#the middle is just bare bones dialogue and minor action. and the end part is just the basic first draft

[catboii]

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[Day ####]

For a while, this is enough. 

The creature can see things and talk to people with the device, which it locks back up to hide its dealings, before the ‘nice lady’ returns, bringing a portable charging device with her, so she doesn’t need to take away what she thinks is just an innocent drawing/writing utensil. If the creature wants to communicate something to her, or ask her for something, then it can draw or write some crude scribbles that are recognisable enough, either with the device, or on the papers. Sometimes it’s nice to have the different colours that only the device has, but sometimes it’s just easier to draw on a physical surface, and the black markers are much easier to hold with its little bird feet. Also, some of the drawings Agent 23 takes with her, and it notices this. Most of them she attaches to her observational logs, to keep track of the progress it's making, but a couple she sneaks out, taking them home. One particular favourite is one where she asked it to draw itself, and it drew a little stick bird sitting in a stick person’s lap. When she asked who the stick person was, the creature hopped up onto her lap and settled down. She’s getting far too attached to this little guy.

On this day, the creature doesn’t seem to be its usual self. It's sluggish, slow to respond to her, and if this was a zoo, Agent 23 would believe the creature was sad and didn’t have enough enrichment. She offered to bring it whatever she could within reason, whatever it asked for, but it didn’t ask for much. The only thing it continually asked for was head pats. 

One time it had drawn a field on the notes app of the device, with a couple of scribbly flowers in it, a big green tree, and a yellow circle in the top corner. It had tapped the screen with one toe, then doodled a stick bird, and pointed one of its talons at 23. It then drew a stick person. It put the smart pen down and looked up at her. “You… Want us to go outside?” It had nodded slowly, as if it knew the answer. “I can’t do that I’m afraid. You’re under strict lockdown.” It hadn’t argued, just sat on the floor and been quiet for a while. 

The Agent had noticed that as time had been progressing, it had been getting slower, less active, and quieter. She just thought it was sad. What she didn’t know was that the entity was slowly dying. It couldn’t stay here any longer. It wanted to be free, to return to its old life, as best it could. It wanted to be a cat, roaming with feral cat colonies and curling up in a pile of warm fur and uncountable purrs. It wanted to be a human, stalking alleys and picking off the scum that escaped the prowling eyes of law enforcement, struggling to choke them with unclawed hands and smashing in their skulls with blunt force. It wanted to be a fox, nestling in a tree hollow in the snow while the forest lay deathly still around it. 

It no longer wanted to be an experiment, sat on a cold concrete floor, monitored day in day out.  

Agent 23 looks over the creature, and reaches out to smooth her hand over its back. It’s sprawled awkwardly on the hard floor, and it doesn’t look comfortable, so she scoops it up, placing it on her outstretched legs. It’s wings droop over each side of her lap, and she runs her fingertips along the edge of one, feeling the sharp bones poking out between the feather shafts. “Are you alright?” The creature doesn’t move, just lays there with its eyes peering off into the distance somewhere. It’s thinking about how it shouldn’t have gotten attached to her, and this situation. It should've left long ago, but this place seemed safe. Seemed like the only place it couldn’t be found. It was wrong. 

This time, as she leaves for the evening, the creature gets her attention by scraping its talons on the floor, and it pulls out a piece of paper from under the blanket. On the sheet there are some scribbled letters spelling out ‘ S O R R Y ‘, and the Agent squints, confused. “There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.” As she goes to turn away again, the crow caws at her, and she jumps. It nudges the sheet of paper toward her, and she picks it up. “You want me to take it?” The creature nods, and she pets its head gently. “Silly. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She doubles down.

She takes the sheet with her as she leaves through the interlock chambers, and she keeps glancing back at the creature, lying on its side groggily on its blanket, then at the note. She can’t shake the feeling that something’s not quite right. Like maybe she missed something. 

And she was right, because she was wrong. The creature absolutely did have things to be sorry for, and many more to come.

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 13: Logince

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 13: Everyone is born with a super power, but when soulmates are together their powers are nullified by each other. (AKA the hero/villain AU I’m probably going to have to write a sequel for)

Content warnings: battle wounds (minor blood), physical combat, general destruction, fear of death/intention to kill (no one dies), passing out.

Comments: I’m definitely more of a dialogue heavy writer, so writing so much action was new to me. Life hack: watch fight scenes online to get a better visual when writing combat.

Word count: 1.8k

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

That’s all Roman could think as he weakly pushed himself onto his elbows, lifting his battered forehead from the ground, an action that required far more effort than it should have. Never before in his life had he been reduced to this, a limp pile of bruises and ice burns and bloodied cuts surrounded by the wreckage of a once unscathed street. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and heavy in his lungs, rising from the rubble of collapsed buildings and choking him both physically and metaphorically, as a reminder of how much he’d failed. 

This guy, whoever he was, was a new villain. As far as Roman knew, at least. He’d never laid eyes on the man before today, and hated how instantly attracted he was to the maskless villain. Of course, the lack of mask also indicated that he didn’t intend on staying around long enough to be recognized in public… or leaving any survivors that would be able to pick him out of a line up. So even though Roman immediately felt bad as soon as the first well aimed hit of his flaming sword’s hilt knocked into the man’s jaw and sent him tumbling, it was quickly overruled by his ingrained instinct to protect. The goal was to take him down alive, relatively unhurt, and have him placed in the same secure facility all of Roman’s defeated foes were sent to, but if he had to be killed for the greater good, that was just a sacrifice he would have to make. Guilt could come later, when everyone was safe. 

But his one hit was all he got in before the man completely unleashed everything he had. He had unclipped a small tube from his waist and popped it open to full size; a compact staff that was at least double the length of Roman’s sword. The distance he’d stumbled from the first hit was just enough, an action that Roman only now realized had been completely intentional on the other’s part, and he swung with accuracy that put the hero’s to shame. It hit him in the side and sent him sprawling, landing on his hands and using the momentum to roll, jumping back to his feet and setting his sword aflame once more. He couldn’t let his concentration falter like that again. Forget those perfect blue eyes, Roman. He’s trying to kill you. 

He’d kept his distance after that, an artful duck and weave between buildings, avoiding spears of ice that seemed to grow from the ground itself and praying one of his blindly shot gusts of flame had landed a hit. Of course, of freaking course, the one villain that stood a chance against him combat-wise had an opposing power. His sword was starting to dwindle and his arms were sore from deflecting and breaking through the walls of ice his opponent continued to raise with no hesitation, and the heat in his hands was starting to fade. He was tired. That just made this harder, and the fun factor was starting to wear off. He had to end this. 

That was the wrong mindset to go in with, because then he was desperate. Desperation led to destruction, and he regretted his sudden carelessness the moment a clumsy spur-of-the-moment shot missed his nemesis by a mile and tore through the entryway of a jewellery store instead. Luckily the street had been cleared the moment the fight began, so no one was injured, but that building going up in flame was only the beginning of the chaos. Because even though it wasn’t his fault after that, things just got so much worse. 

The street itself began to crumble to pieces, concrete breaking apart where thick tendrils of ice ripped its way through in all directions, spreading like tree roots, the ‘trunk’ itself being the new villain. He was standing in the middle of the street, watching Roman with an unreadable expression, as the carnage only increased. It was as if he saw his accidental blunder and decided he wanted to break buildings now, too. All Roman can think about is the Titanic, a mighty vessel taken down by a single piece of ice, as the roots shredded through the foundations of the downtown street. Metal and wood creaking fills the air, the sound of the ice growing and spreading, and it takes the hero far too long of just staring in terror to remember that he needs to try and stop that. 

He was strong, not smart. 

He ripped his sword out of the display window it had been flung through after an especially bad ice shot to the hand and sprinted forward, weapon ablaze with his newfound dedication. The unsteady ground rose to trip him, every muscle burned, blood dripped into his eye, but he pushed on, vaulting over a flipped car and coming face to face with his opponent. Again, he was slightly taken aback by the sheer confidence in his eyes, the man not at all flinching as Roman brought down the sword towards his head, blocking the strike with the edge of his staff. The destruction of the street came to a standstill as he turned all his concentration to the immediate fight, blocking Roman’s next two hits. The hero let the impact push his momentum downwards, swinging his weapon through the empty space where the man’s feet had been seconds ago. A creak to his left stole Roman’s attention for barely a split second, a mistake he realized the second he glanced away, and the other man went onto the offensive, thrusting the end of his staff into Roman’s side. He let out a soft grunt and threw up his sword, blocking the overhead strike inches from his head but not acting before he was kicked in the stomach, the force throwing him back. His sword clattered from his grip, the flames flickering out of existence and blending in with the rubble. And oh, how tables can turn. 

He rolled out of the way as the staff was jabbed into the ground, feeling the cold metal barely brush his neck. As he leapt to his feet, retreating several steps, his eyes kept shifting between the villain and the ground, searching desperately for his sword. It was a waste of time; his opponent was sizing him up again, almost like he was calculating weak spots in his head. He lunged forward, bringing the staff down towards Roman’s neck. Roman blocked with his forearm instinctively, immediately hissing in pain as a jolt shot up to his shoulder, and took another step back. This isn’t good. This isn’t good. He picked up the first weapon-like object he could reach, the bent pole of what was probably a street sign, and swung it at the other’s head with little to no aim, stumbling with the momentum. The villain ducked underneath it with no hesitation, stepping forward under the pole and landing a solid hit into Roman’s spine. Another kick in the same place sent him headfirst into the rubble, smacking his forehead against a piece of metal and feeling the skin split on contact. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

That’s all Roman could think as he weakly pushed himself onto his elbows, lifting his battered forehead from the ground, an action that required far more effort than it should have. Never before in his life had he been reduced to this, a limp pile of bruises and ice burns and bloodied cuts surrounded by the wreckage of a once unscathed street. The smell of smoke was thick in the air and heavy in his lungs, rising from the rubble of collapsed buildings and choking him both physically and metaphorically, as a reminder of how much he’d failed. 

He rolled onto his back, wincing as shards of metal and glass pierced his skin, only able to watch as the villain strolled towards him, twirling his staff smugly. Every muscle and bone screamed as he pushed himself onto his feet, stumbling weakly. Weak sparks shooting between his fingers was the best he could summon in this state, his hands numb from overexertion and skin dry and cracking from the constant flame. 

“And to think, I actually expected a challenge. They made you out to be so much more than this.”

The first words he’d heard the man say, slipping from his lips like honey, a near growl. He continued to advance, taking a step for every one of Roman’s pained backpedals, until his broken and bleeding skin bumped into the remains of a wall, pushing the debris in just that much further. Just as Roman glanced down to his feet, looking for anything weapon-like, he flicked his wrist in the hero’s direction and four shards of ice broke apart from the main roots around him, shooting through the air in a blur, and pinning Roman to the wall. Still the villain approached him until they were almost touching, Roman’s pain-hunched form causing the man to nearly tower over him, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. He raised a crooked finger under Roman’s chin, tsking under his breath.

“I thought you were their hero.”

And just like that, with no further monologuing, he shoved his hand into Roman’s chest, the cold limb burning Roman’s skin in seconds. He let out a weak sound, somewhere between a yelp and a groan, too dizzy with pain to even care about dignity anymore, waiting for the final blow. 

Just get it over with, he thought pathetically. But the hand didn’t get colder, or shoot a spike into his heart, or however this villain had planned to kill him. They just stood there, still, until Roman built up the courage to crack his eyes open, not knowing what to expect.

Whatever he had imagined, it wasn’t this. The man was squinting in concentration at his hand on Roman’s chest, the fingers spasming slightly as nothing happened. Whether it was sudden exhaustion or improper training, Roman didn’t care, because a surge of energy filled him and he focused it on his hands. Granted, they were pinned to a wall, but if he could just get the angle right-

Nope. Not a spark, not a flicker across his palm. They heated up, they burned, and he knew they should have at least glowed slightly to indicate the power flowing through them. The villain seemed to notice the way his fingers formed a fist, curling and uncurling to try and get them to do something, and a look of pure horror crossed his unmasked face. It took Roman much too long to realize as well. 

Neither of their powers were working.      

“No,” They both spoke simultaneously, jerking up to meet each other’s eyes. 

The villain dropped his hands to his sides, taking a couple steps back, the shock clear on his face. Another choked, “No,” escaped his lips before he turned and ran, the ice around Roman’s arms melting into thin air as soon as he was far enough away. The hero watched the man- his soulmate?!- sprint into the smoke, off to whatever base he was from, before crumbling weakly to the ground. Exhaustion overtook him, the memory of those startling blue eyes his final thought before the world dissolved into black.