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blzzrdstryr · 4 years ago

Text

Reveries of changes

Yandere!Childe x Fatui!gn!reader

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CW: Dissociation, mentions of rape, violence, unhealthy relationship, abuse of power.

Sometimes you find yourself asking what ifs. What if the Event never happened and you never received the vision? What if Ajax never developed his obsession with you? What if you treated him a little bit warmer? Would he be more tolerable? There are thousands of possible scenarios buzzing in your head, sometimes diverging just by words left unsaid or an outstretched hand being shaked. You know it’s a futile thing, thinking about the future and the present that you will never have, but you can’t stop, thoughts spiraling further and further.

This morning starts with the similar what if. What if I agreed to start again? The brief conversation from yesterday is still on your mind - you dread it’s another of the turning points in your relationship, just like the rejected handshake or the hospitalized recruit were. A moment after which there’ll be changes, changes that you won’t have time to prepare for. Speaking from the experience alone, Childe, like the rotten bastard he is, will act even worse from now on. It all started from teen Ajax following you and offering his friendship at every turn and somehow ended in him personally asking Tsaritsa to assign you to him, reducing you from a highly respectable Fatui agent skilled both in stealth and subterfuge to a glorified escort and a secretary.

One day he’ll just get tired from all of this and will forcefully bend me over in some dark murky corner, you darkly conclude, the remnants of the sleep leaving your body entirely at the grim thought. Or maybe he will break his promise not to cheat and will order me to do it.

Unwilling to think about the Ninth Wave of your unwanted relationships, you quickly stand up from the bed and start preparing for the day. Dressing and freshening up from the sleep you still mentally return to the darker place, cautious of what Tartaglia will pull out this time. Finally, you exit the door fully ready and lock the room, hiding the key under the clothes after, and make way to the fourth floor of the bank.

Here lies Childe’s working space and personal quarters , and if the former can be easily seen and entered just by walking up the stairs, the latter is hidden from view by the wall and massive door. There is a wide work desk and two armchairs placed too close for your comfort. You peek into the interior window, only to find it veiled by a thick curtain from the other side, so you decide to broaden the space between the chairs.

Satisfied with distance now, you sit at your place, taking a sheet out of the pile of documents, mostly consisting of reports of credits approved and money returned, unusually mundane yet highly classified information. Aside from accompanying Childe when he needs to beat and threaten the debts out of deadbeats, you also have to track the transactions the bank makes, a routine job consuming most of your daytime.

At the sixth or seventh fiscal account, you hear door opening and mentally brace for Ajax’s presence. Harbinger doesn’t smile, looking serious instead. You hope it has nothing to do with you, as it’s too early in the day for you to already deal with his usual mess.

“[First]”, you look up, staring at the bizarrely humorless Ajax looming over your sitting form. He clears his throat, as if he feels awkward right now, “Are you sure you won’t have one of your episodes?”

Your mind blanks for a second and then there’s a mix of shame and anger flooding your being and making you see red. Over the last months you spent working with him, he was the sole trigger of your affliction and now there are considerable gaps in your memory, in which you have absolutely no clue what happened to you. You had an inkling that Childe is aware that you are not always completely here, but a slap in the face with such casual mention is enough to render you wordless for a good minute.

“I... It happens only under certain circumstances”, you find your voice wavering and his face darkens, as he quickly catches unsaid ‘because of you’. Fortunately, he decides not to press it.

“There’s a problem at hands, one that needs your skills". These words make you do a double take - Ajax doesn't look like he's lying, speech lacking usual grandiose and bravado, yet you still can't believe he lets you return to your former work. You make a quick guess.

“Qixing?”

“Qixing” he nods,"their spies must have learned something about the sigils. It's a minor issue now, but if Tianquan or Yuheng will learn about it…"

"A diplomatic disaster and a permanent loss of Geo Archon's gnosis" you continue for him, “Fatui would be banned or seriously limited in Liyue and most of trade routes will be cut off, Ningguang can easily press sanctions against most of Snezhnayan import”. You frown at the thought, no matter what Fatui would do in such situations there's too much to lose and almost nothing to gain, even if you start destroying the investigation and replication of sigils right now, it will be a waste of possible weapons against Rex Lapis.

Then, there's one painless exit from the complicated mess: destruction of all meager material evidence and clues they somehow scraped together. Despite finally having a glimpse of a freedom, you don’t feel any excitement, but doubt instead - just a year ago, such operation would be another routine task for you, but now, having wasted months because of Childe's possessiveness, you can't help but feel incompetent.

You contemplate, glancing at him: on one hand, Tartaglia can easily send any other agents, but on the other hand, none of said agents possess a vision, a vision that you specifically molded to be a perfect tool for stealth and assassinations. He tilts his head, a hand impatiently drumming against the desk, waiting for your answer - you can infer his inner monologue - Tartaglia, just like you, is torn between his loyalty to Tsaritsa and his own feelings on the matter and this is what finally cements your decision.

You can almost see how much he itches to forbid you from taking the mission, but stops himself out of his sense of duty to Snezhnaya, and this knowledge fills you with darker type of satisfaction to the very brim: You lean back, pretending to still ponder over his words, enjoying the view of apprehensive Childe for once.

“I think, I can’t...” you start, your voice deliberately small and hesitant, watching how Ajax smiles again, convinced that you no longer have any confidence in your abilities, “let Snezhnaya be compromised in any way”.

He doesn’t let any of the anger and frustration show on his face, yet the drumming ceases, leaving you two in the silence, save for the sounds of the street coming out of the window.

You know you’re poking at the sleeping tiger, letting a childish impulses to guide your words, but the opportunity to upset Harbinger are much harder to come by these days: he took away your job, your delusion and your freedom, the least he can do to compensate is suffer in return.

“Alright”, he finally says and fails to hold back disappointed sigh “agent [Last]. Your delusion is in Ekaterina’s possession, just as the rest of the equipment. You will start tonight, information is in the upper left drawer. You have no right to fail, if you do I will write a complaint to Tsaritsa against you and personally oversee that you will be discharged”.

It’s a gambling game then, and terribly unfair at that - even if you win it won’t set you free or relocate under someone easier to handle and Tartaglia loses virtually nothing by allowing you to roam out of his sight for one night only, and by failing you will literally had your life into Childe’s eager hands.

You won’t let the bastard triumph.

***

After getting your gear and delusion back, you spend the rest of the day reading the data and mentally preparing for what is about to come. The qixing base you're to infiltrate is located awfully near the current place of sigil research, as if Ningguang or whoever planted it here already suspected Fatui from the start. The base itself is disguised as an ancient Liyuen ruin with a couple of deactivated ruin hunters placed nearby to scare off the adventurers who no doubt will try to explore it.

You are almost panting when you finally reach it - turns out that despite being easily visible from afar, the base is surrounded by the tall and steep cliffs from all sides, with the only passage bound to be guarded. Invoking to the power of your vision, you effortlessly become invisible to the eye, enter the building and almost rush back the same second - there’s a millelith passing nearby in whom you almost bumped in.

Heart racing you enter the building again, walking on half bent legs to minimize the sounds, and avoid milleliths on your way. They feel a sudden rush of frosty air, but seeing no one nearby, just write it off as a sudden midnight chill. You continue to make your way, peeking into each room, forcing yourself to remain in this form longer and longer, body aching and freezing from the overuse. Finally you see it - a stack of documents placed on the bamboo table near the oil lamp in a conveniently empty room.

Your hand is already extended to push the lamp and fake an accidental fire, when you decide to investigate the papers - it’s better to learn what qixing already knows. Your eyes quickly peruse a liyuen script, characters upon other characters - a report about suspicious activities, a detailed intelligence of Northland’s spendings and thankfully, not a word of sigils, except the note stating that Fatuis are buying a considerable amount of paper and ink.

Having memorized each of the documents, you throw the lamp now, a flame quickly spreading to the documents and soon consuming a whole table. Someone in the corridor screams about fire, four milleliths rushing in the room and you use this distraction to sneak out. Having escaped the borders of the faux ruin you quickly run, still maintaining invisibility, and only when you reach the cliffs again do you allow yourself to rest.

After climbing over the rocks, the rest of the trail is spent between jogging and walking, frost from the vision still residing inside. Bitter chill slows down your movements and you can’t help, but shiver from time to time, arms and legs aching and burning from it. You eye the pyro delusion and consider using it - unlike a cryo vision that you sculpted for secrecy and agility, the delusion is more battle-focused, able to produce quick bursts of fire in the rare occasions you get into a brawl.

Suddenly, a ball of flames explodes near you - a whopperflower bursts out of the ground, sensing you in proximity. You dodge another fireball, instinctively flinching at the sudden flash of light and send an ice blade it's way. It slightly grazes the creature's skin, yet a mimetic plant rushes back under the ground as you summon another icicle and swiftly stab it in the "head" the second it emerges again.

The plant dies in convulsion, it’s reddish walls contracting around the blade, a fast stream of boiling hot energy nectar shooting from the wound the moment you pull away the weapon. You curse, as some of the liquid hits you on the leg, burning a part of your pants and scorching the flesh underneath. Hissing and gritting teeth, you use your vision again, now to soothe a throbbing pain.

Well, at least I am not freezing anymore.

You return at the first rays of dawn, dull pain still lingering in the lower body, pulsating and echoing every step. Slightly drowsy Nadia at the entrance nods at you, her gaze at your wound obvious even with a mask on, and you nod back, a wordless exchange providing a slight reprieve, before you have to deal with Childe again.

“Hard day?”, she asks right before you enter, a pale shadow of concern in her voice. You frown, confused by the sudden disquiet.

“Something happened?”

“Uhm”, a small pause, “the boss. He was restless tonight, very restless”.

Ah, shit.

“Well, that is unpleasant” you deadpan, any remaining desire to go inside the bank vanishing the same second: “Thank you anyways” and then you step in.

Harbinger waits right there in an absolutely empty lobby - it seems that Ekaterina’s shift hasn't started yet. He’s leaning on the wall, head turning to you as you enter and immediately noticing the state of your leg. His expression grows darker, when you thought he would lighten up at your perceived failure instead.

"Who did this to you?" he asks, hints of steel appearing in his voice. You lift your eyebrows - no teasing, starters or bravado. Maybe he's so impatient to hear about your failure that he forgot to keep up the act?

You swat away his question, deciding to report on your mission instead - documents were destroyed by a set up accident, none of the qixing and milleliths saw you; he doesn’t seem to listen though, eyes still glued to the burn and then he repeats his question, voice taking the dangerous tone.

“No one, no one did it. It was an accident on the way back”, he isn’t convinced judging by the way he grabs your arm, his monstrous strength evident in the steel trap grip. “Damn” you cuss, trying to free your hand - if Tartaglia learns that you let the whopperflower of all things injure you, he won’t let you live it down and will weaponise it, to point out your so-called incompetence over and over again.

“Let me go” you tug harder, a vision coming back to life from the distress. You pull away your wrist from him again and again and then you hear it first and feel it second - a small cracking sound and a sharp pain, shooting up your arm - you broke a bone. It’s too sudden for you to realize what happened or even properly sense the shock of ache.

He lets go of you in the same second, eyes looking blankly at the injured hand. His lips thin and he exhales, in a long and strangely controlled manner - seeing Childe act and look so emotionless is sure bizarre. He hauls you up bridal carry style, ripping out a low hiss of pain as his clothes rub against the burn, and directs himself to the stairs. You're too busy gritting your teeth and trying not to cry in front of Childe to notice him climbing past the third floor and only when he opens the door to his room with a kick do you finally snap back to reality.

Despite working for him for months now, you enter his quarters for the first time. It's a spacious place, with a wide bed and writing desk located near the window. There are different weapons decorating the walls - swords, claymores, spears - all with the traces of use, and a small pile of trinkets and children's toys on the desk, placed right near the started letter, some of them already half wrapped - must be a gift for someone, then.

He sets you down on the bed and turns to the wall, taking a dagger from its place and some small container. A part of you gets scared all of the sudden - you remember your morning thoughts and all those instances when his eyes focused on your body for far too long to be innocent or comfortable. Is this it? Did he get so fed up with you that he decided to drop any pretense and abandon the cat-and-mouse game you two seemed to have?

Ignoring the pain in both limbs you jolt for the exit - there’s no meaning in fighting him, yet you can still flee, lock in your room and then plan what to do. “Stop it” he says, a warning clear in his voice, and to your frustration it’s enough to glue you in place. You look at him, heart booming in your chest, barely suppressing a flinch at every step he’s taking. He leads you back to the bed, as you feel the world warping around you again and the worst part is that you can’t stop it - It’s unfair, I can’t leave, not yet, I will hate myself for the rest of my life if it happens.

He kneels down, blade slicing through the pants as you forget how to breath. His figure deforms, a dark blue sea leaking out of the dead fish eyes and you see great leviathans lurking underneath the surface. Childe is the ocean, in a sense that he contains horrors beyond the human imagination. He is the great sleeping kraken that will swallow the world and you are his first victim.

His hand takes something out of the container and you expect it to burn and to hurt you, but instead there’s a muffled soothing feeling that comes, an unintentional “ah” coming out of your mouth. He doesn’t force himself and patches you up on the contrary.

You come back to yourself little by little, when he almost finishes with ministrations, leg and wrist looking like two casts. It feels bizarre to come back to your body halfway, to see Ajax kneeling in front of you, head hung low and it’s even weirder to hear his voice, hurt and utterly defeated: “So that’s what you think of me”.

He helps you come back to your room, as you still feel dazed. You pinch yourself a couple of times, still unable to believe that any of these happenings are real, they are.

A turning point, you conclude, there’s no way anything will stay the same after this.

You both dread and anticipate the changes.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #yandere genshin impact x reader #Reader is unreliable narrator #It's not super obvious here #But it will be evident later #yandere #childe #tartaglia #yandere x reader #my writing

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jflashandclash · 4 years ago

Text

Tales from Mount Othrys

Birth of the Triple A Chimera III

Warning: Violence and disturbing imagery

***

If Pax were going to write a fanficiton of the events, [1] they would go something like this:

The dastardly Romans prepare their attack. This is a thrown-together, last-minute operation, and their Centurion decides on a multi-faceted approach. One unit shall rush the front door and bust it down while two others break into window entrances, allowing them to flank the (incredibly sexy and stylish) villains inside.

None expect when a scout taps Centurion Ari’s shoulder. “They’re opening the door.”

Sure enough, the front door opens with a slow, methodical swing. It hangs ajar, seeming to beckon the Romans. There is no one around who could have pushed it. Smoke curls out, expanding and twisting into the tall grass with the steadiness of a field fire. The music cuts.

“A witch’s nest,” one reminds them, making the others laugh nervously. Trickery. Mistwork. These are the common tools of a witch. Common pitiful plays at deception.

But, there’s a foreboding rush that they feel in their bones, one that begins as a slight shudder and culminates into an audible, eerie, choked growl. It echoes out of the doors and pounds louder than the soldier’s heartbeats. “We await you, Romans,” it hisses, “Welcome to the gates of Tartarus.”

One brave Roman stands, maybe to initiate the door rush, maybe to taunt back. Before words can leave his mouth, something thuds into the chinks in his shoulder armor. Instead of tumbling backwards from the force of the hit, he flings forward, screaming into the increasing smoke, until the open jaws of the door engulf him and he is no more.

His screams muffle.

Then, silence.

Their internals vibrate with the hum of a malicious laugh, one too powerful to belong to any mortal or demigod.

That is how Pax hoped it looked, felt, and sounded. He hoped he wasn’t thinking, Shit. Shit. Shit, loud enough for the Romans to hear that too. Backing up a few minutes would help to explain the scene: before they started, he frantically slit holes into dracaena skin, making two serpentine masks. Though, more like the world’s grossest stocking masks.

“We’re wearing masks,” Pax said, hoping his voice sounded firmer than it felt.[2]

“No,” Axel growled. He finished putting trip wires around the most strategic windows and doors, and was now unrolling the band’s power cords.

“They’re gunning for you, but they want to keep me alive. If we all wear masks, they won’t be able to readily identify us and have shoot-to-kill orders,” Pax said. He’d set to work on this idea after setting up the subwoofers with Alabaster’s enhancement charms. “Plus! If we have more than one of the same mask—” He held up the two bits of lizard body. “—then we can switch out which one we’re wearing to confuse them as to who is who and how many of us there are. Plus, plus, masks are cool and everyone should be stylish.” Even in death.

Those words made Pax shiver.

Alabaster tugged the camue blanket over himself. He hefted up the loaded antique harpoon. “I’m with Pax on this. Axel, you play sacrificial scapegoat on your own time. If you do so now, you’ll get all three of us killed.”

Pax appreciated that Alabaster knew Axel’s weakness: logic. And mythological rights, but mostly logic.

Axel swore and snatched the Numidian lion mask from a crate. He tied it on with some crate hemp.

Pax could see how painful it was for Alabaster to hold back the words, That’s an antique, you savage! At least Axel was wearing something other than a sign that read Kill Me First.

They started.

After a second sweep to check their enemy’s position, Pax hunkered down by the door, Alabaster took preliminary aim with his harpoon gun, and Axel held the microphone up to his throat.

Fog crept along the borders of the room, making it hard for Pax to see. Alabaster had dumped half his dry ice into shallow bins of water and cast an enhancement charm.

Little enhancements, Alabaster kept saying. It was much easier to trick someone into seeing more of something than to trick them into seeing something that wasn’t originally there to begin with. “If we’re to be besieged, I want to keep my magical reservoirs high.”

Pax pressed a wooden dowel rod against the base of the door. He undid the hinge, crawled to the side of the door, and flattened against the wall. Supposedly, Pax had the steadiest hands for this. However, with Pax’s heartbeat quivering more than the first time he saw Alabaster with his shirt off (locker rooms after Alabaster’s private shower mysteriously broke) he hoped the door wouldn’t look like it was having a seizure as it moved.

Pax pushed the door open, also hoping no Romans had crept alongside the exterior and were waiting to play tag with a spear. He scrambled to prepare for Part II, detaching a line of power cord from his belt.

There were exposed water pipes on the wall beside him (originally for a garden hose, Pax assumed) and ones on the back wall, by Alabaster and Axel (for witchy things, like drowning test subjects). Axel had thread Alabaster’s makeshift-harpoon-attached-power-cord through the pipe in the back and Pax had thread it through the pipe at the front. Though not as good as a crank, this gave them the world most hackjob pulley.

Alabaster uttered a word.

Something popped gently. Pax knew it was a rune on Alabaster’s shirt, releasing a pocket of compressed air in a gentle breeze. The fog expanded and rolled outward. This temporarily cleared Alabaster’s line of sight.

Alabaster had asked Axel to buy him time to aim, maybe ten seconds of intimidating chatter to distract the Romans--something easy for Pax but difficult for his concise brother. Pax had given Axel encouragement, Talk all funny-like. You know—like Prometheus when he gets drunk. Pax thought this had been far more helpful than Alabaster’s remind that humans were unsettled by frequencies too low to hear.

Pax couldn’t hear his brother at first, but he felt it—the deep throttle from the subwoofers. With the auditorium enhancements set to full blast, the rumble made the building shake.

Axel’s growl slipped to an audible octave. At home, Lapis had been disappointed Axel couldn’t roar with the power of a lion. Jaguars, and jaguar warriors, had clipped, throaty roars. With the ambiance, the choked noise was creepiness perfected.

Pax held his breath. Maybe, just maybe, his brother and Alabaster were far more terrifying than fifteen Roman assassins.

“We await you, Romans. Welcome to the gates of Tartarus.”

Alabaster fired.

As soon as Pax felt the quiver in the power cord, he sprinted. This was an imperfect pulley system, but this was the closest they could come to dragging a Roman into the building smoothly. (If they just tugged at the harpoon’s rope directly, the Roman would come in jerky, awkward hops. Cool in a zombie movie. Not cool when Romans might notice and cut the cord.) Pax got two steps before the cord went taut.

Someone screamed.

Pax tried not to think about the other end of this rope protruding someone’s skin. He tried to think of warmer things, like chasing Lou Ellen’s cat Sphi—oh right. Instead, he did think about the other end in a Roman—the one who shot Sphinx.

Axel raced with the other side of the pulley. As the Pax brothers ran with the pulley cord, Pax towards the back wall, Axel towards the front, a Roman skidded, screaming, into the building.[3]

Once the squeal of armor on concrete and shrieking were in the fog, Axel pounced.

The Roman didn’t stand a chance. By the time Pax was close enough to make out their forms, Axel’s bicep and forearm were pinching the Roman’s neck. His legs hooked the Roman’s arms in a wrestler move. The Roman could only thrash.

“I’m sorry.” Alabaster’s voice was wispy with panic. “I couldn’t get a clear line on Ari—”

They wanted Ari. The operation might fall apart without a leader. This was just a soldier, one none of them recognized as his struggles faded and his eyes rolled up into his head. From the glare of orange over his armor, this must have been one of the teenagers that cut the power and phones. Not the guy who shot Sphinx and talked about mounting Axel’s head on a wall.

“Ajax, look away,” Axel growled.

Pax wouldn’t, tilting his head. They needed to move onto the next phase of the plan—

Alabaster’s hands settled over Pax’s face, covering his eyes and making him flinch. If he didn’t recognize the musky spices, Pax might have thought everything was over.

Something cracked.

Neither Alabaster nor Axel appreciated that the sound of someone’s neck breaking was enough for a trauma recipe. No vision necessary.

When Alabaster removed his hands, Axel was already disposing the body into one of the crates.

Pax decided he would confront that sight and sound later, like in his nightmares. For now, he had to focus.

This was the largest part of the gamble. Some Romans may have broken rank to save their comrade. While this would have split the main attack force, the three of them couldn’t handle a charge. With any luck, the Romans may have scattered in fear, buying more time. Reorganization could take awhile. That’s what they wanted: the Romans to pause. They only needed, at this point, twenty to thirty minutes for Jack and Flynn to show up. Hopefully, that would be enough.

Pax knew his surrogate parents. It would be enough. It had to be.

The waiting was eerie.

“Fourteen left,” Axel hissed, “Move.” He shoved Alabaster and Pax into action.

Alabaster disappeared into the fog. Pax knew what he was supposed to be doing—making more fog and securing the northern windows. Keep it creepy with enough dry ice and Mist to distort vision but not enough that they’d run out of supplies.

Pax’s job was to secure the windows in the other, southern room. This should have been done first, but they wanted to make sure the Romans didn’t charge. It wouldn’t matter if they secured some windows if the Romans busted in part-way through their efforts. In a fun and fancy free world where the Romans were dumb enough to all come through one entrance, Alabaster could kill them with explosives, but the Romans would likely come from multiple angles.

Pax worked quickly. He scattered some of his anti-hex jacks under one window. He crouched along the wall until he found the next one. There, he carefully dispersed some marbles, making sure none rolled out to trip the wrong people. The next two were much less playful: broken glass from the trash can and a few crate boards with nails poking upward.

Before leaving this room and blocking the door to the center, Pax crouched under a window and tilted his mirror out.

A Roman crouched on the other side of the wall, her sword drawn.

Pax withdrew his mirror before she could catch any reflected light from the surface.

He swallowed, his heartbeat pounding in his head. He leaned against a crate near the window. Were there soldiers outside every window? If there were, what were they waiting for?

A voice made Pax jump. If he had to guess, there was someone with a loudspeaker outside the front door. Pax crept back to the central room to hear the girl.

“We have you surrounded. We know there are only three of you in there.” It was the same commanding voice Pax heard earlier: Centurion Ari. Pax feared his guilt-stupid brother would offer himself as an apology for killing her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend? Is someone automatically an ex in death or are you doomed to be cheating on them in any sequential relationships after? Pax swallowed the thought away, hoping he never found out.

The subwoofers kicked on with a vibrating hum. By the time Pax found his brother in the fog, there was a pile of makeshift weapons at Axel’s feet. Axel lifted the lion mask enough to speak into the mic. “Do you?” He lowered his voice an octave to that stage-gargle. “Why not only one?”

Pax exhaled in relief. Taunting the Romans might not have been wise, but it was better than, I’ll be your shooting practice this week.

He waited to see the red light turn off on the mic. “They’re under the windows and in position to storm.” Pax reported, “What are they waiting for?” With the lack of music and no response from the Romans, his whisper felt deafening.

“If I were them, reinforcements. A breaching charge. A barricade breaker. They probably already positioned those troops before they realized we knew about them and before they realized we had a ranged weapon.” He nudged the harpoon gun at his feet. Axel must have dug the harpoon out of the dead soldier’s chest to reload it. Through the wisps of fog, Pax thought there might be dark smears on the floor. Pax wanted to be horrified. He just felt numb. His brain hadn’t gotten past the sound of that guy’s neck snapping.

Axel continued with the smoothness of a recording, “They either want to hold position or withdraw to a safe distance. Alabaster heard them tampering with the door in the back, so they know it’s barricaded. They know there are three of us: one to cover either of the side rooms and one to cover the front entrance. No reason for Ari to be reckless or rush when they think they can get reinforcements faster than we can. All they need is one more entrance—blowing out the back door or knocking down a wall—and they can flank us.”

“And they won’t try to smoke us out for now because it would be too easy to catch the fields on fire, and good Romans listen to Smoky the Bear,” Pax grumbled. They should remember that: the Romans were from California after all.

“The Northern windows are all covered.” Alabaster sounded calmer and more calculated than he had earlier. His figure loomed in the fog with massive horns. Alabaster had donned pieces of one of his lab specimen, that way he could put decoy pieces on boards. “If we—”

Axel’s hand shot up in curt gesture of silence.

Alabaster quieted.

Pax strained to listen.

“No…” Axel mumbled. Although Pax could only see the dead stare of the lion mask, he could hear the horror of a plan gone wrong. It was a very specific mood for his brother.

Very subtly, under the hiss of the expanding dry ice and the rustling of grass outside the front door, there was a beautiful hum. The tune followed something from Pax’s childhood, something about going to the circus, something that should have been calming.

Nausea rocked Pax’s stomach. The words were out of his mouth before Axel could verbalize their mistake. “Jack doesn’t know that we’re surrounded!”

Axel’s knuckles went white from clutching the microphone too tight. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This could have been a trap for him all along. If they knew we’d be out here, there’s no reason they wouldn’t know—we need to distract them. Ajax, you said there are Roman soldiers outside the windows.” Axel’s tone altered from panic to determination. “Drag one inside, disable them, retreat to this room, and barricade the Southern door. Alabaster—”

“No,” Alabaster snarled. “Are you trying to make them attack us? Axel—”

“We’ll have reinforcements soon—”

“We’ll only have Jack for sure. Jack is not a reinforce—”

Axel dropped a hand towards Pax, signaling him to head out despite Alabaster’s protests. Jack’s hum was growing louder and there was no way the Romans could miss it.

“Ajax, don’t try to be a hero. One Roman. Then come back her to hide.” Axel said, “If you can’t do it safely, throw something at them. Your safety—”

Comes first. But Pax wasn’t about to let a second surrogate parent die protecting him.

“Cowards for life.” Pax knew Axel couldn’t hear him. The red light came on for the microphone.

Axel dropped his voice to that gargly growl, “Romans, you test my patience—”

“Idiot!” Alabaster hissed. Pax could only hope his insult didn’t pick up on the mic. Something snagged Pax’s collar. He really didn’t want to pressure-point Alabaster’s wrist, but was about to.

“—We know where you are—”

Alabaster shoved a vial into Pax’s hand. “Use this to dart them. Not a single nick on yourself, understand?”

“—We smell you, little Romans. Shall we begin to devour you?”

Alabaster didn’t wait for an affirmation. He vanished into the fog, hopefully to attack Romans from the Northern windows.

Pax understood the importance of timing for this.

Jack must have been close. Maybe close enough that they were too late. Axel wanted to inspire fear, but hopefully evoke enough rage to lure the Romans in. Pax and Alabaster should attack as soon as Axel was done baiting them. Hopefully, Jack had heard and would realize what they were doing.

Pax swallowed at the thought of Romans beating Jack to death, only captured and killed because he wanted to take “his boys” to the circus.

Why is it always the circus? Pax knew he was going to develop an unhealthy phobia of the circus and it would have nothing to do with clowns. He rather liked clowns and their adventurous fashion statements.

In the side room, the afternoon light and fog made the windows into glowing blobs. Pax clutched the PVC pipe from the other room. It should work as a dart gun. He wished he had more time to practice. Knowing how this day was going, he would inhale too deep and suck the dart back into his mouth.

He scurried to the window with a box beside it, careful to avoid the marbles he’d set. If I were Roman, what would scare me? Invading barbarians? Slave rebellions? Bad infrastructure? Spartans having a cooler logo? Pax remembered something his dad had once done to an “unreliable” worker. A lump formed in his throat. Could he do that to someone?

What would they do to Jack if he couldn’t? What would they do to his crush and brother if he couldn’t get their attention?

There was more exposed piping overhead. Thank the gods for lazy contractors. Pax removed a length of power cable from his belt, yanked off his shoe, and tied it to the end. One shot. If he missed and made a clang, this could alert the Romans to his presence.

Pax threw.

The shoe sailed up and over the pipe before swinging back down. The cable caught on the pipe. The shoe dangled and Pax snatched it out of the air.

He swallowed, untying the shoe and jamming it back on his foot. He tied a loop at one end.

He was ready, right? This is what had to happen. Pax crept onto the box, the loop and loose cord in one hand and the dartgun in the other. Sure enough, the Roman was still under the window, at her post. From a side glance, there were, indeed, Romans under each window.

Still, she must have been terrified.

“I can’t wait to mount a lion’s head on my wall.” Pax focused on that and the way Sphinx’s body crumbled. The sound of his heartbeat was deafening as he stood on the box, keeping his body flat to the wall.

Pax withdrew the vial Alabaster gave him from his pocket. He carefully balanced the cables, the PVC pipe, and vial in one hand to drip one of his darts. Mysterious substances from a witch? Hadn’t led him astray so far. Maybe it would turn the enemy into weasels. But, if Alabaster had some weasel-bombs, he likely would have changed all of them so they could escape.

In the distance, someone shouted. Pax couldn’t tell if Alabaster had attacked from his windows or if the Romans had found and skewered Jack.

The soldiers near him had looked away from Pax’s position, allowing him to lean forward.

Pax aimed his dartgun at the soldier one window down. The line of white piping trembled as he released a puff of air.

The dart feathers seemed to sprout from the Roman’s neck.

Thirteen Romans.

Pax didn’t wait to see if the Roman collapsed or swatted it away like a Jurassic mosquito. While the girl under his window was distracted, he tossed the loop over her head—

—grabbed as high on the other end of the cord—

—and jumped off his crate.

The line of cable went taut. He heard a choked noise and the scrape of metal against concrete: her armor sliding up the side of the building.

No snaps, not like the boy whose neck broke.

Pax’s feet didn’t reach the floor like he’d thought. Instead, he felt the cord wind back towards the Roman. Relief almost made him cry—Pax, with his glorious ninety pounds, was too light to drag this armored girl fully off the ground. He let go. His feet hit the floor at same time her armor clanged down. There was a fit of choking and gasps. Pax laughed hysterically. Her neck must not have broken either. She could breath and might be okay.

He could cross “executioner” off in his Prospective Jobs list. Solid future battle plan: never try to hang someone again. Definitely not something he was a fan of.

The furthest window shattered, crushing his reprieve. Pax must have left that one closed. It was the one with the—

Someone screamed when they stepped onto a nail and—from the followup noise—tripped on a marble while trying to recover. It would have been funny if Pax didn’t realize they now inside with him.

Eleven and a half Romans if we count the dude who can no longer walk.

The Romans were on the offensive.

Pax scrambled for the central room. The fog was thick; they shouldn’t be able to see him.

Another footfall by the windows—this one calculated and calm. There was no accompanied scream. Another Roman must be inside, this one uninjured. So, at least two of them, less than ten feet from Pax. As Pax crept, the blood pounded in his veins. Each ragged breath felt too loud. His makeshift reptilian mask reeked of preservatives and made it hard to gulp down the air.

He was halfway to the door when one of their footfalls quickened to a sprint. “Heat signature. On your right, 25 degrees. Only one.”

They know. They know it’s just me.

Of course they would have their own child of Vulcan with heat sensors. Mercedes would have thought of that. Pax hadn’t.

Pax ran for the door, not caring that his footsteps echoed in line with his pursuers. All he had to do was reach the central room, slam the door, and bar it, assuming Alabaster had done the same on the other side of the building, and that the back door hadn’t been breached, and that the front door—

Pax almost ran into the doorframe; the fog blinded him until the last second. He turned and fumbled for the door, gripping the knob to slam it shu—

The door never latched. Someone ploughed into it, forcing the wood to reverse right into Pax. His feet lost traction. Pax tumbled backwards, slapping his hand behind him to break his fall.

His entrance was breached. He messed up big time. I always told Axel I’d be the death of him. An imperial gold sword glowed in the fog above his head. “But, the information broker!” Pax wanted to say; the words choked in his mouth. There wasn’t enough time to block. All he could do was cower as the blade came down.

***

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! And thank you for your patience with how long this took to come out. It didn’t get a proper editing, so I hope there aren’t too many mistakes! Stay tuned next week!

[1] And not make Jack write them.

[2] The first rendition of this story was written WAY before COVID started. Now, each time I read this, “And so are we.”

[3] Did anyone come out of this pulley situation not confused? Pax and Axel were confused. The Roman is confused. The author is staring at his diagram of the building going, “Omgs, how am I suppose to convey this with words?!”

#Tales from Mount Othrys #PJO #HOO #TFMO #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #writing #Alabaster #Pax #Axel

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