his chest and grinned wide, “How fortunate am I that you can translate so thoroughly.” He traced ever scar on her face until his fingers wove themselves into her thick hair.

“You’re so cold.” He murmured.

“Does it bother you?” She challenged.

“Not at all. It serves to make you more noteworthy.”

He moved his other hand up her neck and followed a trail of gnarled tissue to press the pad of his thumb to her lips. She stowed the mask in her pocket so she could hold his hips properly. Soothingly, she ran one hand up to the center of his back.

“You are sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to put your finger, unwashed and without my knowing where it’s been, in my mouth.” She glared lightly.

He laughed from the deepest bowels of his core. A very good deal, indeed.

#I kinda want to write more of this #like at first i just sort of wrote it bc its a neat crack ship #but now i kind of actually ship it #shadow weaver #horde prime #shadow prime #spop

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years ago

Text

ancient names, pt. xix

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xix: messy hearts

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~11.2k

Rating: Explicit; they bang it out.

Warnings: mentions/depictions of murder-suicides(though none very graphic, only mentioned in passing and after the fact, if that changes anything). Unreliable narrators abound. I think that's all, but if there's anything I missed please let me know.

Notes: I'm going to keep these notes brief just because the chapter is quite a hefty one! We finally get some plot movement, a look into how Elliot got her mantra to Keep Going Anyway mantra, and boy howdy if you thought things were bad before just fucking wait.

I have so many people to thank and I just don't know how to express my gratitude. @shallow-gravy, you are a pure angel and I just adore you so much. Thank you for being so wonderful and for cheering my girl on always, no matter what! @lilwritingraven ilysm!!! You are so sweet and I just don't think this chapter would have happened without you.

And of course, absolutely none of this fic would be possible without @starcrier's unending love and support. The amount of MEMES, the amount of screenshots and meltdowns and in general just fuckery she puts up with nonstop is remarkable and I honestly believe that without her support we wouldn't have gotten where we are today!!!

I anticipate there is, perhaps, one or two chapters left of Ancient Names. Thank you everyone who has supported, even by a single like or kudos or comment; this community is so incredible and I am so so so grateful for every friend I have made. <3

The U.S. Marshal arrives ahead of schedule.

That is to say, nobody is ready for him. Everyone seems a little nervous. He’s familiar with the area—“Familiar enough,” Whitehorse says, and Elliot thinks she can sense a bit of disdain in his voice; people don’t take well to outsiders traipsing around like they own the place, and Cameron Burke certainly carries himself with an amount of confidence that might come off as arrogant.

“Hey,” he says, when she passes him in the hallway, “you’re the rookie, huh?”

She’s already tired of being called rookie—Rook is fine, she supposes, because she likes the way it makes her sound like the chess-piece, the bull-dozer, straightforward and brutal—but she nods, clearing her throat and holding out her hand. “Elliot.”

Burke shakes her hand. There’s a bright, easy grin on his face. “Yeah, I read about you, Honeysett,” he tells her, and for a second her stomach drops; the shame rises up in her throat like a second wave of exhaustion, but he plunges on, “you fuckin’ killed it at the Academy. Flying colors, everyone tells me.”

Relief floods her system. “Tried, anyway,” she says, unaccustomed to compliments regarding her work and more accustomed to dodging questions about why Whitehorse had to think twice about letting her on. “It was—I like the work. Of training, I mean. School. I’ve always liked school.” Fuck, she’s rambling and she can tell—she’s rambling because she’s nervous he’s going to ask, but Burke watches her for a moment.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a brief pause. “This place could use some new blood. Kinda dusty, don’tcha think?”

Elliot nods. It’s hard not to smile when he’s flashing his teeth boyishly, when he sticks a toothpick in his mouth and winks at her before he sets off. It is kind of dusty, in Hope County, she thinks—and she likes it, this little stretch and slice of home, but it does need new blood. Once they clear the cultists out, it’ll be like new; and then her life will really begin.

She’ll really start over.

Joey doesn’t like him much. “Sounds like a prick,” she says that night over takeout, her legs draped across Elliot’s lap.

“I like him,” she says, fishing her chopsticks around in Joey’s takeout box for a spare bite of broccoli. “He was... Nice. To me.”

“Oh?” Joey cocks a brow at her. “You had a little chat with our friend the U.S. Marshal?”

“Just in the hallway,” Elliot replies quickly, “on my way out today, I passed him. He said he read my file.”

Joey isn’t staring at her, but she doesn’t need to be for Elliot to know that she’s listening. She’s digging around in her noodles for something when she makes a low, quiet noise of inquisition, as though to say, is that so?, because she knows what that usually entails.

“He just mentioned I got good marks,” she murmurs after a moment. “At the Academy.”

“Well, you did,” Joey says. Elliot huffs out a short little laugh and smiles.

“I know. Just nice to be recognized for my greatness.” She crinkles her nose. “Whitehorse just kind of looks at me like he’s worried I’ll fire off.”

“Oh, Elliot! So strong, so smart, so fast, so capable of shooting a man on foot or by vehicle!” Joey wails dramatically. “Your hand in marriage, I beg it of thee!”

Elliot rolls her eyes and shoves Joey’s legs off of her lap, stretching and coming to a stand. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you.”

“Not before marriage, though,” her friend intones somberly. “Joseph “The Father” Seed wouldn’t have any pre-marital fucking in his domain.”

“I don’t think he’s as stiff on that as everyone thinks he is.” Elliot walks into the kitchen and uncorks the bottle of wine, pouring herself a new glass. “Aren’t cults supposed to be weird about that kind of thing?”

She can hear Joey scoff in the living room. “You’re going to be with us tomorrow. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Oh, great idea! ‘Hi, The Father? Do you fuck, or nah?’ He won’t be expecting that at all.”

“Perfect. See how Burke feels about that pro-strategy.”

Elliot laughs and settles herself back on the couch, holding the glass of wine in both of her hands; the fragrance of it swims in her head pleasantly. Tomorrow they take the U.S. Marshal down to the compound and finally root the Seeds out of here. For good.

She says lightly, “Anyway, I want to get tomorrow done as fast as possible.” A little sigh escapes her.

“Things will finally get back to normal.”

Burke’s hands are around her throat and he slams her up against the wall with a vicious noise.

And then he sees her—really sees her—and he drops his hands from her neck to grip her shoulders instead as he says, “Fucking Christ—Rook, I’m so sorry, fuck, I thought—”

Elliot coughs. Her lungs strain with each movement; every bone in her body feels bruised, and something slimy crawls up and down her spine when she thinks about the way Joseph leaned in close to her in the helicopter and said, no one is coming to save you.

“Burke,” she manages out, her voice hoarse, “they took Joey—they f-fucking—”

“This shit is all fucked,” Burke says. “I had no idea. We had—”

Everything in her is vibrating with a strange kind of hunger. It’s like she’s itching for something, but she can’t quite figure out what it is—movement, maybe, or a purpose, a task. It had been one thing to crawl her way out of the helicopter and start running blindly, but now she’s stationary, and in a trailer, and Joey is gone and she almost can’t think straight.

“Rookie,” Burke says firmly, but not unkindly, “with me.”

Her lashes flutter and she realizes she’s been zoning out. “Y—Yeah, I’m—here—I’m—”

And then she’s gasping, heaving for a lungful of air. All of a sudden, the ability to take a breath is gone. Her body’s normal functions have flown out the window. Her vision fuzzes around the edges and she thinks, fuck fuck fuck, don’t fucking do this, please, fuck, not right now, get it together.

No one is coming to save you.

Burke grabs her hand and plants it right on the side of his neck. His pulse beats—fast, but steady, in the complete opposite of the stuttering arrhythmia of her own heart. He’s breathing hard, but his eyes are clear and his movements assured.

“With me?” This time it’s a question, and she’s taking breaths at the same time he is so she nods.

“Yeah,” she replies, “yeah.”

“Good.” He pulls away from her and gestures for her to follow as he heads further in. “Check the room.”

She does. It’s empty. Eden’s Gate scripture decorates the walls, photos of the Seed family staring at her unflinchingly from behind glass panes of photo frames.

“Clear,” she reports, when she remembers to, and finds Burke standing in what appears to be the main living room of the trailer. The lines of his face are hard, unforgiving, and she can feel the urgency radiating off of him as he scrambles to pull together a plan.

“We’re gonna put these fucking psychos behind bars, Rook,” he says, pointing at a picture frame sporting a portrait taken of the Seeds. Elliot can’t stand to look at them. To think that she’d met John in a bar and—even considered—

“Every single one of them,” the Marshal reiterates as he rips the photo frame off of the wall and drops it on the floor, crushing the glass beneath his boot on his way over to the window. “We’re gonna—”

There are voices outside. Dread crawls up her spine; she can feel it latching on, sinking its teeth into her, gripping.

Burke shoves an automatic rifle in her hands.

“Eyes,” he barks out, back to business as he creeps toward the door of the trailer. “There’s a truck out there. You ready to fuckin’ rumble?”

She grips the cold metal. She wants to say, I don’t know if this is a good idea, because the edges of her are bleeding and blending in with everything else, and she’s having a hard time thinking about anything other than the texture of the carpet under her booted feet, but it helps to have something to hold onto.

Burke turns to her, crouched by the door, and his hand drops on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, “we're gonna bolt for that truck and hope it starts. Cover me."

"There's hardly any ammo in this thing," Elliot tells him, a note of panic rising in her voice as more people can be heard gathering outside, shouting to check the trailer. "What happens when—"

"I told you, kid, I read up on you. I know you were that small-town, All-American girl hitting soft lobs in the batting cage once," Burke tells her. "You'll figure out a use for the gun if you run out. And Rook?”

Elliot waits, and grips the cold metal slowly going lukewarm under her hands, flicking the safety off. “Yeah?”

The Marshal gives her shoulder a squeeze. “The second you think you can’t anymore,” he says, “you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what. Give ‘em your teeth if you have to. Got it?”

She nods without thinking about it, because the words feel good—if you can’t, keep going anyway. Dig dig dig. It reminds her of a poem she had read once.

What do we do with grief? Lug it; lug it.

“Good.” Burke drops his hand from her shoulder and gets ready to push the door open. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

There’s not a lot of detail to recall of the next few moments. She’s aware of voices, and gunfire, and the rhythmic, steady movements that she falls into. Aim, fire, drop, reload, aim, fire, rinse and repeat, until the torturous drag of time has her hauling herself into the truck while bullets whizz and clink off of the metal. The second she’s sitting, and not moving, and not breathing, her muscles start screaming; pain blooms behind her eyes.

Burke sends the tires shrieking as he speeds down the highway. He says something, but it’s hard to hear over the rush of wind from the open window, over the shouts of voices and sounds of gunfire echoing in the still, dark night. Elliot falls into a rhythm again—lean, aim, fire, pull back, reload, and again and again—while the Marshal drives over barricades and nearly throws her out of the truck.

“Nice fuckin’ shot, kid!” he says over the noise, just as the sound of an airplane rattling above them makes him lean over the steering wheel as he drives. “Fucking—you’re telling me they have God damn air support? Fuck!”

“Burke,” Elliot says, because they’re rapidly approaching a bridge with a truck ahead of them and the airplane hasn’t let up, “Burke—the bridge—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ see it,” he grits out, fingers gripping the wheel. “Hold on, Rook.”

He punches it. He’s going to try and get around the truck and across the bridge. But it’s not enough; the truck ahead of them swerves, stops him from being able to speed past and keeping them trapped.

Gunfire from the sky rains down on them. The bridge goes up in flames; the truck is plunged straight into the water; and for a second, Elliot thinks, oh, thank fucking God, I’m done.

But she’s not, unfortunately. As she holds her breath around the water she’d swallowed upon the impact, she struggles out through the open window of the truck and fights her way to the surface. Everything inside of her wants to quit—everything says, we could just close our eyes, we could just be done, and then she remembers.

The second you think you can’t go anymore, you dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

Her hands find soil. She hauls herself out of the water, coughing, lungs straining for air. Her vision blurs black and fuzzes, fizzing and popping in and out of existence as she considers the logistics of letting herself die. Just for a second. She can die for a second, right?

“No! Get off me! I am a United States Federal Marshal!”

It’s Burke. She can see the glimmer of flashlights on a distant bank, closer to the bridge. The dull, wet impact of something against skin quiets him; as Elliot lays back against the bank with her eyes flickering shut, she feels fingers grip the front of her shirt and haul her upwards.

“My children...”

The voice drones out of speakers—the sound speckles in and out, crackling in her head, distant but sickening.

“S—” Her voice slurs as she tries to say something; she’s being carried, and she doesn’t know to where, or by who. “W—Wait—”

“We must give thanks to God. The day I have prophesied to you has arrived.”

Elliot tries to force her eyes open. She can’t. She can’t, and she’s going to let Burke down, because she can’t dig anymore. How is she supposed to dig if her nails are scraping the bottom of the barrel?

“Everything I’ve told you has come true... The authorities who tried to take me from you are now in the loving embrace of my Family... save for one.”

She’s going to be sick. She’s going to be sick, and she wants to die, and she thinks that fucking psycho is talking about her.

“But the Wayward Soul will be found. They will be punished...”

She can see stairs. Concrete stairs, as the man carrying her hauls her down, down down down. Vaguely, hazily, she thinks, belly of the beast, now? and she wonders if she will ever feel normal again. Her vision fuzzes black, but she’s not dead and she’s not asleep; it’s unfortunate.

“And in the end, they will see our glorious purpose.”

Metal clinks against metal. Cold from the concrete floor seeps through her soaked clothes. Elliot lifts her head lazily, feeling the tug and strain of handcuffs around her wrists, and when she opens her eyes she can see she’s—somewhere. Somewhere, and handcuffed to a bed, while an older man stands at the radio. Joseph’s voice rattled on through it.

“I am your Father. You are my Children. And together, we will march too—”

The man turns the radio off. The air hangs hazy around him with smoke; something burns in the ashtray, and she thinks, fuck, I’d kill for a goddamn cigarette right about now.

“You know what that shit means?” the man asks, turning to look at her. She blinks at him blearily, and when she doesn’t answer, he plants himself in a chair in front of her.

Joey, and maybe Pratt—Burke, Whitehorse? They’re all gone, or dead, or something somewhere, and now it feels less like this was her chance to really start over and more like a set of trials and tribulations to make her suffer.

Her gaze flickers to meet the man’s, and she shakes her head uncertainly. The words won’t come out, even if she thinks there’s even a chance she’d have the strength.

“It means the roads have all been closed.”

No one is coming to save you.

“It means the phone lines have been cut.”

What do we do with grief?

“It means there’s no signals getting in or out of this valley.”

Give ‘em your teeth if you have to.

Elliot feels her stomach churn violently, nauseated. She wishes this man would have left her to die—or sleep, or whatever it was her body had been trying to get her to do on that riverbank.

“But mostly,” he finishes, leaning in to look at her with a hard, flinty gaze, “it means we’re all fucked.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A loud knock at the door echoed in the dim, stinging heat of the bath. For a moment, she felt a jolt of instinctive fear pound through her body—where was she? Was she drowning again? Had she not made it out of the river, had she—

Burke, and Joseph, and Joey getting dragged away, and Dutch, and—

But then Elliot remembered: she was at her mother’s house, and she’d run herself a bath in the big clawfoot off from the master with a vodka soda, and John Seed was here, too, and her lungs burned because she’d been sitting under the water. The sharp, splintering pain in her chest was grief, the memory of Joey's laugh and smile freshly remembered.

Breaking the surface and steadying the breath that wanted to gasp out of her through her nose, Elliot pushed any stray bubbles from her face and eyes and waited again to see if the sound was real.

Another knock came. “El?” John called from outside the bathroom, and his voice hinged on something else—something strange and foreign, and it gave her a tiny little thrill through the pit of her stomach to know she was making him feel like that. She blinked a few times, straightening up in the bathtub as the now-lukewarm water splashed around her. It had been a long time since she’d fallen asleep like that, without sporting a metric fuckton of exhaustion for days. It was probably the alcohol.

“I’m here,” she replied, feeling hollowed out and trying not to let it show in her voice, “come in. What is it?”

The door clicked open. John glanced around curiously at the bathroom—her mother had never let her use this bathroom for anything, not even to get ready for a high school dance or her graduation, and she thought maybe that made the room all the more special—all of her mother’s glittering compacts and colored perfume bottles, carefully-maintained hanging plants, the big French windows and gauzy white curtains; they all spoke to a woman who had created for herself a safe space.

She only thought, I hate that she never let me enjoy this safe space, too.

“We should be going back soon,” he said lightly, crossing the marbled floor to drag the stool from the vanity up to the side of the tub. With one arm leaned up against the porcelain, he reached the other hand out and tilted her chin; like this, covered only by the rose-scented bubble bath foaming up around the hollow of her chest, she was sure that she looked gnarly—mottled with bruises the size of Kian’s fingerprints, all over her neck and shoulders and chest, dousing her in a faded red-wine color that made her skin prickle in faint pain when John traced the slope of her collarbone.

Kian was dead, but he was still there—lingering just below her skin, a bone-deep ache and grief that she would never be rid of because no matter how dead he was, Joey was much more dead.

“—you’re thinking about,” John murmured, his eyes flickering over her face, and she leaned back against the head of the tub.

“Come again?” Elliot reached out of the tub, snagging the half-drained glass of vodka soda and downing the rest of it with a grimace that only partially cleared out the fog of grief.

“I said,” he continued lightly, fingers smoothing over bruisy skin below her collarbone, “tell me what you’re thinking about.”

I’m thinking about Joey, and your fucking cultists dragging her out of the helicopter and taking her away from me. There was no venom in the passing voice as she closed her eyes, damp hair sticking to the nape of her neck and her mother’s bath oils filling up her senses; John was touching the spot he’d once threatened to mark her with her sin. Wrath.

I think it’ll fit nicely right here, don’t you? Maybe just over your heart.

It wasn’t enough to wear it on her skin, anymore. It didn’t feel like enough, anyway. It was inside of her; a poison that she couldn’t sweat out, embedded in the sinew of her tissue now.

“I can hear those little gears turning, hellcat.”

“What do we have to do?” Elliot asked after a moment, opening her eyes, as John’s fingers traced the shape of a letter beneath her collarbone. W... R... A...

“Do?”

T...

“For the baptism,” she clarified, as the blunt drag of his nail finished the final touch of an H. “What do we have to do?”

John watched her for a moment, gaze flickering over the quickly-fading red marks he’d left on her sternum. She knew that look on his face—he was hungry for it, this thing he had been trying to get from her all along. Even after it all, he still itched to carve it out of her.

And maybe she did, too; maybe it would feel like a penance, a purging, a catharsis, a—

That’s how, she thought after a moment. That’s how they get people.

“We’ll cleanse you...” His voice trailed off and his eyes flickered back up to hers. “And then reveal your sin.”

“Cut it out of me,” Elliot supplied, exhaling a little out of her mouth.

John’s mouth twisted around a smile when her eyes traced the exposed Sloth scar she had memorized the feel of. “Real courage.”

She wondered, briefly, if it would feel the same as when she had done it before. The scar would certainly look different—no fine gossamer wisps, ghosting across her abdomen and hips and the inside of her thighs. Those were ghosts. This one—this scar John wanted to give her—would be a neon sign flashing over her head.

Do you think they’ll understand, when they read the reports of what you did to that man? Of the trail of bodies you’ve left behind yourself?

Could she have a life after this? Would it matter if she and John even left? Regardless of where they went—if they did—they would be a pair, matching in scars and matching in sin and matching matching matching until they were the same, just as much blood on her hands as there was on his.

“Then,” he continued, dipping his hand into the fragrant water before drawing it up across her bruise-mottled shoulder, “you’ll be clean.”

I liked it, she thought through the haze of alcohol and perfumed air, killing Kian. I liked it.

His fingers came up to her jaw, and he leaned against the edge of the porcelain tub and kissed her; long and luxurious, not punishing or bruising but drawn-out enough to elicit in her a pleasant, dull ache.

“Okay,” Elliot murmured, speaking the words into his mouth, into his kiss.

John paused, but did not pull away. She could taste the dredges of what swallows he’d gotten of her drink in his breath. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She reached up and dragged him the tiny distance back in for another kiss. “I want to.” She thought, if it’s what will convince Joseph, if it’s what’ll make it so I can leave, if it means you’ll go with me, if it means I won't have to be alone, but none of those words came. It had never been her strong suit, talking about her feelings.

John exhaled, like the acquiescence—the relenting—was enough to drive him to nirvana. She could feel his smile against her mouth.

“El,” he rumbled against her mouth, fingers skimming along the slope of her jaw, “I’m gonna give you everything you want.”

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“Slow down.”

They’d only been driving through Fall’s End for about five minutes—not that it took too long; you could probably drive five minutes in just about any direction and hit the edge of town—when the blonde barked out the order. It was a strange juxtaposition, to have her biting out words like that when the smell of roses wafted off of her like a perfume, filling the cab from the oils in the bath.

Elliot’s voice was sharp when she spoke; her eyes were fixed on something out past her window, evening having sunk heavy and dark over the town of Fall’s End. It was a ghost town, now, but the urgency in her voice had him hitting the brake more fervently than he intended, and the truck lurched to stop.

“What is it?” John asked, and when he did Boomer growling low and angry behind him. He eyed the Heeler before he realized even the dog was looking elsewhere.

The blonde didn’t answer. She leaned forward instead, as though straining to see in the dark. Over her head, he could see the front of the Spread Eagle where they had been only a few days ago; now it was decorated with blossoms, and at its base sat two darkly-clothed figures. This far away, John couldn’t see if they were asleep or awake.

And then he did see. He saw the arterial spray against the dark wood, flickering under neon lights that buzzed in the stillness of the night; he saw the bouquet clutched between their hands; he saw the open, glassy eyes and slack jaws, and the glint of metal sitting on the ground beside each body.

Above them, written in dark, oxidized red-brown: WRATH, DO YOU WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

“Sorry fucks,” Elliot said, her voice flinty and steeled as she leaned back into her seat. In the cab of the truck, the perfume of the bath oils radiated off of her in gentle waves, the heady, floral scent almost dizzying this concentrated and close.

John let the truck roll forward a little, scanning warily; he didn’t see any dark shapes moving behind windows, or in the distant treeline, which was what actually worried him—the presence of more, live enemies, not the suicide love-birds.

But if it bothered Elliot, if it made her feel any type of way to see these dead bodies cradling life in one last embrace, he couldn’t see it on her face. He pressed on the accelerator and glanced at her expression through the corner of his eyes; there was a steeliness there. Not empty, not as though she had stopped processing, but as though she had, and it didn’t mean anything to her.

Good, he thought. That’s how it needs to be.

The rest of the drive back was quiet. There were an unsettling amount of coupled-bodies on the drive home—propped against trees and patches of highway railings or the occasional clifface, hands interlocked as they cradled blossoms, some more intricately decorated than others. But the basis of it was always the same: a couple, slumped and glassy-eyed. Some had the words written around them, some did not. It didn’t seem to hold any pattern that he could tell.

Elliot closed her eyes and drifted in and out of sleep until they got back to the compound, the flickering fluorescents stirring her awake. As they were pulling in, Jacob was getting a truck ready to go; it was late into the evening now, almost midnight, and a sting of apprehension skittered up John’s spine at the sight of his eldest brother loading a rifle into a truck.

As soon as she had opened the door, letting Boomer out first and then following suit, Elliot looked at Jacob and said, “Where are you going?”

“Not your fuckin’ business,” Jacob replied serenely.

“Everything,” Elliot said flatly, “is my business.”

“It’s cute that you care.” Jacob flashed her a half-cocked smile. “But don’t worry, deputy, I’m a big boy.”

John slid out from the driver’s seat, watching the exchange with some apprehension. But it seemed to fizzle and die out right then and there, like Jacob and Elliot had come to some silent truce about the matter without his intervention; Elliot rolled her eyes and scoffed under her breath, heading for the bunkhouse without waiting for John.

Which was fine, because John lingered. He swung the truck keys around his finger and said, “So where are you going?”

Jacob glanced back at him over his shoulder. The redhead regarded John for a moment before he looked to make sure Elliot had closed the door behind her and said, “Couple of ours say they spotted Burke wandering around down by the Henbane.”

Oh, John thought, the words both giving him a jolt of excitement and a little of dread. Burke being missing was a problem, that was to be sure—but if they could find him? Get rid of him without ever bringing him back into contact with Elliot? The less time for conspirators to put silly ideas in her head about getting out and moving on from Hope County, the easier it was going to be to convince her of what a bad idea that was in the end.

“You’re going to go get him?” John prompted.

“Yep,” Jacob drawled, “dead or alive.”

“Preferably dead.”

The corners of Jacob’s mouth ticked upward, and he flashed his teeth. “That a request, little brother?”

Stifling his own smile, John replied lightly, “I just think it’ll solve a lot of problems if the Marshal becomes permanently lost. And if it makes my job a little easier in the process, then—”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jacob interrupted, waving his hand. I’ll see what I can do was about as good as an anything you want if it was coming from Jacob, John knew; so when he said that, and clapped John on the shoulder as he passed, it felt like an assurance more than a cautionary ‘maybe’.

John nodded, and then said, “We saw the Family.”

His eldest brother paused in his movements, and then hauled himself into the truck, looking at John expectantly.

“They’re killing themselves,” he elaborated. “At least the ones we saw. You’ll probably…”

John’s voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat and said, “It’ll be hard to miss them.”

Jacob gave one short, brief nod, slamming the door of the truck and starting it with a rattling rumble. “Sorry fucks,” he said, his words unintentionally mirroring Elliot’s words, and it was all John could do not to tell him he sounded exactly like her.

John headed for the chapel, moving with a new and reinvigorated purpose. For once—finally—things were beginning to fall into place. With Burke out of the picture, the last of the resistance having evacuated Hope County, and Elliot’s agreement to the baptism, he thought this could only indicate smooth sailing from here on out.

Well, mostly smooth. There was still the matter of their marriage, which Elliot didn’t know about—and it was a big deal, probably, for her to know that her last name was changed. As far as the law would be concerned, however, everything would check out and be perfectly binding, and when he told her she would understand that he had done it for them, that he had done it because they needed that extra measure of protection in the instance that—

Don’t, he thought to himself, pushing the door open. We are not considering the idea that the End isn’t coming.

“John,” Joseph greeted him, sounding surprised. It looked like he had just been walking towards the doors himself to leave. His brother's gaze flickered over him inquisitively. “It’s late.”

“Elliot wants to do the baptism,” he said, trying to quell his delight at the gentle lifting of Joseph’s brows at the news. “I’ll do it as soon as you want, Joseph.”

The man paused. He seemed to roll the announcement around in his head for a while, the white leather-bound bible tucked under his arm as his eyes flickered absently over the wooden flooring.

“She’s agreed to it,” John tried again. “To the—”

“Yes,” Joseph replied, “I understand.”

Another moment of silence stretched. John kept waiting for it—the happiness, the pride that Joseph should feel at him having accomplished this last great feat. Anything, John thought, I’d take anything, if you just gave me something to work with.

“Tomorrow,” he said finally, and reached out, planting a hand on John’s shoulder. He squeezed, and a bit of relief flooded John’s system. “You baptize our deputy tomorrow—”

My deputy.

“—and then we will prepare to retreat for the End,” he finished. “Yes?”

John nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Joseph regarded him for a moment, and then, at last, a little smile quirked the edges of his lips. “You’ve done well, John.”

He felt his shoulders sag a little in relief. “Thank you,” he said, “Joseph, I—”

“And I will forgive you the transgression of your lust,” Joseph continued mildly, “as you will make sure that Elliot joins us completely and wholly. Isn’t that right?”

The dread returned. Just a little; it was how Joseph operated the most effectively. Tiny, light dosings of dread, just to remind you who was in control, who it was that ran things around here. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve already,” John began, “confessed to those which—”

Joseph’s hand came to the back of his neck. “You have been fixated on our deputy since the moment she started taking things from us. You can re-commit an offense,” he said, his words echoing Jacob’s, and for a moment John felt a spike of anger—that they had been talking about him when he wasn’t around. “You’re not so wrathful as to go to such lengths to bring her to heel for that alone. And even if you were,” Joseph added, “it wouldn’t matter, as you had already given in to your sin.”

“She’s my wife,” John insisted, and his words were coming out angrier than he wanted; as always, Joseph could slide right under his skin like it was nothing, like it was second nature to him.

“A fact she remains, as of yet, unaware of. Regardless, you lusted after her far before that, and acted on it before then, as well. I’ve let it go because of our unusual circumstances, but you understand,” his brother replied, his words a blunt-force-trauma slap to John’s exhausted brain. A moment of silence stretched between them as John worked the words around in his mouth—I actually don’t understand, nothing about that changed how I treated her in my care, I did everything you asked of me and I shouldn’t have to pay—but Joseph said, “At any rate, all will be forgiven once we are awaiting the End." And then, pointedly, "All of us.”

John swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something, any of the thoughts running around in his brain, but Joseph dropped his hand and brushed past him, humming lightly under his breath.

“Goodnight, John.”

He stood there for a little while longer after Joseph had left, turning the words around in his brain. Once again, he felt very far away from Joseph; but all this time, he had been working hard to do exactly what his brother had asked of him. Elliot might have already been converted to their cause if he’d been allowed to break her in the way he’d wanted to before. But it was Joseph who had insisted on a more merciful route, Joseph who had reiterated step by step that to do so by mercy was the way it needed to be done for the deputy.

And now, it was Joseph criticizing the steps he’d taken, in adverse conditions, to give him what he wanted.

John pushed the troubling thoughts out of his brain. Another place, another time, he might wallow on them a little more—perhaps a time when he could drink his way through them, come back to reconciliation about the fear that Joseph somehow managed to strike in him with ease, deal with it then.

When he finally walked himself to the bunkhouse, he found Elliot sitting with Faith outside the door, smoking a cigarette while they exchanged quiet words. Faith flashed a radiant smile at John as he approached, her eyes glimmering playfully.

“Ladies,�� John greeted, trying to shake his last conversation with Joseph. “Nice evening for an outside chat?”

“Fucking cold,” Elliot replied, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke out and away from Faith.

“I was just telling El how happy I am that she’s here,” Faith told him, coming to a stand. Her very casual and nonchalant use of the nickname El was enough to spike a little suspicion in John, but when she spoke, Elliot’s eyes flickered like she was trying not to smile, like the words meant something to her and she was trying to remain stoic.

Elliot said, not remarking on the nickname and tapping the ash from the end of her cigarette, “That’s two out of four siblings that like me. Think I can go for a full house?”

Three, John thought absently, but he didn’t say; the words would have shredded his mouth on the way out.

“Well,” his sister continued lightly, “I’m exhausted. Goodnight, you two.”

“Night,” John replied, keeping his voice idle as she left. He extended a hand down to Elliot, and she took it, hauling herself to her feet; he snagged the cigarette out of her hand and said, “Speaking of sleep, how about we don’t cram it on that twin bunk tonight?”

Elliot watched him smoke her cigarette down, her gaze flickering back up to his. “It’s cute how you think I’m just automatically going to let you sleep with me all the time.”

“It’s cute how you act like you don’t like it,” he replied, pitching his voice low, “especially when we aren’t sleeping in bed.”

She took her cigarette back, finishing it and dropping it to the ground to stamp it out with her shoe. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind not having you breathing down my neck all night.”

“Oh? You suppose?”

“I’m losing the motivation to continue this conversation,” Elliot cautioned in a murmur, even as he leaned in and kissed her, his hand instinctively coming up to the back of her neck to keep her there. She didn’t pull away, or even try to; instead, after he’d kissed her breathless, she continued, “Are you going to take me or what, Slick?”

He laughed, the sound billowing out of his mouth at her little country-drawl come peeking through.

You will baptize our deputy tomorrow.

His fingers curling into the semi-dry hair at the nape of her neck, and he kissed her again—harder, now, open-mouthed and hungry, until he could feel her fingers knotting into the front of his shirt.

“Tomorrow,” he said into the kiss, “tomorrow we’ll do it. A new cleansing, revealing your sin.”

“Fast,” she murmured.

“So Joseph has decreed.”

Elliot pulled back to look at him; he wanted to lean in, chase her mouth with another kiss, but she said, “Do you always do what your brother says? I thought pre-marital fucking was a big no.”

The words twisted hot and traitorous in his stomach. He wanted to say, technically, we’ve only done that once, but he knew better. After her little display back at her mother’s house, he knew better.

He swallowed back the venom and said, carefully articulating his words, “If we could refrain from ruining a perfectly good moment—”

“By talking,” Elliot deadpanned.

“By criticizing,” he clarified, “that would be wonderful.”

She regarded him amusedly, one brow arching upward loftily. She was clearly thinking about something, working it around in her brain in a place that he couldn’t reach—still, parts of her remained locked away from him, parts of her that he desperately wanted to get his hands on and hadn’t yet.

“Well,” she relented at last, “I’d hate to ruin a moment. Show me where this luxurious bed is, huh?”

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Elliot could tell that her acquiescence unsettled John. She could tell that he had been expecting more of a fight out of her; she was so tired of fighting, though. She was so tired, and she was so worn out, and sometimes she could feel her brain switching off in the middle of something happening, like a greater cosmic power was consistently turning her Do Not Disturb sign on.

She’d feel better in the morning, maybe. It helped that she hadn’t looked at the photos littering her mother’s house for too long, and that she’d drank through most of her time there to keep the memories at bay. Elliot didn’t want to linger on thoughts of running barefoot through the house, shrieking with laughter as her mother called out for her to slow down; she didn’t want to think about how many times she and Joey had curled up on the same couch that John Seed had kissed her on, eating lemon bars and flipping through teen magazines while her mother drank and hummed in the kitchen.

There were good memories there. There were memories of a time when Elliot felt like the entire world was within her reach—she could go anywhere, be anything, become anyone she wanted back then.

Things had changed.

She had changed. And even though John’s promise wavered, even though it still lingered in her chest uncertainly like a beast of its own, she thought maybe he meant it. She had seen the tension between John and Joseph as of late. Something about their interactions was waning thin, worried and worn between them, and that meant that when John said he wanted those things with her—a home, a life—that maybe she could trust him.

Isn’t that a pretty thought? A wicked part of her intoned, vicious. The man who’s lied and lied and lied to you, being truthful for the first time.

But she was tired, and she was different, and being different took work and energy and she didn’t want to think about that. What else could she think, anyway? She could operate off of nothing else.

Admittedly, not trying to fit both of their bodies on a twin bed was doing wonders for her mood. John had led her to another small building within the compound; it was laid out much like the other bunkhouse had been, with a bathroom and a small table, but the bed was queen-sized and pushed up against the far wall, tucked into a corner. With Boomer having taken off with his nose to the ground—likely chasing a scent—Elliot had stripped out of her jeans and crawled into the bed with a laborious sigh that only partially revealed the relief she felt.

“I have never,” John said amusedly as she pulled the blankets up, “seen you more relaxed.”

“You did interfere with my life at an inopportune time. My bed is king-sized at home, you know; nothing like sleeping diagonally on a giant bed.”

He laughed; as he shed his own clothes—his belt, jeans, shirt—he watched her like he was trying to figure out why it was she had become so agreeable and so quickly, why she hadn’t picked another fight with him.

Blissfully, he didn’t ask. John crawled into the bed next to her, and already he was reaching to wind his arm around her waist; when he pulled her close to him, she felt that pleasant little coil of dopamine hit her brain, and she thought, what a time, that John’s hands on me make it feel like I’m not drifting away.

She thought to say it, for just a moment; she thought maybe she could give John that, because she’d been taking and taking and taking and she didn’t think she was giving him anything.

The words didn’t come so easily to her, so instead of saying them, Elliot reached up and dragged him down to kiss him. I’m gonna give you everything you want, he’d said, and just remembering those words made her feel too-warm. She’d never, ever had anyone devoted to her—not like this, not in the way that John was, dragging his mouth reverently down her neck and sliding his hand along the back of her thigh.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” John said, murmuring the words into the skin of her neck. His mouth skimmed lower, dragging down her sternum; his hands pushed up the hem of her tank top and she felt the slick, hot flicker of his tongue against the part of her that she knew was scarred, ghosting and intent.

“Can’t,” she managed out, trying to steady her breathing, “when you’re—”

“You can.” He nudged her legs apart, glancing up at her inquisitively, the blankets dragging down with him. “Tell me.” He kissed the inside of her thigh, open-mouthed, and she felt her breath shallow a little.

“I’m thinking about—what you said, back at the house,” she managed out, as John’s breath fanned across her skin.

John’s eyes fixed on hers again. His fingers skimmed beneath the hem of her underwear; he was waiting for her to tell him to stop. When she didn’t, he tugged the fabric down, sliding it completely out of the way and discarding it somewhere on the floor.

The apprehension curled up, high and hot, in her throat. Still, forced herself to relax, to think about John’s hands gripping her hips and his eyes and his mouth and—

“When you said,” Elliot continued, “you’re going to give me everything I want, and that you wanted—”

He pressed his mouth to her; she felt the sound he made into the gesture, her vibrating straight through her and short-circuiting her brain. Instinctively, her fingers went to his hair and knotted. She didn’t know if she was trying to ground herself again or if she was trying to keep John there, but the intention didn’t matter—as soon as she pulled, even a little, she felt John’s tongue slide sly and wicked against her and she moaned without thinking about it, the sound as involuntary as breathing.

It felt too raw, too vulnerable, and she tried to think is this too much? Am I feeling too much right now?, but the pervasive thought in her brain was: yes yes yes, this is what we need, this is what we want. To be loved, to be touched, to be worshipped.

“Can't get enough of you.” John's voice was rich and dark against her skin. “So sweet for me, hellcat.”

“John, we—you don’t—” Elliot started breathlessly, but the words were strangled in her throat by a half-sighed whimper when John’s mouth returned to where he wanted her the most and he groaned, like he was starved for her, like he could barely stand the thought of not having his mouth on her right that instant.

“Fuck, I wanted this so bad,” he murmured huskily, reverent as he planted kisses along the slope of her hip. “Wanted those sounds you make, and the way you’re looking at me—knew you’d make the prettiest fucking noises when I got my mouth on you—”

Another desperate sound came out of her, just loud enough that John's response was to drag his teeth along the dip and curve of her hip bone. He sighed dreamily and leaned in to flatten his tongue against the neediest part of her; the gesture served only to make Elliot moan and squirm, and her hips instinctively arched upward to try and garner some friction—any friction—but John's hands held her down against the bed.

“Love when you’re desperate for me,” he rumbled against her, breathing the words against her skin and making her breath stutter out of her in an uneven exhale. He pressed his mouth back down, tongue flicking and dragging wet, hot pleasure against her, his gaze half-lidded and not once straying from Elliot’s.

It was almost too much, the whole lot of it; John, saying filthy things against her while he ate her out, his eyes hungry and his mouth hungrier and the way that he dug his fingers into her hips and—

“F-Fucking—tease,” she managed out, but he shook his head, rumbling against her and drawing another spiral of heat straight into her stomach, sharp and unforgiving.

“Don’t you like it when I take my time with you? You certainly seem like you’re enjoying yourself.” He hooked his arms underneath her legs and tugged her down against him. She squirmed, her lashes fluttering when he let his breath fan across her. “Thinking about how I promised you whatever you wanted. Are you going to tell me, then? What you want?”

Elliot could tell that he loved saying that, I’ll give you whatever you want, because he knew what it did to her; that it thrilled her, this shred of power that he gave her, offered to her. John dragged his tongue against her, his gaze heated and nearly blown-black with want, and stayed exactly there between her legs.

“John,” Elliot moaned, “I—want you to fuck me—” And then, in an effort to feel a little like she was in control: “Please.”

The word had its desired effect; she could feel the tension radiating off of him, straining against his carefully-manicured veneer of being in charge. And then John groaned at her words, his own eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though her words were enough to make him need a moment before he opened them again. He pulled back from her, sitting up so that he could press his fingers into her, and fuck if it didn’t make all the more delicious to have John watching her while he did.

He said, his voice hoarse with want, “El, you’re so fucking—God, you’re so fucking gorgeous like this—asking so nicely for me—”

“Fuck me,” Elliot insisted, her voice verging dangerously close to a wail as he changed the pace of his fingers very little. She thought if John kept looking at her like that, if he kept saying those things, she might finish just like this—and she didn’t want to. “Stop teasing me and f—fuck me like I know you want to—like we both want—”

It was enough. Or maybe it was the thing John had been waiting to hear from her, because it prompted him to shed what little clothing remained between them and sidle back between her legs. Reaching down to cradle her face with his hand as he kissed her, she could taste herself on his mouth; she could feel the heady, intoxicating drag of him against her and God he was taking his fucking time.

“Want this to last,” he moaned, burying his face into her neck, “fuck, so good for me, baby, so wet already and I just can’t fucking… Can’t fucking get my fill of you.”

Elliot keened her agreement breathlessly. Yes, she wanted to say, yes, I’m so good for you, now please hurry up and fuck me, the thought driving a wedge of heat straight down her spine. As soon as John slid inside of her, he was panting into her skin, biting out swears as he tried to keep himself from snapping into her.

“J-John,” she whimpered. Her brain felt muggy, hazy with want; like she wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else except for him, and that was exactly what she wanted. Not to think. “So—feels so good—”

“Yeah,” he gritted out, moving slowly, too slowly, “fuck yeah, this is what you needed, huh? Needed me to fuck you like this—nice and slow, make you feel me every—single—time—I—”

It felt good to give him this. She hadn’t lied, when she’d said that before—that she liked giving him what he wanted, that it made her feel in-control and desired and loved and maybe that was the worst part of it all, that her brain might have been making those things up as a way to justify this. But it didn’t matter in that moment; all she could think about was the feeling of him rocking into her, hips slotted perfectly against hers and his mouth on her neck and the faded scent of his cologne mixing with the floral scent of her own remaining perfume.

Elliot sighed, “Yes, John,” in agreement, and pulled him up for a kiss; his movements hitched just a little, the delicious drag of the uneven pacing almost sending her right over the edge. So close so close, her body said, so she knotted her fingers into his hair tight and said it again; “Yes, yes, yes,” against his mouth, moaning it, until John was grinding out swear between his teeth.

“Not yet,” the brunette moaned, almost frantic with desire. “I want you to come, I want to feel you get fucking wet for me, baby—”

She knew that she could make him beg, that she could make him come undone if she really wanted to. But for this moment, Elliot thought she liked this; she liked letting him take control, liked squirming and shifting underneath him until each cant of his hips against hers had sparks of pleasure flickering behind her eyes.

John’s mouth went to her neck. His teeth dragged, and then he bit down harder than he had before; the pain bloomed wet and hot, and she moaned, her lashes fluttering as it sent her sprinting sprinting sprinting right over that edge.

“Yes,” he ground out, “yes, fuck yes, so fucking good for me, El, s-so—good.”

Elliot kissed him hard when he came, his fingers reigniting old bruises on her hips and her own high still cruising, careening prettily down; the surrender was almost better, the act of giving in and giving John what he wanted nearly as intoxicating as the idea that he was hers.

Mine, she thought dreamily as he dragged his tongue over the bite mark on her neck, the word one that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her but which hadn’t occurred to her in this context before. For that suspended moment in time, nothing else could matter to her; there was no space in her brain to worry about anything except the weight of his body against hers and the wicked, delicious aftershocks radiating throughout her body.

All she could think about was how nice it felt to not be so alone.

It feels good for him to be mine.

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When he awoke the next morning, there were three soft knocks at the door. John blinked, forcing himself to work through the tired haze of his mind, sitting up and reluctantly leaving the warmth of the bed and—

And of Elliot, curled up against him, stirring from her sleep.

“John?” It was Faith, mild-tempered and shy; like she knew exactly what she was going to find if she opened the door and she was trying not to let him know. It wasn’t that it bothered her; it was that Faith was exceptionally good at keeping herself in-check, so any time her tone deviated from serene was a red flag.

“I’m awake,” he called back, and even he could hear how hoarse his voice was coming out of him, rough with sleep.

There was a pause, and then Faith said sweetly, “Joseph says we need to begin soon.”

The blonde beside him rolled onto her other side, hauling the blankets up to her chin. “Fuck off.”

“We’ll be ready in thirty,” John called back.

“He said that he wants me to get Elliot ready,” she continued, and there it was; that sly little curl in her voice, the one that reminded him exactly of why it was Joseph kept her around.

John passed a hand over his face tiredly, rubbing his eyes for a moment before he cleared his throat and climbed out of bed. “Sure, alright, Faith, just—give me a minute—”

“Take your time.”

The implication hung there—that she would politely wait until he was done getting dressed, but that she wouldn’t be leaving to wait, so that anything he wanted to say to Elliot was going to have to be saved for later. Haphazardly pulling some clean clothes out of the dresser and onto his body, he glanced back over his shoulder to see Elliot sitting up in bed; she cradled the blanket against her chest and blinked tiredly at him.

“It’s time,” John said. “For the—”

“Yeah, I heard.” Elliot carded her fingers through her hair and slid out from under the blankets. Like this—in various arrays of undress—John could see the purpled bruising along her sternum and neck and shoulder, a few of them on her legs, beginning to fade into a wine color and even lighter still around the edges.

I’ll have to be careful when I’m writing her sin, he thought absently as he buttoned his shirt. As Elliot muddled her way through pulling on last night’s clothes, he closed the distance between them and reached for her; she let him, though maybe only because she was still half-asleep, with the daylight still fresh and new and the outside mostly still dark.

John cradled her face and leaned down to kiss her. “You and me,” he said against her mouth, “right, hellcat?”

It’s not a lie, he reasoned when she kissed him back. It’s not a lie to say that.

“You and me,” Elliot agreed. Her voice sounded thick, like he’d said the exact thing she wanted to hear and it had caught her off guard, and he felt a little thrill of victory in his chest.

Once she was mostly-dressed, he made his way to the door and nudged it open. True to her word, Faith had waited patiently; a swath of dark fabric was draped over her arm, silken, and as she stepped past John she said, “Okay, John, girls only now.”

Obediently, he stepped out of the building, turning and looking at Elliot over his shoulder. The eye contact only lasted for a minute before Faith beamed at him and shut the door. Inside, he could hear Faith saying something to Elliot; making out the words, however, was near impossible.

“Right,” he said under his breath. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

It was the first time he’d said it to himself, in a long time, and it felt true.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“It’s so fucking cold,” Elliot said, shivering. The silk slip of a dress that Faith had told her she needed to wear for the “baptism” barely did anything against the early-morning chill. Dawn had nearly crept all the way over the distant mountains, and as they picked their way down to the water, she wished they’d just let her wear the clothes that she had brought. Naturally, Eden’s Gate—and Joseph, by proxy—were completely incapable of doing anything reasonably.

“I know,” Faith replied sympathetically, their fingers intertwined as they picked their way down the path. “But at least it’s only for a little while. In and out of the water, and then you can change again.” And then, as though it were meant to comfort her, she added, “Blue’s your color.”

Elliot grimaced. Blue was John’s color. “Yeah,” she agreed dryly, “it matches well with my bruises, don’t you think?”

The woman laughed, giving her hand a little squeeze, and for a brief second in time Elliot felt a twinge of regret. There wasn’t too much time to think about it; by the time she was opening her mouth to apologize—an action which Faith seemed to elicit in her quite easily, when overall apologizing was not something that came so naturally to her—they had broken the treeline and all thoughts went sweeping out of her brain.

Joseph stood at the edge of the shore, but she barely thought of him; she barely thought of anything except for John, standing nearly waist-deep in the water, the Book of Joseph held open in one hand and his eyes fixed on her. It sent a little flurry of aches through her, reminding her that once, what felt like a thousand years ago, she had wanted to kill him. Spit in his face. Leave her mark on him and throw his entire fucking family behind bars.

But maybe Joseph had been right, when he asked if she really thought she was going to be accepted by the people she had done all of this to protect.

John's gaze swept over her as they came near; a grin split his face, and with his empty hand he reached for her. She was vaguely aware of Joseph saying something, light and tranquil, but the words didn't register in her brain. She was only barely aware of Faith letting go of her. With that same hand, she took John’s outstretched one, and he tugged lightly, guiding her into the chilly Autumnal waters; where it barely reached John’s waist, the water just crested above her belly button, and she felt the goosebumps spreading.

John cleared his throat. His eyes swept over the page in the book, before he closed it and held it out for Joseph. When the man took it, standing just at the edge of the water, he turned back to Elliot and murmured, low and barely above the sound of the water lapping around them, “You and me?”

Her stomach twisted and lurched uncomfortably, but she nodded. She’d had barely an opportunity to reconcile this moment with herself. She thought, maybe, if she made it a rebirth for herself—if she let Joseph think that it was for him, but in her mind and in the marrow of her bones it was for her, that would be what mattered. But it was hard to think that way when John started reciting the words from the book, words that sparked in her memories of the last time this had been happening.

Hands, gripping her shirt, plunging her under the water over and over and over again. The “scripture” bleeding into her head, into her heart, muffled occasionally by the water. John’s voice, slick with venom, when he said, “This one’s not clean.”

When John finished speaking, he reached up; still stuck in the waking nightmare-memory, Elliot’s hand reached up to grip his arm where the sleeve had been rolled up.

John, plunging her under the water. Holding her. Dark dark dark, and her voice rolling the word weak around as she fought for air and struggled to break the surface—

But now, his hands cradled against the pillar of her neck; now, he looked at her reverently, like she was something to be worshipped.

“Here,” the brunette said, his voice low and soft, and somewhere in the back of her mind his words overlapped with a memory that at once felt both too sharp and too foggy to recall; “with me.”

“Okay,” she whispered. He smoothed his hand along her back, between her shoulder blades, and then pulled her under.

It took every ounce of her self-control not to fight it. Every fucking ounce of it, and she still caught herself tensing like she was ready to. John kept her there, one hand between her shoulders and one hand on her sternum, the light pressure digging a little into the remaining bruises.

And he kept her there. And kept her there. And—

Above the water, somewhere out there, she heard the sound of John saying something; more voices echoed back, more than just Joseph and Faith. He pulled her up out of the water abruptly; the sudden movement had her gasping for air, her nails digging into his forearm, and she thought, he was going to let me, he was going to let me fucking drown, I—

“I’ve got you,” John said, steadying her; certainly he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. There was something strange about his tone—it was hard, tense and tight, and she saw it in his face, too.

Shivering ferociously, Elliot kept her hand gripping his arm. She started, “John, why did you—”

“Rookie?”

The familiar voice had her head jerking back to the shoreline. There were more people there, now. There was Joseph with Faith beside him, and just at the edge of the water and staring at her, was Cameron Burke.

Behind him, Jacob flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“See?” Jacob said, slapping his hand onto Burke's back like an old friend playing too rough. “Told you she was just fine.”

The Marshal’s hands and feet were unbound, but he swayed on his feet, and Elliot saw that his pupils were blown wide and dark—he reeked of a sickly-sweet floral scent that felt familiar, tingled somewhere in the back of her mind—

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think about any of that; her brain felt like its competency had been completely reduced, that the strain of focusing on more than one thing at a time had become too much. And here, now, Burke was staring at her, and when he said it again—when he said, “Rook, is that you?”—his voice broke, hoarse and wretched.

“B—” Elliot’s throat closed tight. The air had been sucked out of her lungs; she felt the ache in her chest bloom fresh and hot and new, and it was grief—grief and shame, reopening old wounds that she had hoped would be long-since healed over.

With me? Burke’s pulse, steadfast and firm, under her fingertips.

The man’s expression crumpled. She let go of John’s arm and went to wade through the water; his hand caught her elbow and held her fast.

When she looked back at him, his expression was unreadable. He said, “El,” but that was all he said, and she heard the strain of something close to desperation in his voice. Don’t, it said, without saying it at all. Don’t do this.

With her teeth chattering and a violent spike of anger racing through her, Elliot jerked her arm out of his grip and stumbled her way up onto the bank; Burke reached for her almost immediately, catching her arms and pulling her up out of the frigid water and to him. His body felt feverishly hot, even though the cotton of his shirt, his vest long-since discarded.

You dig and keep going anyway. No matter what.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he managed out as he gripped her, and she felt his eyes sweeping over the exposed bruising, like war paint on her skin.

“Burke,” Elliot said, her voice breaking, and oh, she thought, oh, there it is; the release, the catharsis, because she was crying at the overwhelming sense of shame and relief in equal amounts at the sight of the man who had walked her through her first real firefight; big, gasping, grieving sobs, hiccuping in her chest violently because she kept thinking about Burke—she kept thinking about him grabbing her hand and saying, we’re getting out of here, and how he was here now. Now that she was—

This.

“God, what the fuck did they do to you?” Burke asked, his voice barely breaking the sound-barrier of a whisper. He pulled her forward, closer, protectively. “I’m so—I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I—”

“Found him wandering out by the old prison,” Jacob explained, presumably to the others and not to her, “having a nice little trip. Weren’t you, Burke?”

The shame washed up in her again, a nauseating cocktail that reminded her of all the things she had done. All of the awful things she had done, while Burke was out there, alone, wandering and confused and tripping on Bliss overloads and now he was here. Now he was here, and she kept thinking, what have I done?

“Hey,” Burke said against the top of her hair as she clutched at him, “I got you, Rook, I’m sorry, I’m here.”

I'm sorry, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm ruined now.

“Well,” Joseph said, his voice tightly-controlled and forcibly serene, “I suppose we should give the deputy and her Marshal a moment to catch up, shouldn’t we?”

#far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #john seed x deputy #john seed x original female character #ch: elliot honeysett #fic: ancient names #people can pry burke from my cold dead hands #we stan one (1) man who actually treats elliot like a capable person #also i wish i could say sorry about the smut but u know what?#im not #i'm only sorry this shit is so long and nearly incomprehensible #anyway not to get sappy in the tags but!!!!!!#THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU everyone who reads #i literally get emotional thinking about how i never thought i was going to fit in to this fandom #anyway that's all go back to regularly scheduled tumblr feed

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miracle-sham · 5 years ago

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Instead of Dead, Become Two Dragons in Red.

| {MaribatMarch2020 — Week 1, Day 5: Transformation} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| {Repost due to original post disappearing from the tags.} |

| Triggers/Warnings: Violence/Implied Violence, Animal Transformation, Explicit Language/Some Swearing, Implied/Referenced Character Death (but not really), Polyamory (not really a trigger/warning but if you don't like Polyamory then this isn't for you). |

| For Gotham vigilantes, rampaging magic-users always make for an interesting fight, that is of course, provided one doesn't get hit by any stray bolts of magic. However for Parisian heroes, it's just your typical Tuesday Akuma situation. |

| Word Count: 3232 |

==‹›==

| A/N: Hi! I'm not dead, sorry for how long I took to respond to comments, I got hit by a nasty cold then sinusitis so I lost basically all my Maribat March prep time thanks to that, so I just barely managed to finish this ficlet/oneshot for today, anyway I hope you guys enjoy, and if enough people enjoy it, I'll make a second part to this oneshot because I had to cut so much material and it'd be nice to be able to use it still. |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or send me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

==‹›==

Zzzzt-crackle-woosh, a purplish-black bolt of unstable magic flies through the air, just barely grazing passed Dragonbug's side as she flips across the gap between two buildings. Cheerfully, she calls out “Missed again!”

The villain, an amorphous black shadow with dripping molten gold eyes and donning a ruddy patchwork hooded robe (which suffice to say, looks suspiciously like a rip-off wizzrobe from the Legend of Zelda, that or a faceless Gregorian based cultist extra from a film or TV show), scowls furiously, “Oh fuck you! I'm trying my best here!” and blasts another bolt of purplish-black magic towards her.

Conveniently located on the roof she just landed on, is an air vent. She cartwheels behind it and manages to dodge the bolt by a good metre or so. “Well, your best sucks and so does your aim!”

The wizard-villain screeches in fury, “Well my aim wouldn't suck if you didn't keep moving like a goddamn Duracell bunny!”

Dragonbug snorts. “Yeah but firstly, I'm dragon and ladybird themed, not bunny-themed; the bunny theme's already taken anyway. And secondly, where's the fun in that?”

As soon as she says that, her earpiece crackles as Red Robin pipes up on the comms channel. “Ready to see some fireworks?”

“Oh, you bet!” She responds, all too gleefully.

There's a faint clink-woosh-woosh-woosh and out of the corner of her eye, Dragonbug sees a blur of a small round silver ball arcing through the air towards the wizard-villain who's quite stupidly standing in the same place. As the silver ball disappears from her view, she hears a clatter of clink-clink-clink followed by a bwoosh and a bright flash of white light. At this moment, Dragonbug is so glad the Miraculous suits protect against flashbangs of all things.

The wizard-villain screams and once the flash of light fades, Dragonbug can see that they've fallen to their knees, in the middle of the street.

Dragonbug frowns and eyes their form, then double-taps her comms. “Hey, is it me or does our rip-off wizzrobe-magic-cultist look somewhat unresponsive?”

Her earpiece crackles again as Red Robin answers, and really someone should give these things a maintenance check, the crackling can be so distracting. “Our wizzrobe-magic-cultist is looking pretty unresponsive to me too. It could be a trap though because I swear I didn't use one of my knockout flashbangs.”

She nods, despite the fact he can't see her; which upon realising this, she flushes red in embarrassment. After clearing her throat to compose herself, she tilts her head to the side. “That's concerning, unless our rip-off wizzrobe-magic-cultist is susceptible to flashes of light.” She pauses, frown deepening, “You don't think they've got epilepsy do you?”

There's a slight rustle before Red Robin responds, “No, that's not what an epileptic seizure looks like. Again this could be a trap, or they could just be stunned. Either way, we should hurry but be careful.”

“Right.” Dragonbug scurries over to the edge of the roof then flips her way down to the ground. As she lands, she just spots Red Robin vaulting across an overturned car. As he catches sight of her, she gives him a thumbs up, which he returns.

Dragonbug then nods to him and he nods back, silently communicating their plan. They both start to slowly approach the wizard-villain in a pincer movement, her to the left and him to the right.

Red Robin reaches to his bandoliers and whips out a pair of manacles. He skulks behind the wizard-villain and goes to handcuff when the wizard-villain starts cackling maniacally. The laughter is quickly followed by a forming orb of purplish-black light—the same light as the magic bolts.

Oh, fuck! Is Dragonbug's only thought as she immediately dives at Red Robin, who's started backing away; she uses herself to try and block him from the still-forming orb. Please let the Miraculous magic protect us both! She silently begs as the orb expands exponentially, unfortunately enveloping them both completely in a fraction of a second

The maniacal laughter is the last thing they both hear as they're violently launched backwards into an alleyway, and everything fades to black.

==‹›==

Kagami's lounging on the sofa at Tim's Nest and binging Netflix, when the red alert rings across all the comms units.

“Shit,” Oracle falters, “Red Robin and Dragonbug are down. Dragonbug's signature has disappeared from our systems and her comms aren't responding. All Red Robin's vitals are down, his suit isn't registering any more signs of life. But I'm still getting warnings that the villain they were fighting is still active, so everyone available needs to converge on Red Robin and Dragonbug's last known location.”

Fear immediately seizes Kagami's heart, no please, please don't be dead my loves. She double-taps her comms. “I'm suiting up as Kuro Neko, I'll be at the location in three.”

With that said, Kagami flings herself off the sofa. She glances around the room for Plagg who's halted in his eating of cheese and giving her a sad but cryptic look. Her eyes flicker to the window and he nods almost imperceptibly.

“Plagg, claws on.” There's a woosh as the poisonous green light washes over her, donning her in the Kuro Neko suit. She flexes her claws for a split second, tail whipping back and forth furiously, before darting over to the window and vaulting out of it.

As soon as she's out the window, Kuro Neko extends her baton down and begins pole-vaulting her way across the rooftops and over towards where her significant others were last.

==‹›==

When Dragonbug returns to consciousness, the first thing she notices is that she can't move, nor see, nor hear. But she can feel, and unfortunately that means she feels a strange painful pulsing throughout her entire body, as well as an excruciating aching sensation. The second thing she notices is that she's curled up on the ground and her head, or the world, is spinning somewhat. Anyway, I can safely say I'm not doing so good right about now, big ouch.

The first of her other senses to return is her hearing. Which immediately makes her hiss in pain from the sudden cacophony seemingly coming from somewhere above her? She pauses, then realises that something's not quite right, hey wait a minute, why'd my hiss sound so weird? Something's not right, although I suppose that's kinda obvious now, but still! Oh god, what if I'm dying, or I've been body switched, or—or—or—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sudden scream of fury, ringing out from above. Which is good because it means Dragonbug doesn't get time to dwell on that particular string of anxious thoughts, but it's also bad because it's loud and causes her to whimper in pain from how loud it is.

“Where the fuck are they? What the fuck did you do to them?” A voice sounding very similar to Kagami yells out.

Wait a second, that doesn't make sense, Red Robin and I didn't call for backup, so why would Kagami suit up on her night off? Dragonbug muses to herself, brain immediately latching onto the next train of thoughts. As she muses, she slowly realises that she's starting to regain the feeling in her limbs. Which is another positive? However, the feel of said limbs, causes her mind to immediately blank and lose the train of thought. While her brain tries to figuratively perform an error message, she does finally manage to crack open her eyes, yay sight.

It's at that moment, Dragonbug's superhero experience/training kicks in. She quickly takes stock of her surroundings and quietly thinks to herself, oh fuck.

It looks like she's in a giant—no massive—version of Red Robin's suit. Have I been shrunk? She wonders for only a brief second as something moves, just out of the area of her view. She turns and squints at the movement. Not a second later, a roughly cat-sized red lizard shuffled into sight.

She squeaks in surprise, then has a minute of wait what because her squeak sounded weird and very concerningly not-human-like.

The red lizard tilts its head to the side and coos at her.

Dragonbug glares at the lizard and tries to back away. Emphasis on tries, because as she does so, she ends up tripping over herself? Confused and extremely concerned now, she glances down and oh.

What. The. Heckles. She slowly spins around, checking out her new form, because she's clearly no longer human. No, she's got a snout, scales, fur—well mane—, claws, a long snakelike body, and a tail. Spinning around, she catches sight of a gleaming piece of shiny silver metal. So does what anyone would in the same situation as her, and scuttles over to it to use it as a makeshift mirror.

The reflection that greets her is… frankly quite adorable but also she's now a tiny little lung/long dragon. Which to be fair, makes quite a bit of sense as she was using the dragon Miraculous and Longg is a lung dragon. Her scales are a pretty red with shimmery golden accents and her mane is a dark red-almost-black colour. Her eyes still have the golden yellow iris and sclera that the dragon Miraculous gives. And the rest of her is all done variation of the gold, brighter red, and darker red. So at least her colour palette doesn't clash. Okay, so the colour palette isn't the most pressing issue here, but also I don't know how to fix this or change back so y'know, I'd rather potentially be stuck like this permanently with a nice colour palette, than one that clashes. But also oh god please don't let this be permanent, there has to be a way to undo this!

In her panic, Marinette doesn't notice the red lizard slinking closer to her. As it reaches her, it gently prods her with one claw; startling her badly and causing her to squeak again, loudly.

The red lizard flinches back and Marinette realises that maybe, just maybe, that's not a random lizard. And that maybe the not-a-random-lizard is actually a drake. A European dragon that hasn't got wings. And Tim. Tim's surname is Drake. A coincidence? I think not! It's got to be Tim!

She stares at the probably-Tim dragon and makes a chirping noise because dragons don't have the same vocal cords as humans, so she can't exactly ask him if that's him or not. A minor nuisance, to say the least.

The red drake mimics her chirp. Then cautiously slinks up to her again.

This close, Marinette can see that she's probably around the size of a ferret, in comparison to him being roughly the same size as a cat.

He flops down half beside, half against her and makes a series of clicks and chirps. She can't help but to tense as he flops but as the seconds pass, she finds herself relaxing bit by bit until she's also flopped over.

Enjoying the peaceful impromptu not-quite-a-cuddle cuddle session with one of her significant others, Marinette does try to keep an ear out for any goings-on above, just in case. But all seems well.

That is until, not even three seconds later, the peacefulness is abruptly shattered by a cacophony of screams, yells, zaps, and loud bangs echoing shrilly from above, before ceasing just as abruptly as it started.

However, the unexpected cacophony still manages to cause Marinette to panic. She tenses with a low whine, hunching slightly, and holds her breath. Alert and anxiously vigilant, she can't help but survey the immediate vicinity again and again and again—looking for anything she missed initially or if anything's changed.

Tim shuffles and stumbles into a sitting position. He nudges her gently in the side of the neck with his snout. He makes a cooing noise, followed by a soft rumble—as if he were trying to imitate a cat's purr.

It takes a few seconds, but his actions start to help calm her down. She takes in a deep breath and mentally reassesses the situation. We've been turned into tiny dragons. We're inside-slash-underneath the Red Robin suit which is on the ground. Before we woke up like this, we were battling a magic-user villain who tricked us. We didn't get time to call in backup before we got hit but it sounds like backup arrived anyway. As far as we know, no one is aware of what happened to us or that we're in-slash-under the suit. We are currently safe for now.

As Marinette reaches the end of the reassessment, she feels much calmer. She makes a low trill-like-purr noise to signal to Tim that she's calmed down.

He sticks his tongue out in a blep and mimics the low trill.

Their second moment of calm is then also interrupted because apparently fate hates peace and calmness or something like that.

“I will ask you once more, Where. Are. They?” Kuro Neko questions.

There's a loud thump-snap, followed by the wheezing cackle of the Wizard-villain. “They're gone! Dead! Erased! Exterminated!” With its piece said, the wizard-villain continues to wheeze and cackle maniacally.

Marinette can't help but shiver in fear at the sound, barely able to squash the rising nausea.

A harsh snap sound echoes loudly in the street and the wizard-villain starts choking wetly.

Kuro Neko hisses something but the red robin suit muffles the words to the point of being indistinguishable.

The minutes drag by and the only sounds of note from above, are inaudible mutterings and the clattering of handcuffs and car doors. They must've handed the wizard-villain over to the police, Marinette thinks.

She's about to go nudge Tim to try and communicate that they probably need to go find somewhere to stash his suit and a place for them to hide until they can figure out how to turn back when a conversation between the vigilantes who arrived for backup catches her attention. Partly because of the topic, and partly because of how close the voices suddenly sound.

“They can't be dead, Red Robin's suit is still there.” Dick—or well more like Nightwing, since he probably arrived as backup as well—stresses.

“But Dragonbug an' her suit's gone. You'd think maybe that there'd be a little more left if just organic matter was destroyed.” Jas—Red Hood mutters, the vocal distorter in his helmet making his tone of voice sound strange.

Or maybe that's just a side effect of getting tiny-dragon-ified, thinks Marinette, things sounding stranger. Although I've not really noticed anything bar the distorted voice sounding weird.

“The Miraculous suits are made of magic, and anyway, Plagg says he can't feel Tikki or Longg's presence anywhere,” Kuro Neko admits, reluctantly. “If all living things in the vicinity of the orb were destroyed, then the Miraculous would have still been left behind.”

“And how d'you know that?” Red Hood asks, sounding both genuinely curious and mildly concerned.

There's a split second of almost icy silence before Kuro Neko responds with a clipped tone. “Akuma.”

“Ah, o'course.” Red Hood comments, voice getting closer again. “Hey, d'you think B will want to stick the Red Robin suit in a memorial case like what he did with my Robin suit?”

“Hood!” Nightwing exclaims in a horrified and almost scandalised tone of voice.

Red Hood snorts.

Marinette flinches, and so does Tim beside her, although probably not for the same reasons as her. I don't think I'll ever get used to how flippantly Red Hood jokes about his death. Even if most Parisians who've died in Akuma attacks use the same sort of gallows humour.

There's a few seconds of silence before someone grabs the Red Robin suit and yanks it upwards, causing Tim and Marinette to tumble out of it with a series of startled squeaks and clicks.

Red Hood is the first to respond to the situation, with an eloquent, “what the fuck.”

Marinette glances up and sees Kuro Neko holding the Red Robin suit and looking rather shell shocked, with Red Hood and Nightwing a few steps away.

“Oh, thank fuck they're alive.” Nightwing half mumbles, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation.

“My loves,” Kuro Neko murmurs leaning down and scooping up Marinette and Tim, “I'm so glad you're okay.”

They both squirm for a minute before relaxing into her arms.

Nightwing frowns. “We should bring them back to the cave, maybe call Zatanna and Wonder Woman.”

“To the cave then.” Kuro Neko nods, hugging Marinette and Tim carefully, making sure not to accidentally hurt or squish them.

Marinette looks up at her significant other and bleps. She then trills, content to be held for the journey back to the Batcave.

Tim however, wrinkles his nose and chirrups in protest, he squirms and tries to escape Kuro Neko's hold—probably wanting to return to the Nest and deal with this on his own instead.

Kuro Neko gives Tim a deadpan stare before expertly pinching the correct pressure point to temporarily paralyse him.

Red Hood gives her a quizzical stare.

“Akuma, as well as kwami.” She responds, sagely.

“Right…” He slowly mutters, shaking his head.

Marinette can't help but burst into laughter at that, only because she's currently a ferret-sized lung dragon, the laughter comes out as a stream of trills and chirps.

Red Hood narrows his eyes at Marinette. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, danger noodle.”

Marinette pouts, whilst internally promising herself that revenge will be swift and pasta themed.

==‹›==

When they finally arrive back at the Batcave. They're greeted by the sight of Batman and Robin at the Batcomputer.

Robin turns and sneers at them. “Of course, trust Drake to pull such an attention-grabbing stunt as this.”

Marinette immediately looks up from her snuggled up position in Kuro Nell's arms and hisses at Robin; Tim however, lets out a world-weary sigh.

“Robin.” Barks Batman, but the reprimand does nothing to quell Robin's hostility.

Fixing a glare at Robin, Kuro Neko starts to stroke Marinette's scales like an evil villain would stroke a cat (much to Marinette's delight). “Need I remind you, how you hesitated upon hearing Oracle inform us that Red Robin's suit ceased reading any signs of life.”

“That was not hesitation! I was merely preparing for Grayson or Fatgirl to become hysterical in their distress.” Retorts Robin, who then stalks away, scowling and red-faced.

Nightwing dithers between going after him or staying to check on Tim and Marinette.

Kuro Neko shakes her head. “Go after him, Marinette and Tim will be fine without you hovering like a mother hen.”

Nightwing flashes her a grateful smile and scampers after Robin.

Kuro Neko then heads over to the medical bay and gently plonks the two dragons onto a cot. “Batman, I believe we will need to do as Nightwing suggested earlier, and call Zatanna and Wonder Woman. As this is a magic situation and I am not as skilled or knowledgeable in regards to magic as my love is.”

“Hhrrm,” Batman growls, already calling up the Watchtower.

Kuro Neko smiles softly as she glances down at her significant others, eyes twinkling with mirth. “Let's hope they arrive soon, otherwise who knows what sort of trouble you two could get into.” She winks.

Marinette chirps, tail flicking side to side eagerly. Whilst Tim perks up slightly and tilts his head to the side, mind probably racing with hundreds of pranks and shenanigans they could pull off whilst in dragon form.

==‹›==

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| @maribat-march2020 | | @vixen-uchiha |

#Miraculous Ladybug #Maribat #ML x DC #DC x MLB #MaribatMarch2020 #Timinette #MariTim #Timari #MariTimGami #MaribatMarch Week 1 #MaribatMarch Day 5 #MaribatMarch Transformation #Instead of Dead Become Two Dragons in Red #IoDBTDiR #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

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wickedsrest-rp-archive · 4 years ago

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Undertow || Season 1 Finale Chatzy

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Dark Score Lake (opposite side as Storm Front) PARTIES: @nelllraiser @athenaquinn @offrankies @laylacooke @jane-the-zombie SUMMARY: The ritual at the lake

This was different than anything Nell had ever done before, leading a ritual that she didn’t even yet have all the parts for. To her understanding, she was simply meant to wait here with the circle she’d drawn in the ground, at least able to prepare that much when it came to the magic that would be needed to be rid of this plague on their town once and for all. Her hand tapped against the strap of the backpack that was on her back as it was holding rather precious cargo, something that would be needed to complete the ritual properly. The others will come, she’d been told, and all she could do was blindly put her faith in the words of Winston, hoping that they’d been right. She wasn’t sure if they’d get more than one shot at this, and having White Crest pulled into a hellscape, or vice versa, was something he wouldn’t let happen to the town. So she waited at the edge of the lake, not all that far from where she’d first met the cultists. So much of the situation still didn’t make sense, but it didn’t matter. She had the instructions, and she would follow them, doing her duty to make sure that the demon was taken care of. She squinted along the skyline, looking for anyone who might be approaching for the ritual. With the sun behind them, it was hard to make out a face, so Nell called out to them. “Hey! What are you...doing here?” How the hell else was she meant to figure out if someone was compelled or not?

She’d just been finishing reading another one of her books for the fall semester (she knew that it was far in advance, but until other summer obligations started up, she might as well get ahead on things - after all, one never knew when she might have to put in extra hours or days of training and she was not about to fall behind in any of her classes) when Athena felt herself stand up, close her textbook, and brushed her hands against her jeans and adjusted the scrunchie on her wrist as she made her way down the stairs and outside, not speaking a word. It was a long walk, but that wasn’t something she minded at all. More exercise was good, and she could feel the comforting cold iron against her hip bones (it was the only place that made sense to keep the knives when she wasn’t in the mood for wearing boots, after all). Athena could feel the coolness of her rings against her fingers. The only benefit of Rio leaving home was that at least he couldn’t hide them any more. She continued to walk, making her way through downtown, only occasionally glancing around. Finally, she felt herself come to a standstill, a bit of a ways away from the edge of the lake. Someone called out to her. “I am here because,” her voice trailed off, “it is the right thing to do.” She heard another sound and turned around.

Layla had been laying in her corner in Frankie’s room, snuggled up and trying to finally get a goodnight’s sleep, granted it was still early. A lot had been going on since the night she faced Kaden’s ghost of a mother, and with Winn on the run and everything else that had recently occurred, it had left her feeling drained both emotionally and physically. And now knowing that she had taken a human life, a dark shadow seemed to loom over the teenager’s heart, permanently. However, with eyes wide open, she got to her feet, and with no words, found herself going for a walk. Her mind seemed to be hollow. No thoughts about the past several weeks or even about the woman she loved. Just the idea that she needed to get to the lake. She needed to meet up with everyone else. Barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts and Frankie’s yellow hoodie, she walked along streets and through grass and dirt, until she reached where she was going. Seeing the other two people waiting, she stood quietly. Even recognizing Nell for what she was, but still no words or alarm. Just the need to be there and to wait for further instructions.

After a long and exciting shift, all Frankie wanted to do was go home and tell Graham all about the old man that had managed to drink seven milkshakes in a row, watch a bad movie and call it a night. But her body seemed to have different plans for her, because when she walked out of Al’s, her feet started guiding her in the opposite direction of her apartment, towards the lake. Just a quick detour. Right, she needed to take care of something first. Did she? Her head felt heavy, very heavy, the walk that should’ve taken her half an hour feeling like seconds, and before she even realized what she had gone to, she was standing next to three other girls. They were all glowing, so, so bright in contrast to the shadows that were already forming from the sunset, the red, purple and light blue blending together in her temporary dizziness, but it didn’t matter. Not right now. She needed to take care of something first. Her expression was blank as she walked next to Layla, eyes fixated on the brunette and her aura; there was a vague sound of dogs panting and… was that something slimy moving nearby? Catching her attention, but they were irrelevant for now. She needed to take care of something first.

Jane was having second thoughts about splitting up with Bo, if only because she was overtly concerned that Bo was going to get into trouble that Jane couldn’t bail her out from. The call came in late, and both of them were sent out to check on a disturbance at Dark Score, splitting up when they saw two disturbances on either side of the lake. Why they didn’t just send patrol officers out, she didn’t know, but as Janee approached the group, hand on her gun, she realized it was just a bunch of children. Jane scowled. Was this some sort of summer party? She hadn’t busted an honest to god party since she was back on patrol. “Hey!” Jane barked, flashing her badge. She looked down at the ground, seeing a strange circle. Oh god. What the hell was that? Was this a meme? Or wiccan things? She was about 90% sure it wasn’t some cult bullshit - there weren’t any white men around to lead any sacrifices. Jane was already exasperated. “Police. Does someone want to explain to me exactly what’s going on here? Don’t you know the lake is dangerous?”

Nell counted them as they came, knowing she’d need three for the ritual. One...two...three...people and— a fourth? There wasn’t supposed to be a fourth. However, it quickly became clear which of these things was not like the other when the cop opened her mouth. Of course there was a cop here. It would have been too easy otherwise, wouldn’t it? She squinted at the woman in question first, deciding what to do. What had been that...other cop’s name she met the other day? Would name dropping work? “Oh- don’t worry,” she began with polished ease, “I know Detective Stryder. I’m...helping her.” Sure- that sounded decent, right? Hopefully they’d at least know each other or something. Brushing the cop aside, she turned to the rest of those that had gathered. Layla, she recognized. That would be the shifter they needed. But the other two- one of them looked vaguely familiar, as if she might have seen a picture of the girl in a yearbook somewhere or otherwise. The other? An utter stranger. Pointing between them she asked, “Okay, what are you two? Which is the Hunter and which is the...regular human?” Her tone left no room for question, ready to get down to business and make this as quick as possible.

There was a woman from the police here. Athena turned her head to the side, examining her. That was odd. Especially because she was asking what was going on. As though - Athena glanced around her - they were all supposed to know. She had just gone on a walk. That was no reason to be questioned, was it? Then someone in front of her - who she thought she recognized from high school, though not from her grade. Older? Regardless, whoever this was was asking about hunters and regular humans and Athena made a face. “I think we are all regular humans, here.” She could at least say that nobody here was fae. Anything else was possible. As if she was going to out herself. For all she knew, this person hated hunters, didn’t respect what they did, and would do some sort of grievous harm if she found out. “Why do you need to know, anyhow?” She shook her head, briefly, her ponytail swinging back and forth. She turned to the policewoman, “the lake is only dangerous if you do not have a sense of self-preservation. I am not about to swim here.”

When Layla saw Frankie coming upon the group, her heart began to race and butterflies seemed to dance around in her stomach like they always did when she caught sight of her best friend and lover. But something was telling her to stay still. To not move. To just be. Even the new arrivals didn’t seem to phase her, and when she heard the police officer start to question them, she remained quiet. She wasn’t sure why she had been summoned or why she didn’t feel the urge to communicate. However, when she noticed Frankie move in beside her, Layla stepped over to be slightly closer and gently reached out her fingertips to at least feel Frankie. It was that connection that seemed to make her heart feel at ease. Everything was okay as long as she was there. Even having a bounty hunter nearby didn’t seem to phase her as long as she could see, smell, and hear her girlfriend’s beating heart.

The urge that led her there had disappeared as fast as it had arrived when the cop barked at them. Frankie blinked repeatedly, looking around in confusion, her eyes landing on her girlfriend, silently asking her what the hell was happening, but as much as she tried to move in closer, to take her hand and get both of them out of there, she couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t budge. Her eyes moved back to the brunette and the purple softly moving around her, the familiar black of a recent loss sputtered on it like painting drops, and a weird red joined the mix. And then she looked back to the cop, the lack of aura suggesting that she was a… vampire?, and then back to the brunette, actively looking away from the bright red that the blonde was irradiating. Her hand grasped at Layla’s, just to feel something familiar and remotely comforting. “Uhm--” She started, feeling her heartbeat speed up. “I don’t—I didn’t know the lake was dangerous. I’m so sorry ma’am.”

“Detective Stryder?” Jane looked at Nell, a bit amused, crossing her arms over her chest. “You mean my partner?” She glanced to the other three, fighting back an eye roll at the defiant answer. Oh crap, did one of them just call her ma’am? A ma’am? God, she was like the crypt keeper compared to these girls. “I’ll remind you all that the lake was closed off for a long time because of dangerous activity.” But something was clearly going on here that wasn’t normal. The dark haired girl had just asked about hunters, and somehow, she was fairly certain that she hadn’t been talking about deer hunters. She turned to Nell, hands on her hips. “Cut the bullshit for a minute please, what’s going on here? Magic? Hunters?” She paused. “Zombies?”

Nell squinted at the girl who had been first to reply, realizing this was perhaps going to be a little harder than she thought, even sans demons or otherwise. “Sure- let’s pretend we’re all regular humans for a second.” Now what? What was the customary greeting for a ritual like this? Thankfully, it seemed that Jane had given her an in. “Yes- that,” she said as she pointed to the cop. “No zombies, though. But magic, Hunters, shifters, and humans. All in one place.” This was as good a segway as any to delve into what was needed for the ritual. “We were brought here to help White Crest, to make sure that asshole demon squid boy in the lake doesn’t eat us all whole, town included, probably. So- that being said- each of you was magically compelled to be here, each an integral part of the spell we need to do. Apart from you, I think,” she paused for a moment to jab a thumb towards Jane. “But if we could all get along for just like- ten minutes tops or something, that’d be great. And I can tell you all how to start the process. Then you guys can go back to doing whatever after we’ve helped yeet Squidward.”

“Who’s pretending?” Athena crossed her arms. She looked over to everyone else. “The lake is no longer closed off, though I apologise for whoever might have called you here.” She flashed a grin over to the policewoman. Charming adults had always been a strong suit of hers - she knew that was part of how she kept out of having people tell on her back in school. The teachers loved her. Hopefully she could just get the woman to leave and then - she narrowed her eyes. Ignored the hunter bit, but instead focused on shifter. So someone else here wasn’t human. Well, that much was intriguing. “Magically?” Was someone else a spellcaster? Just like Winston? She pushed that idea out of her mind for now. If she was here to help the town, then it was meant to be. It was what she was born for, after all. “Fine. Yes, I am one of those.” A small smirk covered her lips. “I can’t say I’ve ever been in a spell before, though. Does this make you the leader?” Her eyes narrowed, briefly. “I will try it for ten minutes, though I’m not about to make any promises. Those can be dangerous, you know.” She moved her hands to her hips and raised an eyebrow. “Fine, tell us what we have to do.”

Layla blinked a few times. All the talk around her seemed to bring her out of whatever trance she had been in, whether it was her mind trying to protect her or something more magical at work, “Frankie…” Her voice held worry. And as she listened to the cop, Nell, and some random person she had never met, who oddly reminded her of Rio, she knew that this wasn’t exactly the place she wanted to be. She knew fear had already gotten her into some sticky situations in the past, and being a werewolf surrounded by people, she mostly assumed to be human, especially Frankie, had made her worry skyrocket. With Nell explaining the situation, Layla’s eyes met the brunette’s, “Why me? I get you need a werewolf or whatever, but why me? There’s more skilled...wolves around White Crest, and I don’t want to accidentally hurt somebody.” She glanced back to her girlfriend and as much as she wanted to move and pull Frankie with her, she couldn’t.

“Demon?” Frankie’s voice was high pitched and her eyes grew wide in surprise as the apparent witch explained why they were there, and guessed that she was the human, definitely sure that Layla was the shifter, and definitely sure that she wasn’t a hunter. Sure, if vampires and werewolves were a thing, of course there had to be hunters – Teen Wolf had taught her that much – but she wasn’t ready for the world of supernatural that was right outside her window, and Demons was too big of a concept to grasp. Frankie had a hard time swallowing the knot that had formed in her throat, finally with the courage to stare at the blonde girl, but couldn’t help but squint from the bright aura. A shiver went up her spine as she recalled her grandmother telling her to stay away from the bright red, but she never explained why. “S-Squid demon? Like Cthulhu?” What the fuck? “I don’t – This is –“ She could feel the panic attack coming, her hand squeezing Layla’s harder, staring at her for a moment, and then at the cop in desperation. “Demons aren’t- They don’t exist, right? Right…?”

Jane was getting less happy with how this was going by the minute. Bratty young adults mixed with demonic - did she just say Squidward? Squid demon? Jane held her forehead a minute, before glancing up to the sky. Demonic squid demon. Great. Awesome. Wow. She let out a low sigh, looking between everyone. The girl that originally called it Squidward seemed to know what she was doing. Fantastic. She folded her arms over her chest. She didn’t exactly belong in the ritual, but leaving children here to do it themselves wasn’t exactly a smart idea. After all, she was the one that was going to live forever. It seemed like some of these children didn't even want to be here - and one was a werewolf and a hunter. Well, the red head was the werewolf, and if she had to make an educated guess, the one that wasn’t having a panic attack about the demon was the hunter. But who knew? “Why don’t we all take a minute to breathe,” Jane suggested, glancing at Nell. “Before someone passes out and before you all… you all… yeet… Squid… ward…” Some of those words were like a different language. Jane winced. “What exactly does this whole thing encompass?” Jane asked Nell. “What do you need? And how can I offer you to help?”

Nell couldn’t be sure, but based off of the girls reactions to the news, and the declaration of not making promises, she would hazard a guess that the blonde would be the one who was the Hunter. She already knew Layla was the shifter, and the one seemingly having a hard time grasping the concept of a demon was mostly likely the ‘innocent’ human. “What are your names?” she asked, realizing this would be easier if she knew them. “I’m Nell- and I don’t know if I’m meant to be the ‘leader’, I just know what’s going on so- I figured I’d organize. So the first step is that the shifter has to- well….shift.” Her eyes slid to Layla, still uncertain about her feelings on the werewolf. But those didn’t matter now, not at a time like this. “But it’s meant to be the Hunter who gets them to shift. But only shift,” she said carefully. “If anyone dies during the ceremony, it won’t work- so if we can just all keep from killing each other-” As if the universe had heard her and decided to make things far more difficult, a sort of slopping sound emerged from the lake, and hooded heads could be seen rising from it.,water sliding off their heads as they raised their hands, eyes embedded in the centers of them. “The cultists.” It made sense that they would be here. After all, they most likely wanted the squid demon to succeed, and they didn’t look friendly in the least. “Uhh- that’s something you could maybe help with,” she finished, turning towards the cop, motioning towards the cultists. “I’d love to breathe, unfortunately I don’t think those eyeball freaks are going to give us the opportunity. She turned towards the girl that seemed to fit the role of innocent human, “I’m sorry you got thrown into this, but we have to focus, alright? Panicking will only make things worse, and make it more likely that someone gets hurt. And you wouldn’t be here unless the magic thought you could handle it.” Nell wasn’t entirely actually sure of that, but she needed to say something to reassure the girl. “Same goes for you, Layla. I don’t know why the magic chose any of you, but it did- and that’s what matters. Not the why.” Not right now, at least.

Well, the redhead was the werewolf. If only more supernatural creatures were that willing to out themselves, Athena thought. Nell. The name sounded familiar, though she couldn’t quite place it right now. “Athena.” She crossed her arms again. How had she been allowed to know what was going on? Though, Athena supposed, she’d always been good at thinking on her feet. Dealing with unexpected events was something she was fine with - excelled at, usually, if her training sessions were anything to refer to. She narrowed her eyes at the next comment. Though before she could speak Nell was clarifying - first that Athena apparently had to be the one to make her, and then that nobody was allowed to die. “Well, you have to tell her that more than me, probably.” I’m not the unstable monster here. She glanced over to where Nell was looking - strange figures - with, were those eyes? - in the middle of their hands and shook her head. “Well, some of us were born to help better the world, so whatever caused me to be here is what it is.” She tucked a small strand of hair behind her ear, turning to the redhead. “So, how hard is it going to be to get you to turn?”

The teenage werewolf had pretty much ignored the cop, up until she wanted to plead for help to get her and Frankie out of there, and stat. Especially considering the strange looking people now emerging from the lake. A sight that made the hair on her arms stand on end. But as much as she tried to make herself leave, she just couldn’t. But how anyone else wanted to willingly stay was beyond her? At least that’s what it had seemed like when the hunter, Athena, and, of course, the bounty hunter, Nell, explained the situation and accepted their fate. Turning her attention back on Frankie, before hearing the question about shifting, she mouthed the words “I love you”. If anything was going to happen, Layla wanted Frankie to know that she loved her. Her eyes back on the hunter, she spoke up, “Impossible, because I’m not going to do it. I could kill somebody, and isn’t that like the last thing you want to happen?” The words were nearly impossible to get out of her mouth after the way the full moon had gone. If she could refuse this, she would, and the glare on her face indicated she was not changing, at least not willingly; of course there was that tiny little fact that she still didn’t know how to change willingly either.

If someone dies during the ceremony. Some of us were born to help better the world. Frankie’s head was spinning, and she had to hug herself to keep herself from shaking. Many people had warned her so far that this town was more than just a little weird and quirky, but this was definitely not something she had imagined in her wildest dream. It didn’t help that there were people emerging from the water, looking like they had been straight up taken from a Dark Souls game. “Frankie.” She managed to reply, though it mattered little. Her eyes focused on Layla, mostly to avoid the more and more vivid fire emanating from Athena but also because something familiar and vaguely normal would help to ground her. Nell was right - it wouldn’t help anyone to have a breakdown in the middle of whatever was happening, and after taking deep breaths while her eyes were closed, she weakly nodded, staring at the floor, trying her hardest to ignore the damn sounds and--- she couldn’t. It wouldn’t surprise her if she looked like she was about to puke; or worse, faint. “Okay, just-- I really don’t understand what’s happening and these damn dogs just won’t fucking shut up---” Her voice raised with every word she said, and she drowned a scream as the weird people got closer and closer to them, and with her feet finally cooperating, she stood in front of Layla, fishing her pepper spray from her backpack in a lame attempt to protect her.

Jane liked to think she was actually doing pretty well at being accepting considering everything was going on. She could freak out that there was a squid demon - named squidward? - later, there was a job to be done. “Jane,” she repeated her own name for the benefit of the children when she saw the cultists start rising out of the water. The hair on the back of her neck stood up - danger? A bit of excitement coursed through her as her hand went to her gun as the chanting started. Well they definitely didn’t sound human. Reports of cultists with eyes sewn shut and eyes in their hands had been flooding the station, along with the giant eyeball of a sun. Lord, those things were not human. She drew her weapon, and looked exasperatedly at Nell. The chanting was growing louder, the Cultists slowly making their way to shore. “Slightly adjusted plan,” Jane said. “You all listen to whatever the hell Nell says you should do, and don’t freak u ing kill each other. I’ll deal with them - or try to.” Jane hit the safety off her glock and took aim. “And stop complaining.” And then she started shooting.

So this was Athena? Nell gave her another quick once over, curiosity getting the best of her before she shifted back to focus. There’d be time for questions later, when they weren’t under a time crunch for a ritual, and when cultists weren’t attacking. She didn’t bother hiding her eyeroll at the derogatory assumption that Layla would need to be restrained from killing more than Athena, but didn’t comment on it for now. At least Athena seemed willing to do what needed to be done, and was ready to help. “The ritual...says the Hunter needs to force the shifter to change.” She gave Athena a meaningful glance, hoping she’d take it as wordless confirmation to do whatever she needed to do to get Layla to change. Generally, Nell wasn’t one to encourage things such as this, but they had a mission, and she wasn’t going to put the entire town into jeopardy. “No killing,” she reminded Athena and Layla before saying. “We can cover you while you start, though.” As for Layla, Nell’s patience was running thin. They needed to get this ritual done before the moon reached its highest point. Otherwise, it would be too late. “Look- we don’t have a choice. If you don’t do this- if we don’t do this- the demon gets its way, and it’s not going to be pretty. It wants to bring literal hell here, and plenty more people are going to die if you don’t do this. I won’t let you kill anyone. And you know I can make good on that promise.” After all, they’d had their scuffle in the woods. “We don’t have the time to be selfish or scared right now.” The words might seem harsh, but Nell didn’t have time to coddle during moments like these. “You’ll come in after the shift happens, Frankie. I’ll let you know when.” She did, however, nod approvingly at Frankie’s pepper spray. “Be careful.” Thank god Jane seemed ready and raring to go after the cultists, though. “Now go!” Nell reiterated to Athena and Layla before joining Jane in going after the cultists, magic bursting from her hands as she tried to keep them at bay.

The werewolf - well, the girl who was a werewolf - was already refusing. This might be more work than Athena would have initially thought. “I do not wish for anyone to die who does not deserve it.” She looked over to Nell, “and while I am slightly disinclined to believe everything she says, we all ended up here for a reason, and somehow she was given a sort of heads up about it, so…” She took a few steps towards the redhead. Layla, she’d said her name was. Not that it mattered too much right now. The other girl stepped in front of her - Frankie - and it was all that Athena could do to not roll her eyes. Was she going to be the one to entirely mess up the ceremony by getting in the way? Her gaze was briefly interrupted by the policewoman giving them instructions and then Nell yelling as well. This was why she usually did things on her own. Too many other people meant others could get hurt and that there was a risk for misunderstanding. Though, she supposed, given the weird people with eye-hands coming out of the lake, a bit of back up never hurt. Especially given that Nell clearly had some sort of extra powers going for her. She raised an eyebrow at Layla. “Well, it seems that you either have to shift, or else more of those beings, or worse, might show up. Are you truly that selfish that you do not care at all about the well-being of this town?” She reached her arm out and grabbed one of Layla’s hands, waiting to see if the cold silver of her rings would cause any further reaction, any reason to motivate her to start transforming. “How does that feel? Apologies for the rashes that might come. Terrible side effect, I know.”

What the hell was happening? It was like another nightmare she was stuck in and couldn’t get out of. Both Nell and Athena were trying to force her to shift, when normally, that’s the last thing any of them ever wanted. However, when Frankie stepped in front of her to try and protect her, Layla’s heart started to pound so hard, she thought she might have a heart attack, “Frankie, I appreciate you trying to protect me, but listen, if I change, which is probably going to happen, I need you to run. Don’t try and protect me, okay? Just. Run.” She had leaned in close and spoke these words only to the love of her life. But before she could say anything else, Layla felt the silver on her hand causing her to let out a growl of pain. With as much force as she could, she jerked her hand away; tears forming on the brims of her eyes, “It’s not going to work, Bitch. So step off.” Her glare was cold on Athena. She could feel the wolf inside her starting to try and claw its way to the surface, but she continued to refuse the change.

“I’m not leaving you--” Frankie’s words to Layla were cut short when the blonde reached forward, and between the growl, the bright colors, and the cop aiming her gun at the lake people, she didn’t know what to do. Her right hands desperately clutched at the small spray bottle, while her left reached forward to grab Athena’s shoulder to pull her away from her girlfriend, but she stopped mid-air, her aura even more frightening now that she was up close. The bright color flowing around her, mixed with even brighter shades of red and black painted made her breath choke on her throat. It was too much - too many noises, too many colors, too many people, and Frankie took a couple steps back, drowning a scream when she heard the cop shoot at a person, head yanked to look at the mess - blood that made her think it was actually ink flooding from the gunshot that had landed perfectly on their forehead, flopping on the ground as life left their body. The other people kept walking towards them as if one of them hadn’t just died next to them, and, after glancing at the hunter and the werewolf, she moved so she was now standing between Nell and Jane. “What the fuck what the fuck---” Hand shaked, and she screamed once more as another shot was fired.

Jane shot to wound, not kill. At least, that’s what she did at first until she saw the younger one - Nell magicking to kill. These things, whatever they were, weren’t truly human, and she would be damned if some creepy freaks with their eyes sewed shut were going to hurt a few teenaged girls - no matter how drama queen-esque they were acting. She was only somewhat aware of the arguments ensuing behind her as her and Nell worked - more kept coming. Fine by her. She didn’t mind getting into a fight. She could already feel the adrenaline pounding in her veins as she shot one of them in the head. She would need to switch to hand to hand soon, she had ammo on her, and her spare piece, but there were only so many bullets and … well, there were a lot of these guys. Only Frankie’s yelling made her briefly pause, glancing over her shoulder, and Jane cursed. “Hey, Nell.” Jane called, pulling out her push knife. “You may want to go babysit the children. Let me take care of these eye-handed freaks.”

If Nell had anything to say about it, Frankie would not be running when Layla shifted. After all, her’s was the blood they also needed to complete the ritual, and Nell had purposefully left that bit out so far. She could only imagine how much more difficult it might be to get Layla to shift if she knew she’d be made to take Frankie’s blood. So at the moment, that knowledge was a need to know basis. As she continued to blast cultists, she wasted no time in Summoning the three hellhounds that were bound to the tattoo on her arm, biting her thumb to swipe the blood over the circle on her arm. It only took a moment for them to spring forward, and to begin mowing through the cultists with poisonous and fiery breath, the stench of burned flesh quickly filling the air. With them helping Jane, Nell was free to return to Layla and Athena for the moment. She locked eyes with the Hunter, hoping the other girl would understand the silent pact she was making with her. She’d help if Athena needed it, to make sure Layla shifted whether she liked it or not. There was the entire town at stake, and Nell wasn’t about to let possibly thousands die because of Layla’s inhibitions. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Layla,” she said in a way that was barely veiled as a threat. “I wish there was another way, but there isn’t. It’s either you shift- or you condemn an entire town to death. We won’t let you kill anyone. And if you don’t shift, the blood of the entirety of White Crest will be on your hands.”

Athena narrowed her eyes. The wolf - still a girl right now - shook her hand off and it was all she could do to keep from snorting. She wanted to laugh - this girl had a human (as far as Athena could tell, at least) protecting her. Athena raised her eyebrows at the other girl, “you know she could tear you apart easily, right? Wouldn’t even blink.” Her stomach clenched for a moment as she thought back to Orion, to their birthday, to - she shook her head. The policewoman was shooting and then, all of a sudden there were Hellhounds? Athena shook her head for a moment as Nell walked over to her. She’d have to deal with that later, apparently. She did let a small, though unkind giggle escape her lips. “You wouldn’t want to be responsible for any more deaths, would you?” She grabbed Layla’s wrist again, taking a few steps closer, holding on tighter. Athena looked over to Frankie. Looked back over to Layla, keeping her grip tighter this time, the silver pressed cool against her wrist. She’d never made someone transform, but she was not about to fail at her first attempt.

Her attention shifted between all that was going on, including watching Hellhounds appear in the open. Layla had never seen one, but it had her heart pounding. However, it was Nell and Athena who scared her more. She wouldn’t admit it though. The pair was hellbent on getting her to shift, and now, they were trying to guilt trip her. Fuck. An entire fucking town? She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could just trying to think. With Frankie freaking out and at risk, Hellhounds and a cop killing cultists, and Nell and Athena advancing on her, everything was becoming overwhelming, not to mention she had literally just killed someone days prior and could remember every detail of it like the back of her hand. It was the hot burn of silver once again pressed to her wrist that broke her. But if they wanted a fucking werewolf, they were going to get a fucking werewolf. However, the one person she would refuse to hurt was Frankie, because if she did, she knew forgiving herself would be impossible.

Opening her now glowing yellow eyes to the hunter standing in front of her, the person staring back was no longer apparent. And just like that her claws begin to force their way out of her fingertips. Her human teeth began to drop out and dripping fangs with thick saliva replaced them. As she fell to her knees, silver still burning her flesh, Layla let out a deafening scream that even garnished the attention of the cultists continually emerging from the water’s edge. And soon her screams deepened into growls. Bones began to break and organs began to shift. Her body elongated and long red fur took growth out of her mangled and tearing skin. It was a slow and extremely painful process she had not mastered as a young wolf pup. Tail now jutting from her backside, perked ears atop her head, and a snout with the jaw strength of a great white shark, Layla had found her footing again. Though small in stature for a wolf, she stood towering over everyone in her presence. Hunched over and ready for a fight, or better yet, her next meal, she growled at Athena and Nell. They had wanted this, and now she was going to make sure they knew just how scary she could be. Letting out a loud roar merely inches from Athena’s face, she stood at the ready to fight.

She wanted to yell at them to stop pressuring Layla, to stop saying such nasty words at her. Despite everything happening around her - the shooting, the fireballs, and now demon dogs that had appeared out of nowhere - Frankie still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that demons were real and not just something to joke around and pretend to mess with when they played ouija. And if Layla shifting was needed to stop the potential massacre Nell had prophesied, then she couldn’t really say anything. At least now she could explain the noise she’d kept hearing since she arrived, but the realization didn’t bring her any comfort considering their situation. Her head was spinning once more, but she stood her ground as well as she could. Or at least she was trying to, until a scream emerging from Layla drew Frankie’s attention and made her head snap in her direction. The scene unfolding before her eyes made all the blood leave her face. It’s a lot better you’re not there when she turns into a wolf. Graham’s words kept repeating on her mind as she watched Layla shift, in both horrified fascination, until it was too much for her. Between the smell of burnt corpses, the bright colors swirling all around them the other girls,, the sound and sight of Layla’s bones shifting and the fact that a wolf had replaced her girlfriend, Frankie couldn’t keep her shit together anymore. Turning around from the others and moving as far as her body allowed her, Frankie bent over and puked, tears running down her face from the effort, both hands clenching to her thighs as she avoided falling on her knees and somehow succeeded.

Jane got punched in the face by someone with creepy eye hands as she watched, gapping slightly, as three ginormous hell dogs spawned out of Nell’s tattoo. She crashed down to the ground, cultist on top of her - never let them get on top of you! It was kind of sad that she could still hear her TO’s voice in her head, even after 14 years, but as her fist connected with the cultists face and she flipped him, quickly shoving her knife into their neck, and getting up to help the hell hounds… melt cultists. The smell of burned flesh reached her nose as their skin bubbled and blistered before melting away completely. The mingled chanting was starting to die out, and Jane cursed again as she leapt into the fray again. “If we could move this ritual along -” Jane yelled, struggling one of the cultists down to the ground. “That would be absolutely stellar!”

At least Layla had finally shifted. Now came for the tricky part, though. To get the human’s blood without letting Layla kill her. Nell glanced over to Frankie, her mouth turning into a sympathetic line. The poor girl had absolutely no idea what was going on, and Nell couldn't see any way to make this less scarring that it might already need to be. The moon rising slowly, but steadily was a constant reminder, telling her to hurry this along. So she finally revealed the next step. “We need Layla to spill some of Frankie’s blood! That’s the next part of the ritual we need to make it complete!” And Nell had to catch that spilled blood in a bowl. Looking to Athena once more she yelled over the chaos of the cultists and the wolf, “Just a little bit of blood! Even a pinprick will do it! If you can lead Layla to Frankie- I’ll make sure Frankie doesn’t get hurt any more than she needs to!”

The girl shifted, finally - and Athena stood still, not willing to let the sound that the wolf let out bother her one bit. Even though she could feel herself flashing back to her eighteenth birthday. To Orion, on the floor. To the wolf in the room with them. If there hadn’t been a silver pipe… She took a step back for a moment, before Nell’s words registered in her mind. They needed the werewolf to spill some of the other girl’s blood? Athena could feel her eyes narrowing. “This is the polar opposite of what I’m supposed to do.” She spat. “I live to protect, to help, not to hurt humans.” She glared at everyone around her, before focusing on the werewolf. “I don’t know and I don’t care if you can understand me, but if you hurt that girl over there I will make your life terrible. Apparently we can’t kill now, but trust me, you do not want to cross me.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Think you can handle that, or was what I just said too complicated for you to understand?”

Layla cocked her head to the side. The last thing she had remembered as a werewolf was killing an innocent man. And if wolves could have anxiety, she’d lay down on the grass and sob, but her animal instincts were telling her otherwise. These humans around her were just meaty playthings to paw at, stalk, and consume. Even the creepy snuggie wearing cultists were fascinating to her, but her anger lay with Athena and Nell, because in this moment, her transformation was their fault. Letting out another roar, she struggled to understand what Athena was saying. She still hadn’t learned that fine balance of being both human and beast, and instead of waiting any longer, she advanced towards Athena ready to pounce on her and rip her apart. But if she was going to succeed in not hurting Frankie, she was going to have to find that balance fast, regardless of the fact that she had no clue the magenta haired woman was her intended target.

It took a while before Frankie could process Nell’s words, and she slowly turned around, arms wrapped around her now even weaker body. Her face was pale and maybe a little green from the sickness this whole turmoil had given her, but shock was still written all over it. Shock and fear. “Wh--- What?!” As if the dying cultists and demons weren’t enough, now Layla needed to… hurt her? On purpose? Panicky eyes landed on the spellcaster, and then on the hunter, and then on the spellcaster again, and she tried to take a step back and get the hell out of there despite having told her girlfriend she wouldn’t leave her, finally understanding why everyone kept telling her to stop romanticizing a damn werewolf, but her feet were suddenly glued to the ground once more, and she felt like barfing once more, but held it, taking a deep breath and finally looking at the wolf. That was her. That was Layla not ten twenty feet away; not just the glorious animal she enjoyed seeing at the zoo behind a glass. Frankie’s heartbeat was wild, sweat starting to appear on the back of her neck and palms as her body reacted with fear. She hated it - every time she had thought about this moment she had imagined it differently, under completely different circumstances, and definitely with no spilled blood involved. But it didn’t matter what she had imagined or what she wanted now, and the sound of more gunshots pushed her towards a decision.

Her hand dropped the pepper spray, and she made her way towards Athena, one slow, trembling step at a time. The sound of leaves being crushed and rustled became louder than the sound of panting dogs and slugs, to the point it almost felt like a kid was jumping on a pile of leaves right next to her ear, but she continued walking, landing her shaking hand on Athena’s shoulder, wide hazel eyes still fixated on the animal. “It’s--- It’s okay.”

Nell’s exasperation grew once again, not having any patience left for anything that might get in the way of completing the ritual on time. “I know it’s not what you do! But it’s what we need for the ritual. So we just need to get over it, and get the blood. Then you can go back to doing whatever it was that you were doing before.” With the ritual’s end growing closer the cultists seemed to be renewing their attack, even more of them emerging from the water, reaching with eye filled hands, and gnashing mouths. The demonic language they’d been chanting before fell from them once again, and as it came to a close- something began to rise from the puddles of water on the shore. A Vodnik, seemingly brought forth by their combined efforts to add to their attempts to ruin the ritual and those involved with it. She stood at the ready by Frankie, and turned to give the girl a reassuring nod. “Thank you for helping. I wish there was another way but- there just isn’t. And I promise I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Nell followed Frankie, closely, half positioned in front of the girl to provide something of a barrier from the wolf that was Layla, but also leaving enough room for a claw or tooth or whatever it may be that was chosen to prick Frankie’s innocent, human skin.

“I would prefer if you did not tell me to ‘get over it’, thank you.” Athena bristled. “I know what I’m doing.” However, what was most unexpected was the other girl’s hand on her shoulder and Athena turned to look at her, “I won’t let you die. Okay?” She sighed. She wasn’t sure what her parents would think about this - not that she had any plans to tell them. Even though she was helping to save the town the fact that she was about to encourage a monster to hurt someone who’d seemingly done nothing wrong was not what she’d been raised to do. Though it was for bettering the town - that was what she’d been born for. Bettering the town and the world. Athena could still feel the cold iron blades pressed against her hip bone. If she needed to harm the werewolf, she would. The werewolf was close to her and she could hear its breathing - she shrugged the girl’s hand off her shoulder, instead letting her fingers wrap around Frankie’s wrist. Nothing too hard, but just enough. She knew she had a solid grip, even when being relatively gentle. “You won’t die. I’ve been doing this long enough.” Not this, but hunting. She’d never helped a monster harm a human. She looked up at the werewolf. “Kill her and this is apparently all off, so don’t think I’ll hesitate to kill you then. Got it?”

When Layla, through yellow glowing eyes, saw Frankie move towards the other two women, she put on the breaks. Her heart, in that moment, was outweighing her mind and even the instinct to kill. Panting and casting a shadow over the three of them, she growled in frustration. But her ears perked at the sound of water shifting and moving and something coming out of it. Looking back, she saw the Vodnik in all it’s ugly-ass glory and without thinking, let out a loud howl to the moon! Turning her attention back to the three women, Layla noticed Athena grab Frankie’s arm and without thinking it through, moved on instinct to protect her bringing up a huge paw and coming down hard hoping to hit Athena and free Frankie!

There was yet to be any color in Frankie’s face, still pale as a sheet, too focused on the wolf in front of her to notice anything behind her. “It’s not-- I’m not worried about me.” Though the way her voice was trembling showed the complete opposite. When the other girl grabbed her, a chill went up her spine. This was happening. Would she throw her at Layla as an offering? No- Despite her rough exterior and the bright red dancing around her, now that they were standing next to each other Frankie could notice the faint, barely visible brown hiding under the crimson color. The color of doubt. Despite how much she wanted to punch her for being an asshole to her girlfriend, the human couldn’t help but feel sorry about Athena. But whatever sorry she felt was suddenly cut short by the wolf lunging at them, a scream leaving her as she tried to push the hunter away. ““Layla no!” The claws barely got her but they still left a small yet deep cut on her forearm, blood slowly but steadily starting to flow out of it. Her free hand pressed the wound, and she moved so she was standing between the group and the wolf, tears forming on her eyes. “Stop---- Layla!”

The demon dogs - were they truly demon dogs? - were a hell of a thing. Jane had jumped on the back of another cultist, taking him down from behind as she watched the snarling hot breath melt and bubble away cultist after cultist faster than her or her gun ever could. The loud chanting was beginning to get to her, though, the strange tongue sitting strangely in her head as she was only vaguely aware of what the hell was going on in the circle. There was a big wolf, lots of high pitched yelling - god, what the hell was she doing in high school? It wasn’t going to demon summoning rituals. Or anti-demon summoning rituals. Whatever the hell this was. But as she saw one of the cultists slip by the dogs and her and get too close to the girls (and the wolf?), she jammed her elbow into the face of one and she launched herself at the other, bringing them down to the ground. “Hurry up,” Jane hissed at the group. “I can only keep doing this for so long, even with the help of Scooby Doo and his Fire Loving pals.”

“And I would prefer if a giant squid demon hadn’t decided to infiltrate White Crest and make a dinner of it. Unfortunately, we don’t always have the luxury of choosing.” Nell’s patience was continuing to run thin, the window for them being able to complete the ritual growing smaller and smaller. At this rate, they’d only get one shot. Finally, the second part of the ritual had been completed, and Nell was quickly darting forward to summon a bowl from thin air in order to catch the blood that was falling from Frankie’s arm. “It’s alright, it’s okay. No one’s getting hurt today. Not any more than they need to,” she tried to console as she watched the blood gather in the bowl, willing it to move faster. There was that same, strange pull in her gut she’d felt when her mysterious magic had manifested with Kaden and Montgomery, but she paid it no mind at the moment. She needed to focus, especially now that there was an angry werewolf about. “How’d you know his name?” she called back to Jane, the slightest air of a joke in her voice. Now it was Nell’s turn to complete the ritual, and to take her place near Frankie she called over the hellhound who’s name was, indeed, Scooby. “He won’t hurt you, he’s just going to help protect you,” she promised Frankie before turning and running back to her magic circle, being careful not to spill the innocent human’s blood. All they needed now was the demon to give the blood, and then be sacrificed. She finally reached into the backpack she’d brought along with her, pulling out an ornate jewelry box riddled with pearl inlay, and brimming with magic. But as she unclasped the box, and spoke a few demonic words over it, it wasn’t a string of pearls that began to grow from its depths. She and Darwin had prepared the twinned demons, summoning them beforehand so they would be ready. The Dator Vitae was quick to form, it’s hooked teeth filling the place where it’s face should have been. As always, he was dapperly dressed to the nines, apparently seeing this occasion as a fitting venue for his best suit and skin. Wordlessly, he bent forward to offer Nell his strangely smooth arm, knowing this was what he’d been brought here to do, and accepting his responsibility in it all. A little flash of silver later, paired with her magic swelling in her stomach and some carefully chosen words, the demon’s blood was filling a separate bowl she’d prepared. Once that was done, she gave him an understanding nod speaking more of those strange, twisting, demonesque words to him. In a flash, he was off and latching onto the back of one of the cultists necks, hooking those rows of endless teeth into the back of their neck. It didn’t take long for him to drain them, and before everyone’s very eyes the cultist simply...vanished. As if he’d never been there to begin with. Next, the demon advanced onto the Vodnik, sparing an eyeless look towards Jane, as if suggesting they take it down together. Meanwhile, Nell got to work, her circle beginning to glow as her chanting started.

“Bitch,” Athena responded, glaring over to the other girl. “I know that, obviously. I was just saying. Last I checked, I’m still allowed to have my own opinions.” All of a sudden the werewolf was lunging at her and Frankie, and the werewolf’s paw coming close to the two of them until it grazed the other girl’s arm and Athena glared. “Stop it. You are going to kill her.” She wasn’t allowed to kill the wolf. At least not unless Frankie died. Then, all bets were off. Nell came over and was taking the blood and Athena could feel herself physically stiffen, her hands clenched into fists. This is to help the town, she reminded herself, the cold feeling of her knives all too appealing against her hips. Then Nell seemed to walk over somewhere and Athena pulled a few bandaids out of her jeans pocket, unwrapping them to place on Frankie’s arm. “This won’t be a catch-all, when this is done you should clean it out, but this will help for now.” She heard a noise and looked up, a Dator Vitae appearing all of a sudden. As if this night could get any worse. “Keep that thing away from me. You’re all screwed if it decides that it’s keen on taking some powers.” She didn’t care that it seemed mostly focused on the robed figures. Those sorts of things could be highly unpredictable.

The animalistic side of Layla had wanted to continue to attack, but as she watched Frankie plead for her to stop, she gave up. It was the blood on Frankie’s arm that made the young werewolf let out a sad howl. She had done the last thing she had ever wanted to do. No, it wasn’t anything like during the full moon, but she had swore not to hurt her girlfriend, and that’s exactly what happened. Anger welling up inside her, as she watched Nell draw the blood into the bowl, the ginger wolf started to pace back and forth restlessly, before she couldn’t take it anymore. Turning her anger on the cultists making their way up the beach, the werewolf lunged forward and began to rip one of them apart with her sharp fangs. Giving no mind to the life behind whatever had made these creatures function, and when she was finished with one, she resumed to rip apart another and another, until her fur was covered in their blood; all the hurt she was feeling coming out in rage.

Frankie let Athena patch (or attempt to, anyways) up her arm, offering a weak smile that definitely didn’t fit on her pale, scared face. “Thanks.” Not the words she had expected to say to the girl who had been threatening her girlfriend not five minutes ago, but manners were always first. Her smile quickly fell when Nell started gathering her blood, and the human had to fight the urge to barf once more when she turned around and saw a… was that a demon worm? Attack the cultists, her lands landing on the wolf that was now helping the demon dogs tear some others apart. Whatever progress they had made after the full moon incident, Frankie was sure it was gone. Too tired, and now that the ritual seemed to be almost over (or so she thought, considering what the witch had said), Frankie allowed herself to slowly kneel, curiously but lowkey terrifiedly looking at the demon dog that had taken watch over her.

“If we could cool the teenage dramatics until after this is done, that would be fantastic.” Jane swore quietly as the cultist beneath her fell limp. They aren’t human, Jane reminded herself as the adrenaline pounded through her body. They aren’t human and they didn’t apply to human law, just like the redhead who was tearing them apart with her wolf claws. Jane could stop and process the carnage and the blood and the horror later, but she needed to focus on pushing this through to the end. Besides, there was a part of her that liked it. That liked the danger of it all even if she was gambling with more than her own life. Nell wasted no time calling Scooby - the choice in name made her smirk, despite the carnage around them - and calling… Well. Jane didn’t quite believe her eyes as she stood, push-knife in hand as the thing grabbed a stray cultist. It looked to her, the invitation ��extended as it advanced towards the Vodnik.

She moved forward without thinking. The blonde didn’t like this thing and wanted to stay away from it, but Jane didn’t quite mind it, even if she didn’t know what it was. The Vodnik hissed in it’s little puddle just as Nell’s circle began to glow. Things happened quickly after that. In magic that Jane had never seen before, water rose and slammed hard into the Dator Vitae and Jane - the demon stayed on its feet more easily than she did, and she slammed down into the cold dirt. Water around her denied physics, seeming more solid as she thrashed once, twice, three times before she pushed her way too her feet just as the Dater Vitae burst threw the cocoon off water the Vodnik formed around Jane had her gun drawn immediately was the Vitae’s teeth sunk into the Vodnik’s neck, ripping him from his puddle. The Vodnik screamed and the water splashed back to the ground, and Jane wasted no time in shooting. She emptied a whole magazine, her aim dead on into Vodnik's skull. With that, the vodnik blood splattered everywhere and the Dater Vitae checking the bullet holes in his suit, Jane reached into her pocket and reloaded her gun.

Chaos continued to erupt around Nell, but she was doing her best to drown it out, knowing that if her focus slipped, that was it. It’d be over. Their one chance to get rid of the demon that had dared to try and make a meal of their town would have its way. White Crest as they knew it would be no more. Scooby maintained his post near Frankie, torching any cultist that approached her with his fiery breath and teeth bared. The words spoken to her and around her melted into nothingness, all her attention going into her spell. She was knelt at the edge of her circle, raising the two bowls of blood to the moon as if it were granting them approval before she carefully mixed them together, and the innocent blood of a human and the blood of a demon became one. She wished they could understand- those that had been gathered here. The demon who’d joined them was no ordinary one, a Dator Vitae that had always worked in a pair of the demons, the Yin to its Yang taking part in the ritual Darwin was conducting on the beach in tandem with Nell. She wished they would know that the demon had made this sacrifice willingly, giving its old and ancient life to restore magical balance to the world, to White Crest by providing its draining energies to the ritual with its death. That it was giving its life to save them all, an entire town of humans it didn’t even know. But such was its sacred duty, and it would perform it well.

The light coming off of Nell’s circle was quickly becoming blinding as her magic mounted, and the mixed blood turned into a brilliant gold. Her hand dipped into the bowl, and she began to paint golden, shimmering runes on her arms. As if he could sense that his time had come, the Dator Vitae rejoined her, and she reached out to paint a matching set of shapes on its strange skin. The two of them glowed in tandem as Nell rose from the ground, her mouth having stopped moving, but the magic chanting seeming to continue of its own volition. “It’s time,” she simply said, extending a hand to lead the demon into the water of the lake, a trail of shining magic following in their wake.

Frankie seemed to be okay - or, at least as okay as any human could be, right now. Athena bit her lip and made a mental note to bake something to send her, after. As a ‘I’m sorry you almost got killed by a monster and I couldn’t do anything about it because I’m not allowed to kill anything or else I screw over the whole town’. She’d have to think about what that would be. One of the other creatures was near the girl now but it seemed to not be about to hurt her - Athena wasn’t about to entirely believe that, but she did stand up for now, as one of the hooded figures came toward her and it had eyes in its hand and without thinking, she pulled one of her daggers from where it rested against her hip and she found herself digging it into the beings (it couldn’t be human, no humans had eyes in their hands) abdomen, right next to where the ribs would be. The creature - being - whatever - collapsed on the ground and Athena removed her dagger, eyes focused on whatever next ones would come.

All she could see was red. The rage inside her for what she had done during the full moon, but now especially to Frankie, after the fight they had, left her with bloodlust. As she continued to rip through the never-ending amount of cultists, Layla started to tire out, but she couldn’t stop. She had to finish them off, every last one of them; if not for the town, then at least for the woman she loved. But as she grew weaker, the Pan’s Labyrinth version of walking snuggies began to overtake her. Beating her down and piling on top of her. Ripping at fur and using whatever they could, Layla was overrun by the mysterious followers of the Temple of Eye (Illuminati Confirmed), and letting out a loud yelp found herself struggling, until she couldn’t fight anymore. Once they had finished, they climbed off of her motionless body moving forward towards the group that Layla had failed at protecting.

The sounds of gunshots, the smell of burnt bodies and the swirling colors dancing around the group didn't seem to bother Frankie anymore. She had fallen in some kind of shocked acceptance, hazel eyes staring at the demon dog that was looking around, pouncing at any cultists that dared get too close to the light up circle. Her whole body felt numb and heavy, and the only thing that was keeping her from fainting was the pain the wound on her forearm brought. And she would've remained that way for the rest of the ritual, but she was still conscious enough to notice the wolf's whimper and eventual silence, her head slowly clocking to one side, and her sight met horror, a piercing scream pushing its way out of her lungs. Layla was literally buried beneath a pile of cultists, and the freaks were quickly climbing off her to go after them, but Frankie only had eyes for the unmoving animal. The human scrambled to stand up and run towards Layla, the demon dog following suit and biting and burning the cultists that got too close to her, and if one or two had attempted to grab her and left awful nail scratches on her arms as she ran, Frankie didn't notice. She kept screaming her girlfriend’s name until she reached the wolf, collapsing on her knees as she buried her hands on the blood dipped fur, taking her head between her shaking hands and towering over it, her whole body a weak protection but one nonetheless. Snapping her head back to the group, tears were furiously falling down her face, and she screamed: "Hurry up!“

Somewhere on the shore, Nell was vaguely aware that Layla had fallen, and hadn’t risen from where she’d gone limp. Fuck. If she’d died, all of this would be for naught- the entire ritual would be null and void, and the squid would most likely devour their town whole, whether it was figuratively or not. But it was too late to go back now, and there was no way she could check on Layla with the moon nearly at its peak. This had to be down now.

The trail of gold followed Nell and the demon into the water, spilling into the lake around them, the inky black of it already clearing up into its normal, blue-green hue. But it only extended about a foot in any direction of the pair of them, making a perfect circle around them. The witch looked up into the face of the demon one last time, still thinking of how no one would even know to thank him, or remember his name. She’d have to find her own way to honor him, to make sure his memory didn’t fade after his sacrifice. “Thank you,” she said one last time, the two little words feeling flimsy in her mouth despite the heavy emotion they were imbued with. The Dator Vitae simply nodded its strange head in response, accepting its duty readily, ready to do what it had been born for. All the magical energy of the ritual was swirling around them, seeming to static and spark in the air. Currently, Nell was the epicenter of it, but now it was time for the last step. Her eyes closing to the world around her, she drew the power closer, hands held out in front of her as the moon reached its zenith in the sky above. Her palms begin to fill with that golden glow that had marked the rest of the magic, pooling in her grasp. It took every ounce of her focus to make sure it didn’t lash out or escape. Magic didn’t naturally want to be bound or held, a wild and volatile thing that always needed a guiding hand. The effort of it all caused her nose to bleed, the blood going unnoticed by her, far too wrapped up in the magic to be distracted by such a thing. Her muscles seemed to ache under its weight, bones creaking as she finally managed to grasp it all. And then- she shoved it forth into the Dator Vitae all at once, the demon jerking as if he’d been shocked by the paddles of a defibrillator on a daytime soap opera.

It was more than enough to short circuit the demon, instantly stopping whatever equivalent he had of a heart as he went limp. The sacrifice had been made. With the magic released, Nell herself dropped to her knees in the lake without meaning to, the relief of the magical weight lifting off her making her legs go slack. Almost instantly, a great beacon of light shot out of the lake where the Dator Vitae had sunk below the rippling surface. It went up into the sky as far as the sky could see, and somewhere in the distance Nell could see the answering beacon of Darwin’s ritual, gone up at the exact same moment. They’d done it. The rituals, against all odds, had been completed. Now it was all up to those going directly against the squid.

It was back to the cultists again as Nell led the Dator Vitae away to complete what she had too. Jane was alright with that. The blonde one handled herself just fine and the wolf was… well, a wolf. She was more worried about Frankie, trying to keep close to her while keeping a spare eye out on everyone else as the deafening chants of the cultists rang in her ears. She had just slammed another one onto the ground when she heard Frankie scream Layla’s name. It took only a moment to jerk her head up and take a few steps forward before she clocked the wolf breathing. Shit. Jane cursed under her breath as she prepared to continue fighting. She could cover Frankie and Layla for now but -

And then it was all over in a flash of light. Beacons of light touched the sky, and Jane stopped, squinting as cultists fell limp all around them. The girls around her were alright - or as alright as they could be. How did one recover from this - Jane realized in a moment that she was far too comfortable with still being here than she should be. She was here, alive for another day, another night. How much longer, she wondered, flatly. Kavanagh’s death scream echoed in her ears. Funny how she hadn’t thought of that this entire time. She heaved out a low sigh, brushing a stray hair from her face. How many chances would White Crest give her to gamble with her life? Jane’s eyes found Frankie and her tear streamed face, clinging to Layla’s tired wolf form,to Athena and her weapon, and to Nell still in the water, no doubt weakened by the magic she had just performed, the Dator Vitae no longer in sight. Jane frowned, set her shoulders, clicking the safety back on her weapon and stowing it back in it’s holster. How many more chances would White Crest give all of them?

#wickedsevent #wickedswriting #chatzy

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sweetlangdon · 5 years ago

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When You Needed It Shouted: Part Two (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: Here it is, part 2 of the angst fic! It’s the thrilling conclusion. (Of this fic, not the actual Roommates series.)

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Blood, violence. Nothing too graphic beyond anything you’d see on the show. Peril. Angst.

Part One

You don’t know how long the darkness has stolen you away.

It could be minutes, hours, days—you don’t know what’s worse, that you’re not sure what day it is or that you barely remember what the hell happened last time you were conscious. There’s a steady drip, drip, drip somewhere, echoing, pounding into your skull with a force that shouldn’t be painful, but it is. You try to remember those last moments. They’re filled with anger and fear and the taste of salt on your lips, with words that sting like a raw, open wound.

The darkness still has you, your mind in a haze, blinded by a scrap of fabric hastily tied around your head. You think that even if you could see, the first statement would still be true. Whoever’s abducted you—it takes a few minutes to work through this and realize it’s actually a thing that’s happened—sure as fuck isn’t doing it for charitable purposes or the greater good. It takes a special kind of asshole to kidnap someone in the parking lot of their own apartment building.

At least you’re still breathing. And you’re sitting upright, you realize, as you begin to claw through the fog that’s engulfed your brain. You were fucking drugged. There’s something binding your wrists—not rope, but something that digs into your skin and makes your fingers slightly numb. Plastic, you think. Maybe zip ties?

Shit.

The floor is freezing under your bare toes, and suddenly you’re wondering why this person has taken your shoes. Or maybe you lost them in whatever scuffle happened in the parking lot? You don’t know. You don’t know anything except the rising panic in your chest and a musty, damp basement odor wafting into your senses. That does not bode well at all for you if you’re in some serial killer’s weird ass murder den. Not at all. You almost want to laugh and you’re not exactly sure why, maybe it’s all the uncomfortable fluttering in your ribcage and the fact that you can’t breathe deep.

“Good, you’re awake.”

It surprises you that the voice belongs to a woman. You watch those true crime documentaries when you’re bored, and you’ve always thought that if any of that horrid shit happened to you, the killer would be a man. So this is…it’s odd. Not that anything about this is normal, but you were expecting the aggression from someone else. The woman’s tone is impatient, grating, and loud. As if you’re the one in this situation who’s done something wrong.

She isn’t gentle when she rips the blindfold off your head. The room is blurry, spinning, until you blink a few times. There’s a weak florescent light overhead that struggles to keep itself on, a low whining hum that conspires with the dripping water to crack your skull in half. You are, in fact, in a basement, but like everything else so far, it’s not the basement you expect. More the commercial type—a community center? Peeling concrete walls and no windows and a claustrophobic ceiling. Boxes coated with dust and spider webs. Stacks of chairs. Folding tables made out of cheap plastic.

You squint against the sudden assault of overhead lights. As your eyes finally adjust, you see the semicircle of people who’ve cornered you. Who’ve fucking kidnapped you. And they’re dressed in black, draped in it, some of them with hoods casting shadows across their faces. Cloaks? Robes? You aren’t sure. But the woman standing in front of you with resting bitch face is wearing bright, bright red. A flash of silver catches your attention, and that’s when you notice the massive pentagram on her chest.

“Fuck,” you mutter aloud. Your voice is scratchy, your throat parched.

Somehow, this seems so much worse than anything you could’ve imagined. What is this cultist bullshit?

The woman lowers to a crouch in front of you, narrows her eyes and looks deep into yours. She pats your cheek like you’re a fucking child and you want to spit in her goddamn face but you can’t get your brain to follow commands fast enough. You push your wrists against the zip ties holding them behind your back.

“Time to wake up, princess,” she says in this condescending tone with a slow, smug grin. Goddamn, you really want to punch her. You want to bust her nose into pieces. It kills you inside that you can’t remember that fucking YouTube video about breaking free from zip ties. Damn it, damn it, damn it…

“You were out longer than we expected—got a little overenthusiastic with the chloroform,” she tells you. “We’ve already had to delay the Mass for an hour, so we’d like to get this show on the road. You’re our main event, after all. They’re getting restless upstairs with all the waiting.”

You glare at her. “Sorry to be a big fucking inconvenience,” you snap. And then you go for it.

Without a way to get your hands free, you throw your entire body weight forward, your shoulder colliding with her chest, your head knocking into her chin. It throws both of you off balance, and even though it works for a moment, there’s too many of them. You’re pulled off her, roughly, and wrestled to the ground as you’re attempting to get in a kick or two. You don’t know if they land, but you don’t stop thrashing, flailing with your bare feet. Unfortunately for you, they hit back. Those fuckers aim straight for your face; you feel knuckles connect with your cheek, pain lashing across your lower lip. Sparks fly across your vision when someone’s fist slams into your stomach and knocks the breath out of your lungs.

“All right, that’s enough,” the woman says, like she’s showing mercy.

The figures cloaked in black shove you back against the support beam. Pain ripples up your spine and you sputter, coughing. Blood trickles from your bottom lip. You can taste it on your tongue as it coats your teeth, and you spit it back onto the floor by the woman’s shoes. You’re only a little smug once she recoils.

“A little cooperation goes a long way.”

“Yeah?” you counter, breathless. Every time you inhale, there’s an uncomfortable flare of pain in your ribs. “Who the fuck are you? I don’t need to do shit.”

“More important than you’ll ever be,” she replies. You scoff. “You’re a nobody. A distraction. And it’s my job to make sure that before this night is over, you’re forgotten. Hate to break it to you, princess, but you’re not part of this story. We can’t have you getting in the way of prophecy.”

It takes a minute for your addled brain to understand that this is about Michael. And these people are actual fucking Satanists.

“You stay away from him.”

She laughs at you. “I don’t take orders from you, sweetheart.” You’re not normally a violent person, but you’re positive that in this particular situation, you’d be justified if things got ugly. If only your damned hands weren’t bound. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know this was coming. Did you really think that little arrangement of yours was going to last? You saw the omens. You were warned. You could’ve saved yourself the trouble…” She sighs, a little dramatically. “But you gave us no other choice. We had to intervene on behalf of Satan himself.”

You spit more blood at her shoes. “Fuck off, lady,” you rasp. “He doesn’t need you messing up his life. He’s been through enough.”

She laughs, nearly doubled over, as if you’ve told some hilarious joke. “No, see…that’s where you’re wrong,” she answers. “You thought you could change him? You thought he’d chose you? He’s lost his way, but he’ll find it again. There’s no changing something that’s been predestined before you were ever a thought. He’s not yours.”

“You’re right, he’s not,” you say. “He doesn’t belong to anyone but himself.”

Her eyes narrow again. “I get it—oh, that’s cute.” She grins, and you want to kick her teeth in. “That’s adorable. You love him, don’t you?” Your hands curl into tight fists and push against the zip ties, push until your fingers are numb. “I almost feel sorry for you, princess.”

There’s a sharp sound, and you see one of her cloaked followers brandish a roll of duct tape.

“Want us to shut her up?” a gruff voice asks.

“No,” the woman in red says slowly. “I want him to hear her.”

***

It doesn’t occur to you right away that these people are going to kill you. You think it should’ve been obvious, from everything you’ve heard about Satanists. From the way they’ve roughed you up, from the woman’s scathing words and indifference toward you. But you’re in denial as they lead you out of the damp basement and up a few flights of stairs, a grim, silent procession in black. You’re still trying to work your hands out of those zip ties, your thoughts running too fast to even consider the fact that you’re here to be fucking murdered. There’s hands on your shoulders, shoving your back as your knees wobble and you trip over your own feet. You’re sweating through your clothes and freezing at the same time, panic working your labored breath into shuddering gasps. Each inhale hurts more than the last.

The woman in red disappears through a doorway with a few of the figures in black. You still aren’t sure where you are—it looks a little like a church, from your few experiences with religious services. Not exactly the stained glass and Gothic architecture you were expecting, but rather a slightly rundown rec center posing as a house of worship for Satanists. Of all the places you thought you could get fucking murdered in this city, you never considered this. But…you suppose it makes sense. Your life has been that way for the past year or so, this wild, unbelievable ride that’s now biting you directly in the ass as it comes to a screeching halt.

You hate that woman for planting a seed of doubt in you. You hate that you think she could be right. Were you a dumbass, catching feelings for the goddamn Antichrist? Was it totally naïve of you to trust a perfect stranger?

You wonder what’s going to happen to Michael once they’ve sacrificed you. That thought comes first, before how your family and friends and coworkers will react, or if you’ll be a missing person’s case or an unsolved homicide. You think, what are these fuckers going to do him? And how will the world look, after?

The hands gripping your arms—they’re leaving bruises; you can feel it, but you know it won’t matter—tug at you, none of them gentle. It takes a moment for you to return to your body and realize they’re ripping your clothes off. They land in a shredded heap around you, no regard at all for your dignity. As if ritual sacrifice isn’t bad enough, you’re about to be paraded around in nothing but your bra and panties.

The tears start, a burning at the back of your throat, a tightness behind your eyes, the moment you’re pushed forward. You can’t stop them. At this point you don’t give a single fuck about how pathetic it makes you look. They shove you into a room that’s aggressively red, leading you on a death march. There’s pews crammed with people in black and red on either side of you, more faces masked by shadow. You can feel their eyes on you as they chant and sing, the room a dizzying spectacle of candles and pentagrams and idols to the Devil himself. You’ve never felt so small and confused and hated in your life.

You’re sobbing by the time you reach the altar. They throw you at the feet of the woman in red, who knots her fingers into your hair and forces you to stay on your knees. She doesn’t let go, and you cry out when pain prickles at your scalp. All of the eyes watching you hang onto her every word. She’s loud and abrasive and theatrical, and you don’t hear a damn thing she’s saying because you’re crying so hard your ribs might finally crack in half. At least the tears blurring your vision keep you from the congregation in the pews. You catch bits of her sermon, her vile tirade against you and whatever crimes you’ve committed in the eyes of Satan and his batshit followers. They hate you for taking Michael away, for leading him down a path he’s not meant to follow. Somehow, they think you’re a terrible person for giving shelter and food and comfort to a stranger. The opposite of what you’ve always been told.

Through the onslaught of tears, you catch the flash of cold steel in the light of the candles. One of the others, wearing a scarlet cloak, hands the woman in red a knife. You know you’re fucked. And you aren’t sure if it’s how unstable you are right now, but that knife looks bigger, angrier than any knife in your kitchen drawer.

“Please,” you beg, your voice shattering. “Please, don’t do this.”

They ignore you. All of your pathetic sniffling and groveling goes unanswered. They don’t give a shit about you, and you know it. The woman in red yanks on your hair again, wrenching your head back so your neck is exposed. Your breath catches. Your eyelids flutter closed and you keep them shut tightly as you feel the first bite of the knife’s edge resting on your throat.

A hush falls over the room. You don’t realize something’s happened until you crack one eye open and find most of the candles have sputtered out, the church left in semidarkness. The worshippers in the pews have all gone quiet, lowered onto their knees in reverence, their heads bowed. It’s then that you find him: Michael, his clothes and hair a little disheveled, standing in the middle of the center aisle.

The woman lifts the knife off your neck. “Michael Langdon,” she announces, her voice ricocheting off the blood red walls. “What an honor it is, a privilege to be in your presence. We’ve been expecting you.” You blink away the tears clinging to your eyelashes to watch Michael walk toward you. You can’t read his face, and that makes a knot twist your insides. “We’re here to serve you and the will of your father. This,” she tugs on your hair and you yelp, “is his order. By spilling her blood, we’ll set you on the right path again. But now that you’re here among us, I’ll give you the honor of pledging your loyalty, so that we all may bear witness.”

Michael joins you and the woman in red on the altar. You feel sick as his distant gaze travels from you to the crowd still on their knees, still silent. When he takes the knife from the woman holding you hostage, he doesn’t look at you. His cold, icy blue eyes are settled on her. You don’t know if that’s worse or better.

“Michael,” you sob, tears and snot dripping down your face. “Please…”

Damn your foolish, stubborn heart.

You hold your breath, waiting for the betrayal. Michael tightens his grip around the handle of the knife, his knuckles white. The woman in red drags your head back again, and the last thing you see is her smug ass grin looming over you.

And then the knife plunges straight into her throat.

The spray of crimson is warm when it hits you in the face and rains down on your hair. It splatters across Michael’s sharp cheekbones and disappears into the black of his clothes. The woman doesn’t make much of a sound, except for the wheezing and choking as she drowns in the blood spilling from her torn neck. You’ve never seen so much blood in your life. She lets go of you, finally, while she collapses onto the altar, and you fall forward onto your stomach gasping for air.

The room erupts into panic after that. The worshippers are screaming, clambering over each other for the exits, all traces of reverence gone in a spray of blood. Not the blood any of them had wanted. The cloaked figures on the altar don’t dare to come near you, but they don’t escape quickly enough. Michael reaches out a bloody hand toward them and the next thing you know, they’re shrieking, fire catching their robes and turning them into piles of ash. It’s chaos, the smell of blood and singed flesh roiling your stomach. Breathing heavily, Michael moves to the edge of the altar to watch the last of the worshippers—the ones who’ve narrowly avoided being incinerated—sprinting out the doors.

You close your eyes for a moment and breathe.

There’s a light tug on your wrists. You flinch because you can’t help it, but you hear the snap of plastic and immediately, it releases the pressure in your hands. You work the feeling back into your fingers as someone lifts you off the bloodstained floor of the altar and sit back on your knees. Michael’s kneeling in front of you. It’s like he can’t bring himself to look you in the eye, doesn’t want to touch you because maybe he felt you recoil. He’s quiet as he works the buttons loose on his shirt, drapes it over your shoulders, and gently guides your arms through. His lithe fingers shake when he buttons it again and once he’s done, his hands don’t leave you.

Michael rests his forehead against yours and you lean into him, close enough that you hear the hitch in his breath, close enough that you feel the worry in his pulse. He holds your face in one of his bloodied hands. You don’t mind, not at all. You should be afraid, but you’re not—you’re not because you know that if he’s willing to fucking kill to protect you, you’re safe with him. And yet you’re crying as you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him even closer, clinging to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you together.

Despite the violence he’s wrought in the last five minutes, he’s nothing but gentle with you. Michael is careful as he picks you up off the altar into his arms. You’re still holding on for dear life, and this time when he presses a feather light kiss to the top of your head, you know it’s not just a thing you’re imagining. In the weak light of the remaining candles, you see the unshed tears in his eyes.

He kisses your forehead. “Let’s go home.”

***

The cat yells at you once you’re back in the apartment, winding around Michael’s legs, furious about the trouble the two of you have gotten into. Michael navigates around him with expert precision, down the hall the bathroom. You hear the pissed off meowing and the scratching of claws against the door even after it’s closed.

Michael flicks on the light with an elbow and you only partially let go of him when he settles you onto the bathroom counter. And then he’s gone, leaving a draft where the warmth of him had seeped into you. You watch him rifle through the drawers and cabinets with a restless energy until he stops, dragging a trembling hand through his tousled curls.

“I should—I should go.”

Your heart crashes against your ribs. “Where?” you ask. “Why? Michael…your home is here, with me and our weirdo cat. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

He shakes his head and a tear slides down his cheek. “You didn’t deserve this,” he says. “You deserve better than me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?” His voice is wavering. “They wanted to kill you…they almost did. None of that would’ve happened if I wasn’t here. And if I hadn’t found you,” he swipes a palm over his face to dispatch some of the tears, “if I’d been too late—I couldn’t…I don’t fucking know what I’d do. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you killed.”

“But I’m still here,” you remind him. “That’s because of you. We’re both here right now because of you. You made a choice.”

“You’ll be safer if I leave,” he insists.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice small and quiet. “But I don’t want you to go, Michael. Please don’t.”

His lower lip trembles. “I can’t stop him. I don’t know how—”

“You already did.”

“Every person I’ve ever loved has been taken away from me,” Michael tells you, and you believe him. You know the hurt in his voice is real. “I can’t risk that…I won’t let it happen again.”

It takes a moment for you to understand the weight of what he’s saying. Right here, in your tiny bathroom in your tiny apartment, the two of you covered in someone else’s blood, tears spilling down your faces. And yet, with the way your life has been since Michael walked into it, it makes complete sense for it to happen this way.

“You…love me.”

“You thought I didn’t?”

“No…no, it’s just nice to hear you say it. To hear it out loud and everything.” You hold out your hand, beckoning him closer to you, and hope that he takes it. You hope that you’re enough to make him stay. “Michael,” you whisper, a fresh wave of tears breaking over your words, “I don’t want you to leave. Stay here with me. You’re already home.”

Once he’s finally closed the distance between you, he takes the hand you’re offering, lacing his fingers between yours. “I love you too fucking much to let you go.” Your fingers squeeze his. “Please don’t—”

He interrupts your plea and steals it away with a kiss. It’s sudden, desperate, but surprisingly gentle. Your fingers relax, the tension easing from you. It’s all the answer you need. You return it, one hand tangled in Michael’s hair, the other still entwined with his. He’s extraordinarily careful with you, his hand a light touch against your cheek, mindful of the bruises. You’ve had a few brief flirtations, awkward attempts at romance in the past. But this feels different. This is different. A choice. A promise.

When you break the kiss to catch your breath, Michael is hesitant to let you go again. He presses closer, his head nudging yours, and you think that maybe you’re content to never leave this spot, if it wasn’t for all the blood. And when he looks at you, there’s still tears in his eyes, but they’re bright, clear blue. A faint grin curves the side of his mouth. That’s the Michael Langdon you recognize.

The one you fell in love with.

The one who loves you.

***

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#michael langdon x you #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #fic: roommate series

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duhragonball · 4 years ago

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (135/?)

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.

[14 November 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Zatte was a Dorlun, born with a unique ability to manipulate energy. She mostly used this for bending light and other radiation around her body, to make herself invisible, or for deflecting ki to protect herself or to hide her own power level from those who could sense it. She had accompanied her wife, Luffa, the Legendary Super Saiyan, on what she considered to be a holy mission to Nagaoka. Luffa had sworn to destroy the planet, and the wicked Saiyan cultists who lurked beneath the thick grey clouds of the Nagaokan atmosphere.

Mostly, Zatte's job was to keep the ship running and coordinate with Luffa's attack fleet. And she was more than happy to do this. This was Luffa's epic story, and Zatte was simply honored to be a part of it. The Dorlun culture prioritized survival, and the Dorlun religion commanded its people to stay alive so that they might eventually find a worthy cause to support. Zatte believed that Luffa was her cause, a pivotal figure destined to change the course of history, what the Dorluns called xan-nil'Dor. Zatte's life had become a swirling mass of contradictions since she realized Luffa's importance. It was hard to balance out all her roles-- loving spouse, devoted disciple, martial arts student, sensible advisor, down-to-earth sidekick-- but now those roles seemed to have finally converged into one. As Zatte stood on the bridge of Luffa's yacht and watched Nagaoka, she felt a serenity in her heart that told her that everything had worked out for the best. Luffa would triumph, and the universe would prosper. All Zatte had to do was follow her beloved the rest of the way.

And then the bombardment failed. Every ship in the fleet fired conventional weapons on the planet, and nothing happened. It was like some enormous force field surrounded the entire planet, but Zatte couldn't locate a power source on the surface big enough to support such a technology. She had never heard of a force field big enough to shield an entire planet, but she knew such a device had to run on something.

Undaunted, Luffa went to the cargo bay to fire on the planet herself. As the Super Saiyan, Luffa's power was greater than any other Saiyan in the universe, greater than the firepower of the entire fleet. For a moment, Zatte felt reassured. Nagaoka would be destroyed in an instant, and its secrets would die with it. From the bridge, Zatte could sense her bride's immense ki energy building. On the viewscreen, she could see the lance of golden energy streaking out to the planet.

And then the energy faded away, only for the planet to split it up and shoot it all back from a hundred different directions. Even if there was a force field big enough and strong enough to do this, there was too much cohesion in the reflected energy. It should have just diffused evenly, leaving little more than a harmless wave of radiation. To split a beam into dozens of smaller beams was something more like Zatte's own innate ability, but how could anything achieve this on a planetary scale? It was impossible, unless...

Her mind raced with horrified speculations, but soon the answer appeared before her as she watched the clouds on Nagaoka shift and swirl until they formed the image of a man's face. She instantly recognized it as the likeness of King Rehval III, the Saiyan monarch who abandoned his kingdom to start his bizarre alchemical cult on Nagaoka.

And then, as the lips of the cloud-image began to move, Zatte could hear his voice in her mind. "Hello, Luffa. I'm so glad that you've finally arrived. Now, at last, we can put all of this to an end."

Saiyans all had a low-level telepathic ability. Over a limited range, they could send their thoughts to other beings, like a sort of mental walkie-talkie, although they lacked more advanced mind-reading powers. Luffa could read minds, but only by making physical contact. In this case, it seemed like Rehval was projecting his thoughts across a much larger range, not just addressing Luffa, but anyone nearby. Zatte began to wonder if the entire fleet could hear this.

"I'm sure you remember Pozet," Rehval began, and Zatte's heart sank. She remembered Pozet well. Zatte had killed that horrible creature aboard this very ship. It had tried to prevent her from rescuing Luffa on planet Pflaume. It should have marked the end of that nightmare, it looked like Rehval wasn't finished with it yet.

"Homuncular synthesis is one of the greatest tests of an alchemist's skills. Many of the greatest alchemists die without ever achieving it. I actually pulled it off on my first try, but I didn't feel like I had truly mastered the technique until I created Pozet using folicle samples from your wife. She's an amazing woman, really. My compliments."

Zatte forced herself to look away from the viewscreen and get back to the computers on the bridge. The energy bursts from the planet hadn't been aimed at anything in particular, but a number of ships had been hit anyway. She needed to contact the fleet commanders and get them to back off from Nagaoka before something else happened.

"I created Pozet to act as that serial killer," Rehval explained, "which I used to lure you to my trap on Pflaume City, but she was also a peace offering if you changed your mind and decided to see things my way instead. I thought we could join forces, Luffa. I thought there would be no limit to the things we could achieve together, but you rejected my gift and you spurned my friendship, and now you've come here to destroy me. Fortunately, Pozet served a purpose for that scenario too."

"No," Zatte murmured to herself. "No, no, no..."

"I made three of her, Luffa," he said. "One to present to you, the second to act as my 'serial killer'. You and your lovely bride made short work of them, but the third Pozet I used for my research. I was fascinated with the energy manipulation powers, you see. Imagine what a Saiyan could do with that sort of ability! Imagine what I could do with it, the greatest Saiyan of all!"

Zatte looked up at the viewscreen and clutched at the fabric of her shirt over her heart. She didn't know exactly what all of this meant, not yet. She didn't know how Rehval had become so powerful, or what he planned to do with that power, but she knew that it would be something terrible.

And worst of all, he had used her to make it all possible.

*******

[14 November 233 Before Age. Despye.]

Prester Ganzut paced in a tight circle around his office in the capital city of Despye. There had been no word from the Federation fleet they had sent to Nagaoka. He didn't expect to hear anything, since they were avoiding communications to prevent anyone from learning of their counterattack. He would only receive word when the battle was over, and by his reckoning, the fleet would have just arrived in the Nagaoka system. A cold pitcher of iced tea was waiting for him at his desk, slowly soaking the wood with condensation. Every time the pitcher caught his eye as he walked around the room, he told himself that he would drink it later, but he never got around to it.

Nothing would be the same when this was over. Even if Luffa won the battle, she had all but promised to bring sweeping changes to the Federation when she returned. He had no idea how drastic those "changes" would be, and she probably had no idea herself, which was what made her so dangerous. Even if it all went perfectly, he doubted that her plans would bode well for his career.

As he mulled over his political prospects, the ground began to shake under his feet. He wasn't sure what to do about an earthquake, as this part of the planet had never had one before. Just as he decided to take cover under his desk, two of his security detail rushed into the office and escorted him to an emergency transport. This was standard procedure during an attack on the city, but he couldn't hear any air-raid sirens or any other sounds he had come to associate with a battle.

The way to the transport was underground, connected to his building by a tunnel, but before they could reach it, they found the entire entrance smashed into rubble. A large column of earth was rising out of the ground, and the tunnel entrance simply had the misfortune of being located in its path. So too, was the ceiling above them, and the upper floors of the building.

His security team managed to get him outdoors, and they even evacuated most of the other people inside, but as Prester Ganzut watched the Despye Executive Hall being impaled by a giant column of rock and dirt, he was certain that there had to have been causalities. Angrily, he demanded an explanation for what was happening, even though he doubted that anyone else had one to offer.

Then the great tower of earth began to shape itself, like clay in the hands of an invisible sculptor, and Ganzut suddenly knew.

"The cultists!" he gasped as the column finally took the form of a man. He had heard of this taking place on other planets, but Luffa had always been there to stop them before they could do any real harm. But Luffa was at Nagaoka, supposedly fighting the cultists, wasn't she? If so, then she wasn't fighting them hard enough for Prester Ganzut's liking.

"Prester Ganzut, I presume!" the earthen giant said aloud. It looked right at him, and Ganzut's blood ran cold. "Good day to you, sir. I'm King Rehval III, also known as Trismegistus. Well, this is an avatar of me, anyway. My followers planted it here so that I could talk to you when the time was right."

"This can't be!" Ganzut said. "You... can't be here! Luffa's fortuneteller, she told us there wasn't gonna be any more attacks from you Jindan Saiyans!"

"Fortuneteller?" Rehval asked. By now, the avatar was so detailed that Ganzut could see the look of surprise in its "eyes". "Well, now, that does explain a few things. I expected her to defeat my warriors, but I could never understand how she always seemed to know exactly when and where to find them. Such a resourceful woman. Well, Luffa's fortuneteller was right, Prester. There will be no more attacks on your territory. Right now, my avatars are rising up on planets all over the Federation, but they aren't going to fight. They'll just be standing by, awaiting your unconditional surrender!"

"Surrender?" Ganzut asked. "Are you sayin' you already defeated her at Nagaoka?!"

"Prester, you don't understand!" Rehval said with a laugh. "I don't need to defeat Luffa, anymore than I have to attack you. As of today, I've become invincible, and Luffa? Well, she's simply no longer relevant!"

*******

[14 November 233 Before Age. Chai I.]

A similar scene was playing out on the grounds of the Imperial Palace on Chai I, seat of the Camelian Empire.

"The war with the Federation was never about conquest or revenge, your Majesty," the rock-Rehval explained to Zinenz 15, the Emperor of Camelia, who had been playing cricket on horseback when the avatar rose up from the field.

"It was a diversion," Rehval continued. "Luffa had to stay put inside her own territory to defend it from my warriors, while the rest of you watched from the sidelines, believing that I was only interested in the Federation. All the while, my agents were traveling to your planets in secret, and pouring a special potion into the soil of your planets."

"All of them?" Zinenz 15 asked with some skepticism in his voice. His mount was very nervous in the shadow of the earthen giant, but the emperor did his best to stand his ground.

"Enough of them," Rehval replied. "The figure that stands before you know is more than powerful enough to destroy Chai I with ease. I can't destroy every planet in your empire so quickly, but I can threaten enough of the important ones to throw Eternal Camelia into turmoil."

*******

[14 November 233 Before Age. Festid III.]

"Unless we submit to you, is that what you're saying?" asked General Zinfandel asked.

"Precisely," said the rock-Rehval that had manifested on Festid's capital city. "You cannot defeat this giant creature that stands before you, General. The potion that animates it was already absorbed into the very matter that makes up your planet. You might destroy this physical form you see, but another will rise out of the ground to replace it, again and again, for as long as I see fit. Luffa has the power to break the spell, but your armies simply don't have what it takes. You'd only destroy yourselves in the attempt."

"Or we could simply take the fight to you, Your Majesty," Zinfandel suggested. "Killing you on this planet, you mentioned, Nagaoka, would surely disrupt your control over this thing you have created."

"Indeed it would, General, which is why I've taken measures to protect myself," Rehval explained. "Even now, my stronghold is under attack by a Federation fleet, led by Luffa herself. The entire planet is impervious to her strongest techniques. Even if she could find a way to reach the surface, she would have to fight through tens of thousands of my followers. Each of them has been empowered by my Jindan potion. Luffa struggled to defeat twenty of my warriors at a time. How can she hope to beat them all at once?"

*******

[14 November 233 Before Age. Goldwall.]

"This planet has seen enough tyrants, Rehval. I won't allow it to be dominated by another, no matter how powerful."

These were the defiant words of M'ranga, formerly known as Ensign Liberty, now the Kami of Planet Goldwall. Being a goddess was still new to her, and her performance of the role was highly unorthodox. When the giant Saiyan-thing emerged from the dirt, she descended from her Heavenly Lookout and met him directly, rather than watch passively from a distance. The gods of the higher realms might not have approved of this hands-on approach, but Ensign Liberty was a revolutionary, and to her the divine hierarchy was just another power structure to be questioned whenever possible. Likewise, she saw King Rehval as simply another bully.

"I respect your position, Your Grace," the rock-Rehval said. It knelt before her in a mocking show of respect, and kept angling its ear closer to M'ranga as if straining to hear such a tiny creature. "For the time being, I'll allow you to indulge in whatever comfortable slogans you like. Devastating your planet right now wouldn't accomplish anything. I don't want to make an example of Goldwall, but if it comes to that, I'd prefer to have witnesses to see it happening."

"Then wh--?" M'ranga began to ask, but then the earthen giant rose to his full height and looked away from her.

"I only produced these giant avatars because I wanted to inform you all of what was happening," Rehval said. "The Age of Trismegistus has begun, but it hasn't really reached you just yet. For now, this is mostly just to prove a point to Luffa, but once I've finished discussing it with her, I visit all of your worlds again, and I'll explain exactly what it is I expect from each of you."

M'ranga continued speaking after that, delivering a fiery speech about freedom and the irrepressible spirit of sentient beings, but if the rock-Rehval could hear her, it gave no response whatsoever.

*******

[14 November 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

"It's amazing, truly amazing," Rehval said as he bathed in the glowing red liquid that filled his sunken bathtub. It was a public section of his compound, and his followers were encouraged to enter and watch him soak. Some fell prostrate at the edge of the bath and worshiped him, while a parade of attendants added scented oils and other chemicals to the liquid as he soaked in it. Behind him, Treekul lounged on a mat and massaged his neck and shoulders.

"Tell me about it, boss," Treekul said. The hair on her head was over two inches long.

"I'm everywhere at once now," he said. "Not literally, but but I might as well be everywhere. I'm talking to a thousand people at once right now. I can see them, Treekul. They all look so outraged, so envious of what I've become."

"I'm sure Luffa looks pretty ticked off right about now," Treekul said with a smile.

"Oh, I can't see her," Rehval said. "But I can see her ship, and all the other ships she brought along. They're just hanging there in space like little toys. And beyond them, the stars, my kingdom. My laboratory. The very clouds have become my eyes, Treekul. I can see it all as easily as I see you."

He looked back at her, and raised one of his hands to caress her cheek. She pulled back at the sight of the crimson fluid still dripping from his fingertips.

"Oh, it's harmless, I promise," he said. "I've been drinking different potions and rubbing ointments into my skin for weeks to prepare myself for this. Without all those treatments, all of this would be useless, like stewing in melted candlewax."

"That's what you said about this lotion, too," Treekul replied. She held up her hand to show the oily film she had been rubbing into his shoulders. "And you talked me into that, but let's just say I'd like to know more before I jump in there with you. How did you pull all of this off?"

"It's like I told you from the beginning, my Apprentice," Rehval said. "The energy of living things is what gives rise to ki. Saiyans have more of it than most, but it never seems to be enough, and there's more than one way to get it. There's untapped power within the very planets themselves. My namesake, the original Trismegistus, found ways to study that geomantic energy, but he lacked the vision to do anything with it. I named myself Trismegistus to honor the fulfillment of his discoveries."

"I thought you took that name to claim supremacy over all other alchemists," Treekul asked. "You know, 'Look at me, I'm the best.'"

"Well, that too," Rehval said with a satisfied smirk. "I can have more than one reason."

"Yeah, I guess you can have anything you want now," she said as she went back to rubbing his shoulders. One of the attendants handed him a crystal sifter of wine, and he sampled the bouquet with relish.

"I had more than one reason for keeping you here, too," he added. "Of course, I couldn't let you just tell outsiders about this place. Not until I had its defenses prepared, anyway. It took some doing to incorporate Pozet's abilities into my link with the planet's geology. But besides that, I needed someone I could talk to. Someone removed from the Saiyans, who could appreciate everything I put into this plan."

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Well, it's not like there's anywhere else for me to escape to, is there?" she asked. "You've practically conquered the whole universe, so I might as well stay here where all the magic happens."

"Exactly," he said. "Admit it, you didn't think any Saiyan was capable of this sort of genius. We're all nothing but brutish warriors to you."

"I gotta admit, I have been rethinking a lot of old attitudes since I got here," Treekul said.

"The whole universe has looked down their nose at the Saiyan species," Rehval said. "And rightfully so, because many of us believe in the same stereotypes. I tried to reverse that perception, to play the dignified statesman, an ambassador of goodwill from the Saiyans to the rest of the galaxy, but I knew they didn't really believe me. They thought I was a curiosity, or an aberration. Sooner or later, they expected me to revert to type. What those haughty princes and emperors didn't understand was that I was counting on them to underestimate us."

He raised his glass to toast the worshipers at the opposite end of the bath, then drank. "That was how my flock was able to seed so many worlds in such a short span of time. No one thinks of a Saiyan using stealth. They expect us to crash onto a planet's surface and run wild, pillaging everything in sight. No one imagines a Saiyan infiltrating a group of tourists, or a work crew. No one is on guard against a Saiyan stepping out of sight and pouring a vial of liquid into the soil near a government building. And even if that Saiyan were spotted, no one would understand what he was doing. They wouldn't even know he was a Saiyan, not without a tail to give him away."

Treekul gestured at everyone else in the room. "That's why you had everyone lop off their tails?" she asked. "So they'd be sneakier?"

"More than that," Rehval said. "I did it to prove that we no longer need the tails, that we're so much more without them. Look at Nagaoka. Surrounded by clouds, its moonlight is useless here. Even if you had a tail, on another planet it wouldn't be good for more than a day or two. But I've channeled the geomantic currents of this solar system. The planet's relationship to the moon serves me at all times, without a tail. That's progress, Treekul. Why would anyone want to escape from that?"

*******

"Aren't you forgetting something, dad?" Seltiss asked from the bridge of the SFC's command ship. It was unnerving to stare into the eyes of his image on Nagaoka's surface, but she fixed her gaze anyway, determined to show her resolve.

"Ah, Seltiss," Rehval said telepathically. "I hear you've kept busy while I've been away. I'll admit, I was somewhat surprised when I found out you had joined forces with Luffa."

"You were surprised? I thought you were dead," Seltiss shouted. "Or that you had gone totally freakazoid after you evacuated Planet Saiya! Then this cult shows up and I thought some lame-o wizard was trying to enslave us all! Turns out it was you all along."

"Then you should be relieved," Rehval said. "The Saiyans are in no danger from me. The Jindan power is a way for them to become stronger, and a way to make myself stronger in return. That's how I've made all of this possible. By merging my spirit with the planet, and drawing power from my followers, I--"

"You've empowered yourself," said Xibuyas, who stood beside Seltiss on the bridge. "But only yourself, from what I can see. You say you have rock-avatars on a thousand key planets, ready to destroy them if anyone defies you. The only way to stop them is to destroy Nagaoka, which you've made indestructible. That's not like you, Your Majesty. You always taught Princess Seltiss and me that wielding power was a much more subtle art."

"Yeah," Seltiss added. "It's a scalpel, not a club. That's what you always told us. Its like a strategic game. You make one move at a time, building your position until you can win."

On the viewscreen of Seltiss' ship, the clouds on Nagaoka chuckled in time with Rehval's telepathic laugh. "Don't you understand, children? It was a game, but it's over now! I've won! I wielded the scalpel, since long before you were born, and now the surgery is finished! The game is over, and this is the end of history. Whatever happens from now on will be decided by my power, and mine alone. This was always the point, Seltiss. It was always about securing the future of the Saiyans at the top of the universal food chain. Everything before today was a means to an end."

"But you've forgotten something, dad!" Seltiss insisted. "Whatever this creepy future is you've envisioned for the Saiyans, it can't outlive you! Who's going to maintain all of this when you're gone? You need heirs for that, and right now you haven't got any!"

She was trembling now, and Xibuyas nearly reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, until he thought better of it. He knew this was something she had wanted to say to her father for a long time, and now that the moment was finally here, she was building confidence in her words. Seltiss pointed her thumb at herself, then poked her own chest with it, deforming the logo of whatever musical act was featured on her 7000-credit t-shirt.

"I know about your eugenics plans, dad," Seltiss said. "You told me about it often enough. The genetic profiling, the incubation chambers, that was only just the beginning. You wanted to breed a stronger generation of Saiyans, and you wanted your descendants to be the strongest of each new generation, right? That's why you needed Xibuyas! He was your special project to make an ultimate Saiyan, but you needed me to bear his offspring, so they would share your bloodline!

"Well guess what? Xibuyas and I aren't playing along anymore. You may need us, but we sure don't need you, not anymore! So even if you are invincible, your new era won't even last another century... unless!"

Her lips curled into a triumphant smile, like a high-stakes gambler on the brink of winning the pot. Xibuyas couldn't help but smile himself. He didn't understand her fashion sense, or why she insisted on dyeing her black hair pink, or how she could possibly think Luffa was "cool." Xibuyas only knew that he admired this girl more than he could possibly express.

"We can work something out, father," Seltiss said. "You'll have to agree to share power, and grant certain concessions to my Saiyan followers. They have their pride, you know. They're not about to start bowing down to you like some sort of graven image, not when they came to me to get away from your bogus brand of order."

The cloud-image of Rehval seemed genuinely impressed by her bold demands. "Concessions," he said, as though trying the word on for size. "Interesting, Seltiss. Suppose I agree to your terms. What do I get from you in return?"

Seltiss relaxed slightly. "When we're older, Xibuyas and I will produce those heirs you want," she said. "And the two of us can take over your rule when you... well you know... die. And I can talk the Free Companions into a working relationship with you. They can act as enforcers, since you and yours are probably, like, stuck on that planet for the long term right?"

Xibuyas chuckled quietly. Luffa and her Federation fleet would be furious over this, but what could they possibly do about it? She had them over a barrel. As powerful as Rehval had become, she was the one person in the universe who had something he wanted. He watched Rehval's face on the atmosphere of Nagaoka, curious to see how he would react.

The face in the clouds simply laughed.

"Seltiss, Seltiss, Seltiss," he said as the cloud-image shook its "head". "I'm impressed with how far you've come. I really am. Organizing this Free Company of yours, building a coalition against me, well I knew you would try it, but I honestly wasn't sure how well you would succeed. You really are my twenty-seventh greatest creation."

"You... you knew I would turn against you?" Seltiss asked.

"I raised you, my dear. Sent you to all those private schools to teach you political theory. I chose those programs because I knew they would fill your head with ideas about taking bold steps to secure power, and how important it is for leaders to take initiative. I wanted you to grow up looking for ways to seize power from me wherever you could. At first, it was just so you would be a worthy successor if something ever happened to me. But when I abandoned Saiya, I knew you might start gathering all of my enemies together. Every Saiyan who would oppose my rule, all united under one banner. And how thoughtful of you to deliver them to my doorstep!"

"You wanted me to do this?" Seltiss gasped.

"Either this, or maybe you'd get them all killed in a war you couldn't win. Or they'd abandon you in disgust and recognize my power as the only one that works. But this! Oh, you've made me very proud. Your sisters were never capable of this kind of leadership, Seltiss. That's why I chose you to be the one who bore Xibuyas' children. It had to be you."

"Well it won't be!" Seltiss shouted. "I'm not your puppet, dad! I don't care how powerful you are, I'm not going to play along with your sick plans!"

She began to stamp her feet on the deck, not quite hard enough to smash the deckplate apart, but enough for everyone on the bridge to feel the rumble.

"We won't do it!" Seltiss insisted. "You can send your goons to chase us all over the galaxy, but you'll never get your heir! And Xibuyas can beat those rock monsters of yours. Luffa's already shown us how! So unless you plan to die of old age on that planet of yours, you'd better--"

Rehval started to laugh again.

"Seltiss, do you really think you were ever that important to my plans?" Rehval asked. "Would I really let a spoiled teenager out of my sight if I actually depended on her cooperation?"

"You knew you couldn't stop me, so you didn't try!" Seltiss protested. "That's why you didn't send your men to stop me from rescuing Xibuyas from Pflaume--"

"I let you have Xibuyas," Rehval said, "because I had no further use for him. He failed to defeat Luffa, and I knew he wouldn't bother me too much while he was with you, so I abandoned him. Just like I abandoned you when I had no further need of you."

The cloud image shifted, forming a planet-sized monochrome photograph of a cryonics laboratory. A scientist could be seen handling frozen embryos.

"I wanted grandchildren through you and Xibuyas," Rehval expained, but I never needed your cooperation to get them. I took genetic samples from both of you when you were small children, and sent them to a facility that specializes in genetic engineering projects. It's on Planet Bliff in the Nullon Sector. I'm telling you this because one of my avatars is already on the planet, ready to protect it in case one of you tries to interfere with my business there."

Seltiss was horrified. "You... you what?"

The image in the clouds shifted into a wider view of Rehval, soaking in his alchemical bath, surrounded by his faithful. "I saw great potential in both of you, but I had to see what you could do in practice, and I didn't want to risk losing your genomes if you got yourselves killed. You see, Seltiss, I want a line of descendants, but not as heirs. No, I needed you to produce a line of enforcers. Saiyans of royal blood who would go out and handle provincial matters in my new kingdom. You would be the matriarch of that line, and I think you'd be very good at that work. But your sons and daughters will fill the role just as well. I wanted you to cooperate, I really did, but I only needed one thing from you, and..." he paused to chuckle, "I already have it."

In the cloud-image, Rehval clapped his hands together with great enthusiasm. "As for my death, I wouldn't mark your calendars anytime soon. I'm not just bonded with the energy of this planet. I am the planet now. Its vast geomantic energies are mine to control, like the ki of my Saiyan body. The process has merged us in a way that I can't quite put into words, but I think I'll have plenty of time to figure that out. We Saiyans think of planets as things that are fairly easy to destroy, but Nagaoka is now a planet that can defend itself. Or rather, myself. And we think of Saiyans as creatures with a finite lifespan, but I've become so much more than that now. How long does the moon live in the sky? Well now I am the moon. I am the sky. I am the planet. So now that we've got that straightened out, let's talk about the concessions you can make for me, my daughter."

Xibuyas saw Seltiss trembling again, but this time it wasn't out of anxiety or excitement. Now, it was despair. He couldn't help but share it. He wanted to call Rehval's bluff, to say that it was impossible for him to do the things he was claiming. And yet, he knew he owed his life to Rehval's alchemical skills, and he had fought the rock-Rehval creatures before. As for Nagaoka, he could sense the strange power of this planet, and he had already seen how ineffective their weapons were against it.

"Every Saiyan who partakes in the Jindan potion has given me a portion of their energy," Rehval began. "Every Saiyan who does not, will be considered an enemy of the state. You, Seltiss, my daughter, will bring your followers to the surface of Nagaoka, and they will join me. Any who refuse, well, that's fine. I can destroy you here and now, or my followers can hunt you down later. I know there are other Saiyans out there who haven't taken sides yet. I'd like your help in finding them, Seltiss. But I don't need your help, and honestly, I don't mind taking my time. Those other Saiyans are no threat to me."

*******

Aboard Luffa's star-yacht, Luffa and Guwar watched Rehval from the open door in the cargo bay. The force field that maintained the bay's atmosphere offered a perfect view overlooking Nagaoka, and Rehval's telepathy relayed everything he had said to Seltiss.

"I'll go ahead and offer an invitation to Luffa as well," Rehval said. "No harm in that, since I know she won't accept it, but I would suggest that you consider the alternative, Luffa. You can't defeat me here. Even if you reached the surface, you'd never stand a chance against my armies. You can defeat my avatars, true, but you'd have to get to them first, and it'll take you weeks to get back to your precious Federation. If I were you, I wouldn't bother. I'll command my avatars to destroy any planet at the first sign of your approach. The Federation will surrender to me, immediately, I think. And you... well, I guess you can roam the stars, Luffa. No inhabited planet in the universe will dare accept you, not if it means incurring my divine wrath. I suppose you can find some remote world to settle on, or just fly your star-yacht as far as you can go until it runs out of fuel.

"I'm willing to let Guwar return the fold as well. Yes, I can sense you aboard Luffa's ship, Guwar. You were part of my plan, after all. I knew my scheme would make no sense without an understanding of what I intended to do with this planet. That was why I took you into my 'confidence', Guwar. I knew your faith in me would falter, and that you would go running to the only person you thought was strong enough to stop me. Hopefully, you see just how wrong you were to doubt."

It horrified Guwar to hear Rehval speak to him directly. He hadn't wanted to come along on this mission at all, and he had hoped the cult wouldn't learn of his presence on Luffa's ship. But now, Rehval had seen him, and.... forgiven him?

"I hope you appreciate my revenge, Luffa," Rehval went on. "I sacrificed so many of my favorite things when I tried to kill you on Pflaume City. And then I had to give up my kingdom on Planet Saiya. Well now I've taken away the thing that matters most to you, Mrs. 'Super Saiyan'. I've taken away your relevance. I've become more powerful than you now, and that makes your power meaningless. Now you can slither under a rock, the way I only seemed to do when I left Saiya. The difference is that I came here to achieve an even greater glory! While all you can do is decide how you want to die. Have fun making up your mind, woman."

Here, the telepathic words of Rehval Trismegistus came to an end. Luffa didn't move as she watched the clouds resume their natural patterns. She didn't move when Guwar approached her.

"I guess that's it then," he said with a sigh. "He played us all. Nothing left to do but head down there and accept d--"

Luffa powered down, her gleaming yellow hair resuming its natural black color. She turned and shot Guwar a murderous glare. "I'm going to kill them," she said. "Every last one of them."

"What?" Guwar asked. "Whoa, wait, you heard what he said! You saw what happened when you fired on the planet. There's nothing anyone can do! Let's just be glad that he's being graceful enough to let us join him. I mean, I've been there before, you know. The cult's not so bad, once you get used to it--"

There was a loud "crack" as Luffa swatted her hand across Guwar's head. Guwar himself didn't hear it, as the force of the blow killed him a split second before the sound arrived at his ears. The last thing to go through his mind was the right side of his skull. For a brief, horrific moment, his dead body remained standing, and then it finally collapsed, as though remembering what it was supposed to do.

Luffa turned and walked out of the bay.

NEXT: Become The Wind.

#dragon ball #fanfiction #super saiyan #luffa #lssjluffafic #zatte #trismegistus #king rehval iii #guwar #zinfandel #prester ganzut #seltiss #xibuyas #m'ranga: ensign liberty #chai #despye #festid #nagaoka #goldwall

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feferipeixes · 5 years ago

Text

Mother Knows Best (1/5)

Answering an oddly familiar summons, Alcor finds himself face-to-face with none other than his own mother. Sure, she died years ago and reincarnated as someone completely different, but it's a little hard for Alcor to see past who she once was. As time goes on, however, he starts to wonder if maybe she really has changed -- and maybe, just maybe, if things could be better between them this time.

Here’s my entry for the 5th annual @transcendence-au ficathon! Based on the prompt “Dipper and his mother have a talk” from the awesome @toothpastecanyon! As you can see, I took it in a bit of a different direction :)

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

Chapter 1: Summoned

It was a clean summoning, one of the smoothest he'd felt in a while. No incorrect symbols on the circle. Plain candles, flames lapping at the wick, fresh from the box. Flawless Latin that sang across the Mindscape to bring him forth, instead of the grating mispronunciations he'd gotten more and more accustomed to as the years passed and there was almost no one left who even knew that Latin was a language.

Why then, Alcor wondered, did this summoning feel so off? Why was there a bitter edge to the call that triggered his fight or flight response in a way that a sad group of cultists hadn't managed to do in decades? And why did it feel so familiar?

The structure of a room pulled itself together around him, and with a pop he was there. By the blue light of the candles, he noticed that the room he’d been summoned to was actually quite small -- most likely a bedroom, given the bed tucked in the corner. He couldn’t help but notice the walls coated in boy band posters -- his mind jumped right to Mabel, filling his brain with a fuzzy sadness that wasn’t appropriate for a summoning.

That sadness evaporated pretty quickly when he saw the pro-nat hate speech on the posters hidden beneath them. He had a few guesses as to how this was going to go. Might as well get on with it.

"W̞̦̙̬̪̻̳H͖̦̲̟̻̖O̯͡ ̨̻̻̫̜͔̗͇D̛͔̣A̹͚͢R̞E͇̻͎̰S ̭͇͚͔T̹̣͔̦͎̝O̧ ̛̥̦̥̼̗S̢̳U͇M̦̘̺̰̲M̻̥̳̫̝̟O̩̗̥̦N͞ ͉͖̪̰͚̖A̙̣̠̫̬̗̰L̸̲C̭̠̖̣͚O͕͇͇͍̲͍R͖͕̞̲̣ ̷͔̙T̠͢��H͔̼͉E̠̩͇̖͔̕ ̴D͉͙R҉̳͓̯̼̺E̢̘̬̱̠A͓̰̗͇̪͚M̜͎̟͇͍̱̺B̟̦̱̪̕E̲̘̯̙̜͘N̵͈̜̝D͏͈͓E̝͇̺̹R̛̝̱̳̭?͖̖͔̩̙͉̟" he roared.

The only person in the room was a young woman -- couldn't have been more than 25 -- who practically jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice. She had mousy brown hair (she’d considered dyeing it many, many times, but always chickened out in the stylist’s chair) and stunning green eyes (contacts -- her eyes were really brown but she figured if her eyesight was poor enough that she needed contacts she might as well be adventurous), was dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans (all of her nice clothes were in the wash), and had a tilted cross on a necklace tucked underneath her shirt.

"It's, uh," she stammered, "my name is Arielle, and…"

"That's your first mistake, kid," Alcor cut in. "Never tell a demon your real name. Not that it matters too much to me since I already know it, but if you get any other lesser demon in here? Forget about it, they'd love to use that against you."

Arielle's aura flickered anxiously, and she drew her arms close to her chest. "Y-yeah? Why's that?"

Alcor flipped over so he was lying on his back in midair, his head upside down from her perspective. "True names are powerful. If you know someone’s true name, you have access to who they really are. It’s the best way to control someone without literally owning their soul.”

“Owning… their soul?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re kidding me. You don’t know what a soul is?”

She frowned. “I know what a soul is. But I didn’t think you could control someone with their soul.”

“Oh, you totally can! Well, you can’t. I can, ‘cause I’m a demon and all. It’s kind of our specialty.” He uncrossed his arms and let them dangle beneath him. “But enough about that. Why don’t you tell me what someone like you is doing summoning a demon? Last I heard, the New Canaan Methodist Church wasn’t too fond of my folk.”

She practically seized up in shock. “What?”

He rolled over onto his front, leaning on some invisible plane with his elbows, and let a wide grin spread across his face. “I just couldn’t help but notice what a nice necklace you’re wearing. The NCMC and I aren’t the closest of friends, you know. I’ve got some hilarious stories I could tell you -- wow, where to begin…”

“Hang on, what?” she cut in, and then slapped her hands to her mouth, apparently in shock at the fact that she’d just spoken back to a demon.

Alcor flipped over into a seated position. “No storytime?”

“No, I just…” She reached under her top and pulled out the necklace. “Did you look through my shirt? That’s very rude.”

Alcor spluttered and turned pink. “What? No! I mean I guess I technically did, but not like that! I just wanted to see what was on your necklace.” He cowed under the furious glare she was giving him. “Hey, I’m asking the questions here! Regardless of where the necklace was, you’re still a New Canaanite!”

She deflated a little, but the irritated look didn’t leave her face. “I’m… I’m not, okay? Not anymore.”

He cocked his head curiously, the pink tinge slowly dissipating from his cheeks. “Anymore?”

She sighed, and looked away. “This is all my parents’ stuff, okay? It’s not my fault they’re Canaanites! They tried to make me go along with their hateful garbage, but I didn’t really believe, so I left. They didn’t like that, and they forced me to keep wearing the necklace ‘as protection’. They literally glued the clasp together -- I can’t take it off. So I hide it under my clothes. Happy?”

Alcor frowned. She… was lying to him.

At least about the parents thing -- he could sense her parents in the next room, could practically smell the unconditional love radiating off of them, nauseatingly sweet to his delicate nose. He had a hard time believing that the kind of people who smelled like that would glue an extremist group’s iconography to their child.

But… maybe they weren’t her real parents. If she left the NCMC, she might’ve been forced to leave the community too. It sort of held up as a story. And besides, he didn’t want to ditch this summoning just yet. He needed to know why he was sure he’d met her before.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he said finally. “What do you want?”

She looked surprised for a moment, and then nodded. “I want you to go to the local chapter of the New Canaan Methodist Church. In the back room, where they keep the picket signs, there’s a warded chest. The chapter leader stole something important from me. I want you to get it back.”

He narrowed his eyes, and peered through space. As he did so, his wings went translucent, and an image of the room in question appeared over them. Alcor saw the chest -- it was surrounded by binding circles and wards, but nothing that he wouldn’t be able to handle. With effort, he peeked into the chest -- why did it have so many wards around it? -- and did a double take when he saw what was inside.

“Really? You summoned a demon to fetch a stuffed animal for you?”

She scowled. “It’s important to me and I want it back! I’ve got payment. You can have my memories of first grade. You like memories, right?”

Alcor scratched his chin. He did like memories, and the ones he could see dancing in her skull seemed particularly juicy. Besides, the stuffed animal thing reminded him of Mabel again. But this couldn’t be her. He’d know, wouldn’t he?

“Alright.” He reached toward her, blue flame dancing on his hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Her eyes lit up in a brilliant display of hope and gratitude. “Thank you so much,” she said. Her aura changed -- greed pulsating through it so vibrantly that it felt like she was screaming into his eyeballs -- and she smiled. “Finally, I’ll get her away from that monster.”

Alcor’s face twitched. Her voice called out to him through the recesses of his mind.

Thank the stars I’ve got you away from that monster!

He jerked his hand back before she could grab it. "No," he breathed. "That's how I know you. That's who you are. You almost tricked me. How dare you."

Her smile faltered, and she took a step back. "Uh, what?"

He clenched his fists, and black void rippled across his body. "How Ḑ̛̜͇̱̟͈̺̩̭̪̳̖̦̹̹̣̩̉ͣ́̂̌͋̉͗͒ͯͪ̓̒̎͜͞Ạ̸̟̹̼̫̭̫̙͔͖̙̝̲̳̺̭̺̃̑̆ͣͪ͆͑͋͑͒ͪͫͭ͗͒͝R̐̈́̂͞͡҉̦̭̖̬̮̜̞E̡ͯ̊ͦ͆̀̐͆ͤ͊̽ͯ̅̄̐͗̊͌̽̇͜͠҉͉̯̯͈͈͓̮̥̫̠͉̞̣̼͔ you!" he screeched, sending a shockwave through the air that knocked knocked items off their shelves and whipped her hair up into a tangled mess. "I wasn't good enough for you before, and now you want my help?"

She gibbered under the gaze of the incensed demon. "What? This is the first time I've summoned you!"

"Oh sure, just pretend like you don't even know me anymore! Hah, not like it's the first time you've ever done that!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, I swear!"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Can it -- I've had enough. The deal's off, Mom!"

With that, he vanished, leaving behind a very confused summoner. He tessered to the Mystery Shack, to Mabel and Henry’s old room, and stood there fuming for a minute. Then, he pulled his arm back, balled his hand into a fist, and punched the wall so hard that a big chunk of it flew out into the woods.

His breaths gradually slowed, becoming longer and deeper, the better to draw unnecessary air into his fake lungs, because he enjoyed the taste of it -- enjoyed the game -- because it helped ground him and distract him from the fact that he was capable of punching through a wall at a moment’s notice. That -- he began to realize, as his thoughts slowed down too -- may not have been the best idea. At least no one had seen him lose his temper like that.

“Um.”

Alcor turned around so quickly that he may have skipped over the “turning” part entirely. Willow was standing in the hall, just outside the door to the room, holding a teapot in one hand and her inhaler in the other.

“Everything okay, Uncle Dipper?” she asked, sounding more concerned than nervous. She did not step into the room.

Alcor looked down. “Everything’s fine, now.” He grimaced. “But I’d love a cup of tea, if you’re offering.”

She shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m offering now.” Alcor started to move forward, and she wagged a finger at him. “If, that is, you fix the wall you just destroyed.”

He smiled weakly, and let his hand ignite into flame. “That’s the best offer I’ve heard all day. Deal.”

Willow shook his hand, and walked off toward the kitchen. Alcor started to follow, and then paused. He looked back at the hole he’d just punched in the wall and sucked in a deep breath.

That sure was a soul he’d never expected to see again. After all he’d been through, he thought she’d be smart enough to keep away. And yet she had the gall to summon him like nothing had ever happened. Like she’d done nothing wrong.

Like she wasn’t Anna Pines. Like she wasn’t his mother.

He snapped his fingers, and the hole in the wall fixed itself. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute, and then headed off to the kitchen.

---

The circle was drawn. The candles were set. The sacrifice -- a can of Pitt Cola -- was ready. It was to be a flawless summoning.

The only problem was the unwilling demon.

“Mabel, are you sure this is a good idea?” Dipper asked.

“Yeah, bro-bro, it’ll be great!” Mabel replied in a singsong voice while fiddling with a book of matches. “You said it yourself, Mr. Knows-Everythingpants -- if we do this, then you can be physical for a bit!”

Dipper bit his fingernails -- nails that he couldn’t help but notice were getting longer every day and starting to look a little more like claws than human nails. “That’s not the problem.”

Mabel looked at her brother and rested a hand on her hip. “You’re worried about how they’re going to react?”

He nodded. “They’re our parents. What if they don’t… what if they’re scared of me?”

“Yeah, they are our parents, and that’s why I think it’s gonna go great! They think you’re dead, Dipdops -- they’re gonna be so happy to see that you’re still alive after all!”

Dipper frowned. “I don’t think it’s that easy -”

“Too bad!” Mabel chirped, cutting him off. Having lit the last candle, she pricked her finger and let a drop of blood fall into the circle. “Come on out!”

“Ack!” Dipper let out a squeak as the air twisted around him and he was yanked out of the Mindscape. He felt the atoms rushing around him -- actual, physical matter, collecting on his body and forming a tangible shell. Then he was deposited above the circle, only a few feet away from where he started, but now very much real.

He gaped, the sensations of reality overpowering him for a moment. “Oh my stars, it worked,” he breathed. “I’m actually here, I can feel the air around me, oh wow, I forgot how good this feels!” He let out a little cackle and stretched like he’d been cooped up in a box for weeks.

Mabel grinned. “And you dared to doubt me!” She jumped into the circle with him and gave him a massive hug.

“Mabel, stoppppp,” he whined playfully. “You can already hug me even when I’m not physical.”

“I got excited!” she said, giggling. “But I know a couple of people who can’t hug you normally! Come on, let’s go!” She tugged on his hand and tried to pull him out of the circle.

“Wait…”

“Nuh-uh, broski! You gotta do this, no weaseling out of it! How much time does that can of soda get you?”

He glanced at his wrist, as if he were wearing a watch. “Twenty minutes, I think. But…”

“That’s barely any time! If you’re going to have a heartfelt reunion with your parents, it’s gotta be now!”

He slumped. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll do it.”

She brightened, which was impressive given how excited she’d already appeared. “Yay! Let’s go, they’ll be so excited to see you!”

Dipper had his doubts, but he let himself be pulled from the circle. Mabel skipped out of the room, down the hall, and up to their parents’ closed bedroom door. She knocked three times on the door as Dipper started chewing his nails again.

“Mabel, is that you?” came a groggy-sounding voice from the room.

“Yeah, Mom!” she sang. “I know it’s late, but I’ve got someone here you should see!”

“Can it wait until the morning? Your father and I aren’t exactly prepared to meet anyone right now.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you already know him!” She opened the door and rushed in, pulling Dipper by the hand with her. “Tada!” she announced.

The room was dark, but for the light from the hallway, and the glow of Dipper’s eyes. “Mabel, sweetie,” replied the voice, “it’s 2am. You can show us your new stuffed animals in the morning.”

There was a click, and the lamp beside the bed switched on, revealing their parents. Their father still seemed to be asleep, but their mom was sitting up in bed, a nightmask resting on her forehead, sleepily rubbing her eyes. When she finished and finally took in the scene in front of her, her entire body froze up, every muscle screaming in obvious terror.

“Hi Mom,” Dipper offered nervously, giving a little wave.

Mabel, oblivious to her mother’s body language, beamed at him. “Here he is! In the flesh! Uhh, well, sort of…”

“Mabel?” their mother asked, voice shaking worse than an action figure in a blender. “Wh-wh-wh-what wh-what is that?”

Mabel frowned. “It’s Dipper! I told you he was still alive!”

“I know I look a little different,” Dipper started, “but…”

Their mom seemed to break past her paralysis, and started shaking her husband vigorously. “Mark. Mark! Wake up, wake up!”

“Yeah, this isn’t going well,” Dipper muttered under his breath. Mabel glared at him.

“What is it, Anna?” their father asked. He opened his eyes, took in the sight in front of him, and then jumped about a foot into the air. “Demon!” he yelled. “There’s a demon in here!”

“Dad, it’s just Dipper, calm down!” Mabel yelled back. “I told you he was a demon now!”

Their father grabbed his phone off the bedside table and started pawing frantically at it. “What do we do, Anna? There’s a demon in here! What do we do what do we do what do we do -”

“Quit gibbering, Mark!” their mother spat. “They feed on fear!”

“Mom, Dad, please, I’m not going to hurt you…” Dipper said lamely.

Their father turned sheet white. His mouth flapped open and shut wordlessly, and then he managed to croak, “Dipper?”

Mabel glanced at her brother, grinning again. “Yes! It’s him!”

“No, it’s not!” their mother yelled. “Stop it, Mabel, and -- Mark, will you quit it!”

“I can’t,” he moaned, “that- that’s the demon that killed Dipper, and it’s here to get the rest of us, I knew this was going to happen!”

Their mother glared daggers at him, and then gestured frantically at Mabel. “Get over here now,” she ordered. “Get away from it!”

Dipper shivered -- despite the fact that he was a demon now, his mother’s angry voice still intimidated him. “I- I can explain everything, I promise!”

“It’s lying, Mabel -- do as I say and get over here!”

Mabel half turned to Dipper, looking as shocked as if she’d seen a flying saucer. “Dipper, I didn’t think they’d act like this, I…”

She let out a squeak as her mother wrapped her arms around her stomach and yanked her backwards. “There you go, sweetheart, thank the stars I’ve got you away from that monster!”

“Let go of me!” Mabel shrieked. She tried to squirm her way out of her mother’s grasp, but it was too strong. “Dipper!”

“Mabel!” Dipper cried. He shot forward, and -

There was a popping noise, and the summons expired.

Dipper was still in his parents’ room, but he could tell by the sudden lack of sensation that he was no longer corporeal, and that once again only Mabel could see him. He watched his parents’ faces twist from fear and anger into utter relief; watched how they held Mabel close and said how worried they’d been; watched Mabel’s apologetic look as she glanced back at him.

It didn’t matter. He knew it would happen. There was nothing he could’ve said to make that first meeting go better. He floated through the wall to his bedroom, collapsed above his bed, and let the little yellow tears on his pillow speak for themselves.

(AO3 link)

#gravity falls #transcendence au #dipper pines #alcor the dreambender #anna pines #willow pines #mabel pines #mark pines #reincarnation #ficathon #my stuff #fic #long post

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fc5holidayexchange · 5 years ago

Text

An Inconvenient Longing

T- Rating: mentions of violence.

Hey, hey, Happy Holidays! My beta and I had to co-write some of this, especially the end, because I was running a fever for most of the last two weeks. I hope this is okay.

Rook first thought Joseph Seed only referred to his brothers and counterfeit sister as his family. Father, after all, was a common enough title for a priest. None of the Seeds used social media but some members had profiles hiding in strange little corners of the web. Yet, as the investigation wore on, those rare profiles disappeared. The idea filled Rook with a strange longing to delete their own profiles. What had one of the audio files of Seed's sermons said again?

Our family does not live in the digital cloud, or some bullshit.

Yet, like most mildly inconvenient things, Rook shook the longing off. Marshal Cameron Burke made it even easier to shove the feeling into the back of their mind. A kind description of Burke would be 'dedicated to his job'. Rook mentally deemed him a self-important asshole the moment he waltzed into the station. Still, someone had to arrest the guy.

The strange longing didn't strike Rook again until a few days into the Resistance. As they scouted the Durbman Marina one night, they caught sight of a female cultist kicking a vending machine. Although his gentle whisper could barely be made out over Mrs. Durbman's irate words, a male cultist reacted with strange familiarity. "Sister, calm your wrath, please. What would the Father think?"

The two looked nothing alike, didn't even pass as the same race. Rook watched as the woman relaxed into the touch. They didn't catch her response over the sound of their own heartbeat. They fled the scene, and tried to squash the longing. True, Montana was not Rook's home. The other deputies and Whitehorse were not their family. The other fighters were barely even friends. Still, Rook had a job to do.

Learning new skills became the easiest way to distract themselves. Want to lure a Peggie away from a hostage? Blow up a car nearby. Bow hunting? Well, Rook didn't consider themselves to be much of an outdoors person but ammo and food didn't buy themselves. Want to learn rock climbing? Sure, grappling hooks can be useful. Those ridiculous stunt courses some local hero set up? Why not!

It didn't take long for Rook to start traveling alone. They cleared entire outposts without alerting a soul. The missions turned into a twisted but soothing routine. First, survey the area, choke someone out, drag their body to a dark corner, loose an arrow at someone else, turn off the alarms, and call in the Resistance. Rook suspected that they'd need therapy after this violence but that inconvenient line of thought got pushed down with the longing.

Of course, the Seeds didn't let Rook do this undisturbed. Jacob called it 'playing soldier' and threw them into a red-tinted world of horror. Pratt, poor, downtrodden, equally broken Pratt, told them they shouldn't have come. Boy, did they believe it. Fleeing the north made sense. Faith pulled them into The Bliss twice. Images swirled in Rook's head. The Marshal's leap. Jackalopes. Joseph's Vision. The world covered in ashes. No, not ashes. Nuclear. Fucking. Fall. Out.

Oh Lord, the Great Collapse.

They moved to into Holland Valley. It only took a few interrupted baptisms, complete with drowned VIPs, and exploded silos for John to take notice. Rook's own baptism came with Bliss sparkles and too little oxygen. They stopped drowning VIPs after their escape.

The people of Fall's End did great things to squash the longing. Welcoming folks, with warm flannel and lukewarm beer. Boomer, a trusty old dog, became Rook's constant companion. The Spread Eagle turned into a place that felt like home. Rook saw themselves fitting right in here, when the dust and gunpowder settled. Not a Montanan by blood or upbringing, but by sheer grit.

It all changed when John took Rook again. It should have been straight forward. Get out, preferably quietly, and get back to Fall's End and Boomer. Rook prepared to jump a man kneeling for prayer. Unfortunately, the longing had other plans. The prayer, a simple 'help me accept these people', struck deep. Despite the fact that these people were doing evil, this one man had nearly pure intentions.

Rook didn't mean to cry. They went from a crouch to sitting awkwardly on the floor like a child.

The man startled and grabbed his baseball bat. "Hello?" Then, just like that, he was squatting in front of them. "Aren't you the Junior Deputy?"

Rook nodded once.

"My name is Eric. Is Rook your name or just something the sheriff's department calls you?"

"It's my first name, yeah. I picked it myself," they croaked.

Eric took a deep breath, straightened up, and offered his hand. "Let's get you back where you belong before John becomes too wrathful. You'll have to confess to trying to escape."

Rook nodded and followed behind Eric. They ignored the staring eyes of the other Peggies until they got back to the torture room. John came bursting through the door they were about to enter. "Brother John, I found Rook."

Rook watched, fascinated, as the televangelist facade slipped onto John's face. Before he could say anything, they blurted out, "My sin is Envy."

John smile turned dark. "Confessions are private, Brother Eric."

"Good luck, Rook." Rook stepped back into the blood soaked room with John. The door slammed and Rook flinched.

"We'll have to do this on the floor, Deputy, since you destroyed your chair. Sit."

Rook found a spot that was mostly dry and sat ungratefully. With their shirt collar ripped, the room felt cold. "What happens now?"

John knelt beside them with a roll of duct tape. "Legs out straight. I need to make sure you won't escape. You must reach Atonement."

Consenting to it all felt strange. John quickly cocooned Rook's legs in tape, like some redneck mermaid. Unlike Eric, there was no compassion or affection in John's eyes. He seemed excited as he moved his equipment to floor level. The light shined painfully in Rook's eyes. "This isn't meant to be comfortable. Let's start at the beginning."

"Well, I said my sin was Envy."

Rook should have expected the smack but it still stung.

"I mean your beginning, dear Deputy."

***

It took hours of punches, smacks, and swallow cuts for John to accept Rook's rather undramatic life story as truth. He examined everything for truth. Yes, their birthday really was Christmas. No, there's no deep reason why they aren't close to their retired parents anymore. Yes, they'd legally changed their name to Rook when they were 22 and stupid just because they wanted to. Weren't you a lawyer John? Those things are public record. Fuck, there wasn't even a noble reason they moved to Montana and joined the Sheriff's Department. It was just a job. They were pretty confident they had never spoken about themselves that much. Everything hurt, seven their throat. Satisfied, John stood. "Now, why Envy?"

Through their sore throat, they whispered, "I envy the Project's sense of community." The room fell into a tense silence. Rook closed their eyes, expecting a kick.

"Why is that a sin, Deputy?" Since they closed their eyes, they only felt John push the ripped fabric of their shirt aside and the tattoo gun buzz to life. "Come on now, open your eyes."

Rook didn't. "Because there's a community in Fall's End that isn't a brutal, murdering, doomsday cult?" The attempt at snark came out weak, with a questioning tone that turned into a painful cough.

"No, Deputy, try again. Surely you can figure it out." The buzzing temporarily stopped. "Hold still. It's not supposed to be only an E."

Rook took a deep breath to stop the coughing fit and raced through every impression they had of the cult and John. What did he want them to say? It was the truth. In those moments of profound loneliness, they could have gone to the jail, or the Whitetail Milita or talked to Father Jerome instead of the dog. As far as they could tell, it was an honest confession. They opened their eyes.

John sighed, then stood again, walking back his tool bench. "Deputy, Deputy, Deputy. Should we add pride as well?"

"Joseph does disappointed better than you." A familiar flash of anger crossed his features, like the moment he almost drowned them. Inspiration hit and the lie tumbled out. "I should have said yes. I could have turned myself in at any time. What I wanted was right there and I was too prideful to say yes. Instead, I fought against what I wanted."

"Are you going to say yes now, Deputy? Will you work towards Atonement?"

"Yes."

***

Rook came out of that bunker with three tattoos: Envy, Pride, and Wrath. John explained the last one for them. "You don't kill that many people without being fueled by anger, Deputy." They hadn't expected to come out at all. Waiting for the Collapse in a cell in an abandoned missile silo seemed fitting somehow. Yet, Joseph wanted to ensure a genuine conversion. Rook moved into the Invidia dorm on his little island with only a single radio announcement of their conversion.

Before returning to the island, Rook assumed Joseph's compound housed some of the elites. Instead, it housed everyday Peggies. Devout, yes, but they weren't major players. The only thing they seemed to have in common was a need for Joseph's direct attention. Many beds were empty. On duty elsewhere or dead, Rook didn't dare ask.

A certain familiarity coursed through the compound. Everyone knew everyone's name. Rook expected the Peggies to use all sorts of cruel nicknames for their newest convert but instead 'sibling' slipped out.

Like he did with most people, Joseph called Rook his child, and, more surprisingly, little lamb. Rook's role appeared to be following him, just like Mary's lamb. Rook wasn't extra security, even though they were trained. They weren't allowed weapons. Part of their conditions of atoning for wrath, according to John. Rook didn't understand why Joseph wanted them near. Part of them longed to know but it terrified them

By day three of prayers, sermons, and the random things like gardening, canning, and laundry, Joseph realized Rook wasn't speaking. The group that didn't have guard shifts were eating lunch. Most sat around a picnic table. Those with prominent Sloth tattoos stood. "I watched the play back of your confession, my child. Did I miss the part where you took a vow of silence?"

It took a moment for Rook to catch that he was teasing. "I--I'm sorry?" A rather unfortunate voice crack and a cleared throat later, they tried again. "I'm sorry. I've never been super talkative. I work alone, usually."

"You aren't alone now," a Peggie said. "You have us."

The words, the lie, slipped out naturally. The longing for it not to be a lie bubbled up but they squashed it. "And I'm thankful for it. I just need time to process this."

"Of course you do." Joseph's sympathetic smile seemed almost genuine.

Things fell into a routine. For two weeks, things stayed peaceful. Rook even let themselves smile and relax around Joseph and the cultists. Simple touches stopped making them flinch. Joseph let them work alone with the others while he prayed. Rook helped wherever they were needed. Weapons were still, regretfully, off limits. Rook understood why, but the lull in action made all the inconvenient thoughts simmer on the surface.

Then, Faith's body washed onto the compound's boat dock. An attempt to take the jail must have gone horribly wrong. Rook had to shut down the part of their brain that enjoyed investigation. Instead, they watched Joseph mourn. Joseph filmed the eulogy alone, just the two of them and a camera on tripod.

Rook stood awkwardly near the door of the Church. "My children, a seal has been open."

Rook quietly stepped outside the church, leaving Joseph to his broadcast. Sitting on the floor, or in this case, the ground, had become an unexpected past time. Rook at for as long as was reasonable and then returned to work.

No new Faith took the mantle but Rook briefly wondered if Joseph meant for them to take the job. He never broached the topic. Joseph withdrew, spending more and more time praying and fasting in the church. Rook made themselves indispensable around compound.

Rook consciously recognized the moment they started believing in the coming Collapse. While waiting for some freshly and taking a break in some shade, it dawned on them. The government didn't react to a Federal Marshal going missing or an entire county going off the map. Hope had decommissioned missile silos. Was that information declassified? Was Hope a target?

Joseph appeared seemingly from nowhere. "My child."

"Father. Forgive my sloth." Rook got to their feet.

"You see now."

"I do." It felt like another confession but they couldn't force out an apology. Something bad coming didn't excuse the kidnapping and murder. Their eyes went to the fence around the property. Despite the longing, they were technically a prisoner.

He did that strange forehead touch. "Child, I have news. Sheriff Whitehorse and Marshal Burke are dead. They were beyond saving."

"Oh." Rook blinked. They expected some inconvenient feelings but nothing came up. It was as if they'd been made blank. "I was only a Deputy for a few months, Father. And, this is an unchristian to say, forgive me, I didn't particularly like Burke. We'd only just met."

"I assumed they were your friends."

"No, Father." Rook didn't feel the need to explain further. "I didn't belong there."

"Do you see where you belong now?" Joseph asked.

"Here?" That longing, inconvenient as it was, surged. Shame came along with it. Murderers, kidnappers, thieves, and Rook wanted to be one of them. Although they would never admit it out loud, they'd been interested in the cult from the beginning.

"Yes, my child. This is your home."

Rook sank into the feeling, the longing finally gone.

#Gender Neutral Junior Deputy #Joseph Seed #John Seed #found Family if you squint #Alternate Universe: Canon Divergence #alternate universe: Rook joins the cult #i implied that the deputy was Non-Binary but it's not directly expressed #a little angsty!#submission #gift: fic #tw: violence #tw: mentions of torture #fandom gift

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chaniters · 5 years ago

Text

MOTHER’S DAUGHTER

________________________________ Sorry about the long delay, writing comes and goes for me and last time it went away for quite a while. I’m trying to get back into the mood and finish amazing @kruk-art‘s Awan Cormac fic! It’s been a long time so here are the previous chapters.

1 https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/185591914314/only-human

2 https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/185662034909/crisis-control

3 https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/185824503359/reaper

4 https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/186475284144/sunken-town

Hope you like this, and as always there might be spoilers for Fallen Hero ahead.

Added a new villain in this.

_________________________________

“Seriously?”

“This tunnel’s the best way to get inside unseen” Elyise answers.

“Best way to get crushed to death you mean!“

“The other side is safe” she replies as her powers methodically remove the debris pieces blocking the tunnel

“You know there’s not a single safe thing in here!” you say amazed that it’s you concerned about safety for once.

“Well we could always go back to the main entrance and knock,” she says smiling.

That’s a no-go. You took a brief peek at the facility, and the place is swarming with guards and cameras. Someone took the time and money necessary to restore most of the ruin and turn it to a death trap to infiltrators such as yourselves.

“This is a bad idea” you concede walking trough.

“Well it’s the only idea”

“Not sure if suicidal ideas count”

“Oh, they totally count believe me”

You have to turn back the night vision mode since the way ahead is pitch black. The tunnel Reaper’s console detected goes through several sections of different collapsed buildings. As you advance you go trough a ruined subway tunnel, then to a cracked apartment building corridor, then a set of bent scaffoldings on top of a seemingly bottomless pit and finally a collapsed staircase.

Advance is slow, as the way is littered by all manner of obstacles, random debris, furniture, and even some rusted cars. Elyise goes on ahead since her powers can clear the way.

“So how did you get involved in this mess?” you ask breaking the silence

“What do you mean?” she says

“You must have been following a different lead into the kidnappings?”

“Oh. Yeah, I have” She nods

“...so?”

“So what?”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“Alright, hmm... Let’s just say I'm mostly interested in finding the villain behind this”

“Void or Psycopathor?” you ask

“Neither. Those two don’t normally assault hospitals for a living. They’re working for someone”

“And you know who that is?

Elyise doesn’t answer, focused on clearing out a broken wall. You have to get into it and aid, pulling some rocks by hand to create a passage wide enough to come through.

The other side seems to be a store-room, pitch black, but relatively clean. Several boxes are piled up against a wall, bearing logos of pharmaceutical companies.

“We’re in” she states, hopping trough the crack and landing on her feet. You follow closely, studying the room.

“Ah, there she is” she says pointing to a graffiti on one of the walls. IT looks like a masked nun holding both hands together in prayer, in red paint. Some melted remains of candles lying on the floor next to it.

“What.. is that?” you say walking closer.

She takes a few seconds to answer that.

“Have you ever heard about… Mother?”

“Mother Superior you mean?” suddenly remembering the urban legend

“Same one,” she says walking on

“Yes, I’ve heard about her. Mostly that she doesn’t exist.”

“She exists,” she says pointing at the graffiti, which on closer inspection looks more like an improvised shrine ”And I’ve been after her for a very, very long time”

You struggle to keep up her phase as she turns and walks avoiding piles of boxes towards the door

“Alright. Let’s say she’s real. They say she has the power to save people from hero drug secondary effects. That she’s created of a lot of villains. And that her costume looks sort of like a nun.”

“You got two of those right”

“Which ones?”

“Her outfit does look like a nun. And she’s generated a lot of villains. But she doesn’t have powers”

“What? So how does she do it?”

“She’s a scientist. And she’s figured out how to calculate the odds anyone has for surviving hero drugs. All she does is find people with good chances and use them, then pretend she can do the same for everyone else ”

“If she can do that, why aren’t the pharmaceuticals doing it too?”

“What makes you think they aren’t? They just can’t talk about it, because hero-drugs are illegal outside labs and the military, and no one can be 100% accurate either.”

“Alright… so what is she to you?”

“It’s personal”

“So It’s all about her then? That’s why you contacted Reaper?”

“That, and Reaper is one of the few people who actually knew her”

“What? How?”

She sighs looking at you. “You ask a lot of questions, you know?”

“Well, I like to know what I'm up against”

“Alright fine. She’s been active since the ’70s. She worked on the original drug, became the pharmaceutical’s scapegoat and then pariah in the scientific community. So she went into the black market, providing aid to anyone wanting to take the drugs. Claimed she wanted to atone and end all hero-drug deaths with her illegal research. Lots of powerful people saw her as a saviour”

“So when did she meet Reaper then?”

“Rich guy wanting to take hero drugs? What did you think he just bought some in a dark alley? No way. He paid her a small fortune and she tested him in every way possible before he took them.”

You can sense her mind’s holding back something else. But now ‘s not the time to push.

“What’s your interest in this?”

“It’s personal too” you answer drily. They attacked the Hauswald hospital.”

“Oh. I saw those promos. Didn’t think it was more than publicity”

“Well, it is. They do amazing work there. I’m going to rescue those patients.”

“We are going to rescue the patients” she corrects.

“Hold!” you say in a hushed voice pulling her back behind a corner.

“W…” she mumbles before a pair of masked, robed figures, a man and a woman walk through the corridor you were about to go through.

“Hurry up! Mother needs these samples right now” the woman says moving forward as the man struggles to follow carrying several vials of fragile chemical samples

“What are they wearing?” you whisper. Dark robes, hoods, masks, metal necklaces…

“Sorry. When I told you she’s seen as a savior I should have actually said “Big and crazy cult-leader. Wherever she goes these guys follow. I’m not sure how are we going to get close enough to...”

“Hm... that’s going to be the easy part. Take this and follow me” you say before handing her a metal pipe from the floor before rapidly closing the distance towards the two cultists. You know your infiltration techniques well.

………………………………………………

“I think I'm allergic to this fabric” Elyise complains whiles scratching her neck under the stolen robe “And it smells funny too”

“Shush,” you say while scratching your own arm. You’re pretty sure you’re insulated under your nanomesh but somehow you’re feeling itchy as well.

Cultists seem to be wearing their own individual masks, so you and Elyise are just keeping your own costumes under the hoods. Your powers are making up for anyone noticing something odd, and this plan can actually fool the numerous security cameras as you go deeper into the facility. If you had known about these costumes before, you could have just walked through the main door.

Black curtains cover the next tunnel and a couple of guards wearing the powered suits stand at each side. They let you pass as soon as you present the samples they were expecting.

A stair opens up into a huge open room, probably the lunch area for the workers that used to work in the plant. Unlike the rest of the facility, it seems to be pretty much intact. It’s been refurbished as a small amphitheater, with numerous robbed figures attending some sort of event.

You instinctively raise your shields as you notice the giant standing over the improvised stage.

Psycopathor, talking to a few guards. He briefly looks your way but his gaze doesn’t linger. Whatever is going on it hasn’t begun yet and the audience is scattered talking among themselves.

“Let’s split… I think there’s a small bathroom there” she points to a line “I’ll get in and try to contact Reaper again, see if he could call the rangers You see if you can find the hostages?”

“Alright, we meet here in 15’t” you whisper back before walking into the crowd.

Performing a scan with so many people around is awful, but on the bright side, there’s little chance of Psycopathor noticing anything wrong since he must have the same problem. You end up sticking to a corner next to a chatty group after implanting the suggestion that you’re part of their clique.

Only as you wander through the minds of those around is that you begin to understand the scope of this “Cult”. THere’s not only the desperate but also the super-rich. Fanatics and working people looking for some excitement. The disillusioned mix with the optimists in Mother Superior’s cult as they all look up to her to do something that will change the world.

No. Not something. They want her to change their lives. Change them personally. Make them better… make them… the idea reveals itself as you dig deeper...

Boosted. The realization comes as a bucket of cold water. Every single person here hopes that Mother Superior will give them boosted powers without having to take any risks. That somehow she’ll magically make hero-drugs safe and let everyone realize their dreams. They have absolute faith in her plan.

All of their thoughts go in the same direction, and simply following the flow lets you find the mind you’ve been looking for. The cult leader.

“Found them?” the hand on your arm startles you bringing your mind back inside your skull as hard as a rock. “Sorry! Are you ok?”

“Yeah... I'm alright,” you mutter struggling to recover. Now’s not the time for a migraine. “Mother Superior’s behind the stage, and the hostages too. She’s about to start the show”

Mother Superior is behind the curtain on the stage where Psycopathor’s standing. Ready to start the show. The hostages are with her”

“The rangers are in the area but they’re having trouble tracking our location inside the facility and they don’t have Reaper’s tech. There must be some sort of jammer working here. We need to…”

“Everyone, be seated” Psycopathor interrupted her with a commanding voice aimed at the audience.

“This way,” Elyise says pulling you to the side behind a few columns and out of immediate sight as everyone heads for the stands.

The curtain opens, revealing a tall, thin masked figure. It is wearing a powered suit, but unlike the guards, Mother’s power suit looks really advanced. Behind her, in a semi-circle facing the audience are the hostages, tightly secured to rectangular slabs with medical tubes attached to each of them. All of the devices are connected to a central machine at Mother’s right side.

A large table stands by her left, full of… syringes with a blue transparent liquid. You almost choke as you realize what it is.

Hero drug doses. Hundreds, ready to use. You can sense the crowd looking at them as well, in anticipation.

She steps forward, up to Psycopathor. Her suit seems to include a pair of mechanical arms with claws that seems deadly to anyone with skin. A faceless white mask with a golden crown on top of it looks onto the audience. The rest of the armor is covered by an elaborate black dress over it, though it’s layers are still revealed where it’s bare. You can tell high tech from miles away and this is top-notch. She has clearly spent a fortune on it.

She taps something in her mask -possibly activating the mic- and speaks in a clear, warm voice. A distorter is clearly at work.

“My brothers and sisters! Thank you for joining us tonight. I know it is difficult to reach this spot, but it is what the government has reduced us to. Hiding in the shadows, while we struggle to perform the work that they have refused to do for decades. But we never surrender!”

The crowd cheers loudly at that.

“Thank you… thank you” she goes on as the cheering dies out. “Tonight, as was foretold by our precognitive allies, we take the first step towards a new beginning as a species! Yes, my brothers! The time for ascension has come!”

You’re not sure what “Ascension” means but when a madman speaks about it to a room full of fanatics over tables full of hero drugs it sounds really concerning.

“This…” she says motioning to the machine “...is the culmination of three decades of study on one particular problem. How to materialize a boost without risk to human life.” you can sense every single mind enthralled by her words “For a long, like others, I worked in perfecting the drugs themselves. It took me a long time to realize, there is nothing wrong with the chemistry of it. It is not the drugs, but the human body which is at fault. Only now, I have the means to correct this injustice!”

Two women whom you can only assume to be her lab assistants walk on stage and begin operating the device.

“Not every individual exposed to our holy drugs can produce every power. Each strand of DNA is unique and will react differently, we’ve known that for a long time. These individuals…” she now focuses on the hostages to her left “... each of them possesses unique DNA strands that prevent them from developing dozens deadly boost, the kind that would cause immediate death. These others…” she turns to the other half of them “...have each developed antibodies that make them immune to different hero drug reactions that would poison their bodies in a matter of hours. However, individually, none of them stand a chance to be immune to hero-drugs. They just have a better chance than average, that’s all.”

Your mind finally grasps the reason behind Void and Psycopathor’s kidnappings. They weren’t taking boosts at random... they only wanted ones with complete medical records for Mother’s crazy experiment. She’s truly the one behind this all.

“Oh no,” you whisper realizing what she’s about to do. Elyise frowns as Mother Superior’s exposition reaches its high point.

“However, if all of their uniqueness was to be combined into one individual,” she says as she approaches the seat by the central device “... then complete immunity would be achieved.”

“Shit,” Elyise says. She now realizes it too. The crowd has gone completely silent by now.

“You shall all be witness to my ascension. I will drain what I need from them, produce a hybrid DNA infusing their life energy with my own. I will make my body a temple ready to receive the gifts of our greatest evolutionary science! Once I undergo Ascension, I will be Immune to the danger of our sacred Drugs. I will become more than human! I will be an angel from the heavens, able to take on as many powers as I choose to boost myself with… and I will invite everyone here to drink from this chalice after me!”

The crowd erupts in deafening, fanatical cheering of their self-proclaimed savior angel.

“We, are made of light, and today, we all become better! Today, we all shine together! Today, we become gods!” she cries out to her followers.

Psycopathor seems interested as he observes… maybe he’s even considering it as well. Just what the world needs.

“She’s gone completely nuts. We need to stop her long enough for the rangers to get here” you say bringing Elyise back to earth.

“I’ll distract her. You just find a way to show the rangers the way.”

“Distract her? How are you going to…”

But she’s already walking towards Mother Superior, making her way through the crowd.

“You are not a prophet or an angel. You’re no savior! You’re just lying to all of these people! You will only bring death!!”

Mother stops her speech turning towards Elyise as she climbs the stairs onto the stage.

“So you wish to interrupt me, young one. Why don’t you tell us all your name?”

“Gladly!” she answers, removing the robes in a swift motion letting the crowd gasp at the reveal.

The villain studies her up and down.

“Elyise… I should’ve known. You’ve been tracking me and my church for years now.”

“Let me take care of her” Psycopathor says walking forward, ready to take her down right there. Elyise raises an arm preparing her powers, but Mother motions for Psycopathor to stop.

“Stop. Let the fool say her piece. This ought to be interesting” she says with soft laughter, the crowd focused completely on the stage. “I’m attempting to stop the killing and bring a new age of free access to boosted powers to mankind. What right do you have to stop me?”

“You’re insane, and you’re dangerous. You are making everyone believe they can be boosted when you know it’s a lie! You hear me?” she speaks to the crowd ”She’ll just get you all killed!”

The crowd doesn’t respond the way she expects tough, eyeing her with hostility. They’ve bought Mother’s lies for a long time now to trust a complete stranger over her.

“You’re wrong, hero. No matter the lies of the government, I know everyone CAN be boosted, and I’m the one who will make it happen. Lead mankind into its next stage! It is the only logical consequence of human intellect. Artifical, endless, precious evolution”

“You’re killing people! Is that part of your vision too?”

“Necessary sacrifices! So-called Heroes like you have far more blood on your hands, and you will bring no end to the scourge of boosted deaths. Only I can make hero-drugs safe for everyone!”

“Your vision? Don’t make me laugh. You’re just a fake, a liar, and you are… you are...“ her voice breaks.

“And what.? Can’t even finish your own insults?” she says laughing again

“... you are a murderer! A terrible person. And a horrible mother!” Elyise says defiantly, removing her mask.

Mother steps back clearly shocked, and uncomfortable silence lasting for a few seconds. “R.. Riley?!”

Wow. You knew something was up between those two but you didn’t see this coming... A second reveal?! And she’s her daughter? That’s just nuts.

No one stops you as you make your way to the control booth since as far as distractions go, Elyise has gone above and beyond.

“Elyise… Riley… Was that some sort of failed attempt at an anagram?” Mother seems to say finally regaining some momentum. “Nevermind child… It doesn’t really matter. What do you expect to accomplish?”

“You know precisely what I’m doing. I’m ending this madness!”

“Selfish brat! Can’t see beyond yourself and your misguided feelings! You should be helping me! You know the importance of my work! Why I have to do this!”

“The only thing I ever learned from you is that you need to be stopped!”

“Stopped? You can stop me, ingrate! I’ve almost delivered my dream! After tonight, boosted deaths will be a thing of the past!!”

“And how many will you kill for this?” Elyise points at the hostages behind her “How many will it be this time Mother? Have you told them about your OTHER experiments? Have you showed them how many of them failed?!” she says turning to the cultists who look like they’re caught inside some sort of soap-opera dimension. Some do actually seem a bit unsure now.

“All will be will be worth it after tonight!” she says in a confident, reassuring, angelical voice.

“You experimented on me! Your own daughter!”

“I made you BETTER! That is what everyone wants. You just can’t appreciate the gift for what it is! If anything you’re proof of my abilities! You have some of the strongest powers i’ve ever given to anyone!”

You finally reach the tech-booth. As fascinating as this is, you need to actually tell Ortega where you are Elyise’s family reunion will go badly.

“Move,” you say holding a hand over the guy’s shoulder. Your tone is soft, but the mental command is irresistible. He simply stands and joins the others as they watch the scene, Elyise (Or Riley) and Mother throwing barbs at each other.

It takes a few moments to find the Jammer controls and deactivate it, setting up a beacon instead, hoping the rangers will find it. You manage to turn off the alarms too.

You focus on the rest of the systems and realize you can access Mother’s DNA machine from here. The computer shows the status of each of the hostages' slabs, and the patient's life signs are indeed dropping as the process has already begun some time ago. The devices must definitely be extracting something out of them and concentrating it on the central device for Mother’s “Ascension”. You have to be quick, yet you’ve no idea how this. The first few attempts at canceling the extraction fail, as prompts immediately pop up stating that it can’t be done at this stage.

Your fingers race trough the keyboard exploring alternative routes and nothing seems to work until…

You can sense the mind standing behind you. Masked among the crowd, he approached knowing you’d be distracted. Your hand reaches for your targeting scrambler but he is faster, holding your wrist.

“Stay still and don’t do anything stupid. Nobody knows you’re here, at least not yet”

“Void” you grumble.

“Oh, not calling me Nath anymore Sidestep?” he says mockingly.

“Why are you helping madmen? I thought you were in it for the money”

“There is money in this. More than you’d possibly think”

“Well I'm stopping it,” you say ready to rain fists upon his face

“You’re too late. I’ve already done that” he says tapping the screen. Your gaze turns to it, and you can see one of the pods is reporting a critical error… and then another.. And another. All of the patient’s slabs are failing, one after another as the process reaches 50%. “I set a virus to shut it down after half of it is complete so Mother won’t be able to tell the difference. It’s going to be a blast when she fucks up her own DNA up on that machine for all her followers to see.”

“You sabotaged this?” you say incredulously “What’s your angle?”

“So many angles. I’ve been paid by Mother to help keep her base secure, I got paid by Psycopathor to help him on the kidnappings. Also, I'm getting paid by three different lobbies that want Mother’s illegal research into hero-drug immunity to fail publically. Big-Pharma shares would crumble if suddenly anyone could get boosted without risks And I’m keeping a copy of her research too, in case I need a bargaining chip later, so I might get paid again later If I find the right buyer. All in all, it’s been VERY good business to visit in this hell-hole.”

“So you’re betraying everyone at the same time. For an asshole, you’re really consistent. And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because I’m going to be extremely rich. So, rich, I could even afford to forgive you. One last chance. We could be a team again. Join me, we get out of here together, and forget about all that nonsense” he says motioning to the escalating confrontation

Your gaze falls upon Elyise, who’s keeping back a few cultists with a telekinetic shield as Mother commands them to capture her, then back to Void.

“You know I won’t do that”

He sighs and pats your back, which makes you cringe on the seat.

“Suit yourself. When you realize your mistake it’ll be too late... Anyways, I’m leaving. Between you and me, I don’t think Psycopathor will the patient once Mother’s big experiment fails, so if you want to save anyone I'd hurry up,” he says turning and walking away before disappearing as his cloaking device activates.

As he goes out of sight, Psycopathor steps forward, going through Elyise’s telekinetic barrier and punches her chest while Mother simple observes how her own daughter is sent flying into the crowd.

She sits on the central device’s chair, steepling both pairs of hands in a decidedly diabolical gesture.

“Beggin Ascension” she orders her assistants who promptly remove a piece of her armors back, needles coming into her exposed skin while Psycopathor jumps down the stage approaching the fallen hero. The crowd moves out of his way.

“Shitshitshitshit,” you let out before rushing to stand in his way, taking off your hood and robe, not very sure about what to do next as he stares at you with incredulity before giving you a murderous smile.

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

My fanfics: https://chaniters.tumblr.com/post/181692759294/my-fanfiction-for-fallen-hero

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction using characters and the setting of the Fallen Hero: Rebirth and upcoming Fallen Hero: Retribution games written by Malin Riden. I do not claim ownership of any characters from the Fallen Hero wold. These stories are a work of my imagination, and I do not ascribe them to the official story canon. These works are intended for entertainment outside the official storyline owned by the author. I am not profiting financially from the creation of these stories, and thank the author for her wonderful game/s, without which these works would not exist.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero fanfic #spoilers!#Awan Cormac #Psycopathor #Elyise #New villain

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