#the muzzle and back and metal skeleton are not mine

[monsterfloofs]

Muir (Male skelly creature) x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

(There is this old oc of mine that likes to resurface once in a blue moon and whisper in my mind. “Hey, you’re a writer, you like telling stories, yes? Well, there’s this story that I would very much like you to weave, if you’re up to it.” The idea fades, and the character too, as new things spring into my thoughts, but Muir is a pretty persistent fellow, and as this is maybe the fifth time the idea has bounced back into my mind, I think it’s about time I do a little writing for them. This is Muir, a demigod-like creature who served a death goddess. However he lives among us now, and fills his time with collecting macabre little trinkets, things soaked in curses, and to the foolish that stumbles into his accursed shop, they might bring one of these items back home unknowingly. But don’t worry! He can get rid of that nasty curse. . . for a price <3

This is a story about a human who became his assistant.)

It was the crack of dawn, and you sat bleary eyed with your head bent over a warm cup of tea. The steam curling up to waft heat over your cheeks. You rotate the mug in your hands, trying not to nod off.

“Not much of a morning person, are you?”

You scrunch up your eyes and blink to focus your vision. Raising your sagging head with effort to look across the round table in the parlor. Muir sits patiently across the table from you, his hands neatly steepled together. Their smooth boney face unreadable except for the little flicker of light that appeared in one of their eye sockets. The glow forms an amused half moon shape in the murky depths of the skull. His skull resembled something like an elk with pronounced fangs on either side of their muzzle. Muirs dark bramble of spiraling antlers hung a manner of different trinkets that dangled and clinked when the great skeletal head moved. Some of the paraphernalia were ribbons with strange things written in unknown languages, keys, little charms made of precious metals and stones. In the right light you could barely make out a ghostly golden glimmer, an outline of feathery wings. A peculiar creature you had found yourself in the thralls of. A peculiar creature that happened to be your boss.

“So. . . why did you need me up so early?

Muirs gloved hands are the first things to move, his tone of voice hinting at excitement.

“Wait, until you see,” Their hulking shape turns, pulling out a satchel bag that had rested beside his feet. Muir pulls out a jar, and you tilt your head curiously. The jar's lid is wrapped with twine, flowers and plants carefully weaved over top of the lid. The contents of the jar looked like black ink. You tilt your head, leaning closer but jump back almost immediately. Eyes like boils starting to pop up in the swirling liquid. Bright eyes blinking and swirling around to look around before they glare suspiciously at you. Muir shakes the jar for good measure, and you watch in horror as the eyes swirl around and around, clearly dizzy from getting shaken.

“A demon!” Muir chirps as if merely he had shaken a very entertaining snow globe, rising from his chair.

“It will be perfect for my collection,” He chortles, you hastily scoot out of your own seat, following him out of the sunlit parlor. Watching the translucent wings fade from sight as he moves to the dark corridor with its many shelves. Many of them are filled to the brim with strange atrocities. A skull of a human, an eerily ticking pocket watch that grows steadily louder, pickled things, a black plush teddy bear with a big red bow, a drying gnarled hand or something you would rather not know the source of.

“You— if that thing ever escapes it’s going to kill you,” You observe.

Muir chuckles evenly, setting the jar on a high shelf. “It can try, I suppose.” The trinkets on their horns tinkle like windchimes as they turn around.

“Now!” The skeleton creature cheerfully exclaims, clapping their hands together. “I need a certain wonderful apprentice to sweep the floors for me,” They reach over, grasping the broom that was propped in a corner, holding it out for you. You scowl for a moment before you take the wooden handle with a defeated sigh.

“Sure, sure. . .”

“It will keep you out of trouble!” The demigod chuckles again, before they walk around you, quickly disappearing into the recesses of tall dark shelves.

“Keep me out of trouble,” you mumble, “Who will keep them out of trouble? Honestly.” You resign yourself to sweeping, keeping your head down and focused on your work. The air around you was still, a few golden flecks of dust float around you, illuminated by the rays of early morning sunshine that seep through the window. It isn’t until you wander back towards the corner to fetch a dustpan, that you hear a voice above you.

“Human child~” The voice hums, you pause before slowly looking up, the creature in the glass has it’s eyes locked on you. A few of the eyes floating closer to where you stood, pressing against its glass prison.

“I didn’t know you could talk,” You mutter faintly,

“Oh, I can do so much more than that,” The voice took on a poisonous honeysuckle tone, a frown forming on your lips.

“. . . I am sure you can.” With that, you turn on your heels.

“Wait! Wait. . .” The voice falters, just for a moment before resuming a cool and unbothered tone. “Clearly you’re not here because you want to be,” which has you pause midstep, “Lost at love,” They sigh, a feigned sound of empathy, “But I could help you with that, help you reclaim what you lost.”

“I. . .” You take in a short shaky breath, turning back around, watching the swimming pools of eyes light up triumpantly. Your lips crack into a bitter smile, and you shake your head.

“No. Something like that could never be reclaimed. I loved them, but they didn’t feel the same way. . . Besides, I’m already indebted to someone else.”

The eyes widen, blinking a couple of times, before they shift towards the direction of where your keeper had gone. The jar rattles, giving a frustrated sound before the eyes shift away from you. The contents of the jar turn solid black as the creature turns its back on you.

“You’re useless to me then,”

You give a surprised sound of laughter and shake your head in amusement. “Sorry to disappoint,” You joke, your tone light as you grabbed the dust pan. Continuing on with cleaning as the jar gives you the silent treatment.

[void-tiger]

It just isn’t practical to me for Shiro’s Scars to have come from the arena. Oh, he definitely has some, the majority being defensive, but they’re almost all superficial, and many of them already fading.

Because the Galra aren’t going to waste medical supplies treating gladiator, not even crowd favorites or careers, and certainly not the slaves and fodder. And despite Humans maxing out their endurance even if they’re not the fastest or strongest, bones and organ and skin are still very delicate things. They’re sturdy enough, but one bad fall or hit or wrenching motion is all it takes. Contusions and stress fractures can still be Very Bad if left untreated. And the galra would kill off a sick slave (or even another freeborn galra) rather than risk an epidemic.

“Victory or Death” —wipe out the weakness.

So Shiro’s fighting strategy is to quite literally DON’T GET HIT; Get Fast or Get Dead. Use his mind to outthink and use his “smaller” body and insanely high stamina (and stubborness) to out maneuver and outlast. Don’t be shy about killing blows or disabling strikes—it’s Them or You, and the Galra will either condemn them to a slow, agonizing death or put them down much more painfully than even you in arena conditions. (Also Jiro telling Keith to Just Let Go softly—he probably inherited that from Shiro. Shiro trying to comfort his opponant as he’s killing them, because Dying Isn’t An Option for Shiro, but he also knows that they both can’t survive, that the Galra will just kill the other slave, that the arena is lonely enough void of any scrap of kindness. But giving a swift or easing death? Making sure they won’t die ALONE? That he can do. Be the Angel of Death rather than be the Arena’s Champion.)

That doesn’t mean Shiro doesn’t rebel. He certainly does, and pays dearly for it. The only reason why he wasn’t struck down right then is because Sendak enjoys breaking his toys, and Shiro’s spirit is a delicious challenge he hasn’t seen in milennia. Sendak’s going to relish Champion.

That doesn’t mean Haggar and her Druids and Scientists and Androids won’t take Champion apart piece by piece to see how he’s made, how to put him back together again, see if Terrans are worth the effort to take as stock, see what sets Champion apart from the other two Terrans taken and every other known being she’s seen over her very long life. See what improvements she can make, ideas she can test. (Champion’s illness is also both a frustration but also a wonderful puzzle. She will FIX him. Make him BETTER. And he will be HERS and worship her for it.) Haggar is very deliberate in putting Champion back together again and sealing the wounds she left. But her methods still leave raised, angry-looking scars that are tender to the touch. (She’s careful not to damage nerves. Pain is a nuisance Champion will endure if he’s wise. But she made the mistake in causing a subject to lose feeling—he died soon after. Haggar never makes the same mistake twice.)

So when Shiro looks at himself, his back is a mottled mess of electric burnmarks left by his guards, he assumes. Viciously he doesn’t mind—GOOD. He fought back. They didn’t break him. He knows they didn’t...right? But. He gave them hell right back.

His remaining arm and hand and legs and feet are crisscrossed with faded slashes and sometimes dotted with double-Us left by teeth. Defensive marks. By color they were all presumably superficial. He fought, and he survived. They never got a good hit in. He’a both relieved and overwhelmed with horrible guilt—if he survived, that means they didn’t. He killed them. What kind of monster does that make him if he valued his own life over theirs? But what would’ve happened to his kids and Allura and Coran and the BlackLion if he didn’t? To the Universe? But. He still killed innocents. What right does he have to the Black Paladin mantle over Zarkon after that?

(His thighs and ass and pecks have much deeper bite wounds and claw marks. Shiro tries very, very hard not to think about them or to let anything touch these scars directly. Tries not to remember remember his instant recognition of Sendak, particularly his teeth and definitely his claws, both natural and artificial. How Sendak entering the Castle and hurting his friends and taunting him—don’tthinkdon’tthinknodon’tthinkabouthimtouchingyou—forces Shiro to lie awake or have a new set of nightmares. His guilt over that vicious relief when Sendak was finally gone and off the ship.)

Or the scar on his nose—Shiro hates how visible both it and the shock of white hair are (and how tender that part of his scalp is whenever he accidentally brushes it). He can’t hide it. Not unless he wants to keep his face covered for the rest of his life. He could dye his bangs back to black...if the Alteans even have hair dye. (Do they just change their haircolor like they do their height and skin when they’re bored??) But, other than being so visible and a testiment to the world about that year he can’t remember (probably for the best...right??) and his scalp being this constant itch and his face a raw, tender ache that pulls (and makes him have snuffled snores now. Snoring’s new...) they don’t exactly look bad.

Frosted bangs are a classic look. He’s never had them but he’d definitely been curious about it. (The GG’s just barely lax about haircuts, but still had a stick up their ass with dyed hair. And his faded undercut and bangs were already pretty expensive to have kept all the time.) And he can kinda pretend that his scar’s just the Voltron Symbol upside down—he doesn’t really put much stock in fate or destiny, but still. It’s a nicer thought than most. (His opinion sours slightly after seeing Shay suspended and muzzled. That contour. It’s the same one on his own face. At some point they muzzled him, but it either rubbed his skin raw, or didn’t fit him properly, or both.)

But the scars Shiro cannot avoid and definitely bother him—that mortician Y incision on his chest. It’s raw and it’s raised and it’s ragged. Someone cut into him, mucked about inside, sealed it up, used the same spot and did it all over again. It’s ugly and tender in a way none of his other scars are, and fills him with helpless rage when it catches (all the time) or he sees it (he tries So HARD not to look at it. He’d rather cover the bathroom mirror and use a hand one when he’s stuck shaving off his whiskers. He hated shaving before—it takes so damn long. He definitely hates it now, but traditional blades are slightly better than buzzing electric ones that close to his face and throat...if he doesn’t nick himself, anyway...) The raised lines that follow the contor inside his arms (well, what’s left of his right arm) and legs match in precision, but they’re not as angry looking, if slightly.

The reason Shiro learns why, though, is less than comforting. He could say that he’s Wolverine Now but. He didn’t consent to that. He didn’t consent to any of this, and they still violated him so thoroughly and invasively, anyway. And unlike his Arena Scars, the raw scars and callouses on his remaining wrist and ankles say that no matter how hard he tried to resist, they still got their way, anyway. They took him at his most helpless and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. And he wasn’t strong enough to keep things from progressing that far.

Before Kerberos, Shiro was already pretty modest. He didn’t like people staring at him or the snide remarks and other unwanted attention. He felt fairly comfortable in his own skin, but didn’t like either being jeered at for “not earning things” or dealing with people liking the way he looked but not really liking him (and okay so he’s tall and his eyes are unusual but...he just looks fairly average?? Trying to buy clothes is also awful—it’s always too tight or HUGE. How can awkward fits be attractive, anyway?)

After Kerberos. Well. He has a new set of reasons to not want the other paladins to see him even with just his shirt off. He doesn’t want to see his own scars, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with anyone looking at him with pity or morbid fascination or revulsion (either because of his scars being so ugly looking...or worse, because of how he got them. For not being strong or smart enough to stop them, and instead became someone else’s pet to survive many times over. For getting them as “payment” for being unable to save his crew, and flying too damn well and landing them all in danger.)

[trashpandaorigins]

The Body Keeps the Score  Ch.18 Repentance

"You said it yourself bitch, we're the Guardians of the Galaxy." Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma," by Bessel van der Kolk

It was a lie when they smiled, and said, you won't feel a thing

And as we ran from the cops, we laughed so hard it would sting

Yeah yeah, oh, if I'm so wrong, how can you listen all night long?

Now will it matter, after I'm gone? Because you never learn a goddamn thing

You're just a sad song with nothing to say, about a life long wait for a hospital stay

And if you think that I'm wrong,  this never meant nothing to ya

Disenchanted - My Chemical Romance

Blood pooled under Rocket’s tongue, his sharp teeth biting down trying to staunch the contents of his stomach from erupting out of his stomach.

“Where are we?”

Behind him Nebula followed with a staunch stride, in fact he was surprised she hadn’t shot him and fled the moment they touched down. He almost wished she had. They crept through the concrete landing zone, though all the ships that once pulled up to this planet were now dashed to smithereens. Pieces of crumpled metal lay like tombstones. Rocket tried to calm his breathing, he shuddered, eyes darting about. In all the years he’d been gone it appeared no one had come to this abandoned planet, not either the ravagers had attempted to scavenge the wrecked buildings.

“Halfworld,” he struggled to speak.

He hefted his gun, one of many he’d brought with him. Nebula stepped beside him, glaring about with an ire he would normally appreciate. Now however, he just trembled. Entire body wracked with shaking, adrenaline, ready to fight anything that might come out of the shadows.

“So it's a lab, a zoo?”

The raccoonoid’s stomach curdled, Breathe...just focus...get to the building….3C just….just get inside, fix her and….g...get the fuck out.

“Stay close.”

Nebula grunted but continued on. Some part of him was glad for her presence. Shame and self-loathing twisted inside of him.

They’ll come straight here, they might be here already. No! You’re doing this for Gamora. You fucked up. This is how you fix it, and you can fix Nebula too even if you can never fix yourself. You fucked up. You lied, spied on her...you hit Groot. Tears threatened to streak his eyes.

“T...there it is,” he pointed to the large concrete building, a husky shell of a thing. Clearly unused. Rocket halted in his steps….. the doors…. the doors were still broken open. In the darkness he made out the torn rents of metal where he’d blasted through the bolts with an improvised bomb. Screeching, fire and blood, smoke, choking smoke, stinging in his lungs.

The raccoonoid sniffed, wiping a paw across his face and leveled his gun, stepping across the threshold into the bowels of the building.

“Stay close, if you hear anything shoot it.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” the woman growled, she bent her arm and Rocket watched a series of clicks and mechanisms come together, turning her hand into a firearm. In any other situation he would’ve admired it but they came to a cross section at the end of a long hall and he stopped, looking around. Paneling from the ceiling had fallen down, hanging by a chord. Dried crusted blood smattered the wall, filling his nose with a scent of rotting flesh and stale chemicals.

Needles punctured into flesh, straps too tight, pinching. The stiff metal table. Their masks, their laughter, their tools. His body opened, the feel of the fetid air brushing against organs and tissues that were never meant to know a breeze.

One paw went to his stomach on instinct. His ears swiveling to pick up any sound. Only Nebula’s heavy foot falls. He gathered himself, stomach still roiling.

“Fox!”

His head snapped up, blinking hard, he ran one paw over his face.

“W...what?”

“Which way?”

Rocket swallowed the lump in his throat, the metallic taste of blood still on this tongue. He shook his head, which way….I came from...down there...shot that one, his eyes rested on the dusty remains of a body, now nothing but bone.

“G...gimme a sec.”

Before she could object he stumbled off down the hall, leaned against the wall and vomited. Here he was again, just a sick animal surrounded by other sick, dying, drooling, decaying animals. Or so they were, before he had escaped in a bloody spectacle of gun fire and rage.

She can see you, his pride warned. But the raccoonoid hardly registered, pinching his eyes shut against the involuntary force of his gut, synching and surging painfully. He wretched again, trying to breathe between spouts of puking.

Pull yourself together! How the flark are you gonna get anything done if you can’t walk down a d’ast hallway?! They ain’t here no more. No one’s here, you made sure of that. How else are you gonna make it up to Gamora? Or Groot….? The image of the scared little flora, reeling from the blow Rocket dealt him  branded in his mind. He swallowed another round of vomit, acid burning at his throat.

“What’s the matter fox? Eat too much garbage?”

Rocket wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw.

“This way,” he steadied his grip on his gun, holding it with two hands and shuffled forward, around the bodies. Down the dark corridor, doors evenly spaced on either side. He knew better than to look up into the shattered windows of the various laboratories. They crept along, through the double doors and down a flight of stairs, deeper underground through the vast labyrinth of rooms filled with cages, testing chambers, operating theaters, chemical testing labs. Rocket’s hair stood on end, remembering the menagerie of agonies.

Just keep going, you got out of here with thousands of guards you’ll be in and out quick as a rocket with no one to stop you. Ha, rocket. He allowed himself a bemused smile, that was the reason for his name after all.

“Agh!”

Rocket spun, bristling, gun aimed, chest pounding, his breath caught.

“I stepped in something,” Nebula yelped, lifting her foot out of whatever it was.

Still shaking with adrenaline the raccoonoid hurried forward, and halted.

The broken skeleton of some small creature lay dispersed and crumbling in the dusty hall. The empty sockets of its eyes staring at them both. Its skeleton had only been partially enhanced as detailed by the odd bending of vertebrae and rusted metal. Rocket crouched, sniffing, whiskers twitching and squinted at the metal panel still fused into the base of the skull. Shining a light on it, he drew a quick breath, realizing.

“You recognize him?”

“Her,” the raccoonoid corrected.

She was in the cage below mine.

Nebula made no retort, but he could feel her eyes on him. He forced himself back up, clearing his throat and sniffing.

Breathe….in...out...you’re doing this for Gamora. You’re not gonna fuck up again. You can’t...you owe Gamora that much.

“We’re almost there,” he wheezed through the fight to keep his breath steady. Nebula shook her head curtly, motioning for him to move forward. Rocket slid his back against the wall before the next corner, holding his gun close to his chest, holding his breath, knowing what he was about to face.

The double doors of the room had long since broken, lying like two more bodies on the hard floor. Beyond the threshold the procedural room yawned like a black hole. He could make out the single ominous table, the five large oversize lights hovering above like demons ready to spirit someone away. Those bright piercing lights illuminating a subject’s insides, penetrating light into everything, exposing things meant to be left in the dark. The fur on Rocket’s arms rose, the cybernetics in his shoulders and spine clenched with tension. He picked at his fur with tension.

“Ah,” he bit his tongue once more, forcing down the high pitched whine that nearly escaped him. The raccoonoid forced himself closer, each step heavy as led. His tail twitched, legs tensed ready to bolt. Though the mind may forget, may block out certain memories, the body remembers everything.

You do this, she won’t hurt Gamora no more. She’ll stop. That was the deal. Gamora won’t have to run...won’t have to be so scared. Tears pricked his eyes as he picked over the broken double doors, and crossed into that dank, room. The last time he was in this lab, he’d escaped. Killing the scientists and orderlies and bursting out the door. Groot was with him. He longed for the flora now, not the little thing who had emerged from a pot but his old best friend. Groot had been the reason for a majority of the rotting skeletons he and Nebula had passed. He wanted the large tree with him, that towering presence. If anything happened, if the Halfworlders who were out there looking for him did come, Groot would be there to protect him. But no...Groot was dead.

At least Groot didn’t die in here, Rocket thought bitterly. A stabbing pain in his gut. Tears ran down his furred cheeks. He sucked a painful breath, the sterol scent of chemicals still lingered in the air, burning him with memories. He longed for those tight wooden arms now, that gentle soothing place he had risked his life to get to just down the hall where their cages sat next to one another. He’d learned to bypass the security and slip passed the bars into the flora’s holding cell, spending the sleepless nights therein.

“So this is where you’re going to fix me?” Nebula asked, looking around the dark room. She surveyed the monitors and equipment, still hanging from wires, there were medical tools scattered about. Computers, carts of liquid vials, an array of needles, restraints, scalpels, a saw. Everything just where they left it. He thought with a shuddered breath.

“Y...yeah, I think I got everything I need..r..right...h..here.” Rocket gestured lamely around the room. Nebula looked up at the large overhead lights, two of which were out, bulbs shattered. Rocket turned the remaining light on, wincing at the white flash of memories slapped across his mind.

He wiped his eyes hastily before turning around and looking at her as she hoisted herself up with ease onto the fated cold table. Rocket sighed, rummaging around for the clear, anesthesia liquid that the scientist kept locked away. He found it easily enough following the sharp scent of it, familiar and immediately bringing him back to the day’s he’d been the one on that table.

Focus, focus. Breathe….you’re the one with the scalpel now. Not them. They're dead.  A small smirk escaped him.

“What’s that?” Nebula glared at the needle poised in the raccoonoid’s paw.

“It’s an anesthetic,” Rocket explained, slowly looking at it as though it were about to come to life and prick him. “I told yah I could undo what Thanos did to yah, and I can but it ain’t gonna be pretty. You want to be knocked out for this, trust me.”

The cyborg woman eyed him, her own gaze much like his. Solid black eyes, with no iris or pupil. Foreign and unnerving. A chill ran down his spine, and not from the hollow breeze blowing through hallowed halls.

“I’m trusting you to not use it,” she countered, though she spoke uncommonly soft. Rocket opened his mouth to press her but stopped. If Gamora’s past was any inclination, there was no doubt Thanos had not offered the younger sister the luxury of anesthetic. The raccoonoid knew well what happened to those who had felt the scalpel one too many times. The body, animal or humanoid did what it did best: adapted. After enough procedures freakish panic turned to heightened panic, heightened panic to fighting, fighting to exhaustion, exhaustion….expectation and finally, grim resolve. If Nebula’s procedures were any like his own then she had grown to expect anguish. Never desensitized, but accustomed to the dance of fight or flight, survival and eventually resolve. At this point she had probably grown more used to that than the uncertainty of falling into a chemically induced sleep not knowing who or what she’d be when she awoke. He looked her over, then set the large needle down.

“Your body, your choice.”

He heard her whisper a ‘thank you’ while he back was turned but did not acknowledge it.

“Alright lay down.”

She obeyed, reclining on the metal slab, face tight. She fidgeted into the most comfortable or at least neutral position possible. With shaking paws he reached for the restraints.

“I won’t move,’ she snapped, voice cracking. He let go of the cuffs. Waiting.

“I won’t move,” she repeated. “Trust me.”

Rocket looked her over, she was more metal than flesh. He finally nodded, climbing up on the table beside her, crouching over her arm. He held his breath, holding the scalpel tight and got to work.

---

In some ways it was easier, in other ways it was harder. Rocket refused to look at her face. If he did, he’d stop and if he stopped the deal would be done and she’d go after Gamora. He worked diligently, it's just another gun, another bomb, another machine. No. It’s not, she’s a person. An evil person but a person. Don’t be like them. They’re the really evil ones.  Steady, stop shaking, don’t vomit. Not one’s here, no one’s coming.

He pulled the taunt faux flesh over from her elbow down to the wrist. It didn’t take long to find the storage, to dye it and measure and cut. He never bothered ransacking the supplies of the place and he knew where to find whatever he needed. Even reduced to abandoned disarray the labs of Halfworld itself were always happy to provide tools of ingenuity and suffering. Art, the scientists had called it. Never saying what their ambitions truly were, butchery. Torture.

Nebula let out a hiss of pain here, a bite of her lip there, but she kept her word and kept still. Only arching her back off the table twice and quickly righting herself. Expertly clenching her muscles and sucking in the pain.

Like sister like...sister. Rocket thought bleakly.

“Almost done,” he tried to assure her, fixing the fake flesh to her wrist. The hand was already done, each finger neatly covered with the skin like material and dyed to match her natural tone. She requested he keep some modifications in place, like the ability to turn said hand into a gun. He did this by leaving her palm alone, the small gun therein could come out if she willed it, covered by what would look like a black fingerless glove.

“T...there,” he finished, examining the arm in its entirety. She flexed it experimentally and eased herself up, dizzy at first. “Easy...it's gonna take a few hours to heal, even with the laser seal.”

Nebula nodded but bent the arm back and forth watching the flexible flesh move with her. Rocket spied the smallest inclination of her lips.

“Told ya I’d make it better.”

She looked up, glaring at him.

“You said you’d fix all of it,” her voice fell to a snarl.

“I will, I will,” he assured, sniffing and rubbing his eyes. Fatigue ached his eyes, suppressing the frenzied urge to run stole any strength of concentration from him,  and the arm was the easy part.

Nebula lay back down, adjusting herself slightly and took a deep breath.

“You don’t wanna….a...break for a sec? You were just lying down for like….eight terran hours.”

Rocket looked around, chest heaving in preparation as he peered down the dark hall the way they had come, nothing.

“Well? What are you waiting for Fox?”

The raccoonoid tried to breathe, looking over the metal plating in her face and skull. His stomach summersaulted, the room going darker, head spinning.

Just...concentrate…

The raccoonoid hopped down from the table, on to the floor and dragged over a nearby stool, up to her head and hovered directly over her face.

“If you try anything,” she seethed, “I’ll kill you.”

Even in his delirium Rocket recognized an empty threat when he heard one.

“Just….hol….hold still.”

Maybe this was his repentance, sort of. If he were worthy of it. Rocket gingerly lifted the main panel from her head that curved over the dome of her head to just over her right eye.

“Stars,” he breathed, eyes widening. “What’d he do to you.”

“Everything he didn’t want to do to Gamora.”

The venom in her voice was plain. For once Rocket did not form a rebuttal. Staring into the inner workings of Nebula’s cybernetically enhanced mechanized brain was staring into the one part of himself he could not see during the procedures. Is this...what I look like...on the inside?  His insides curled in on themselves, the chronic pain in his cybernetics ached and pinched.

Use the pain, channel it.

He did, the noxious nervous energy wracking him to the point of near mania. Mania he forced into working on Nebula’s cerebral enhancements. Wire by wire, snipping things there, modifying things here.

“A’right,” he sighed, setting down the tongs he’d been working with. “Almost done. Now come the memories. What you want me to get rid of?”

He waited for a moment, taking the time to run his paws through his fur, shaking his head. Once again he forced himself to look up, down the empty hallway. Expecting the Halfworlders to come charging in, or one of the corpses on the floor to leap to life.

“Leave it all,” she whispered hoarse. He frowned, staring down at her.

“Yah...sure?”

Nebula’s eyes shifted, her hands knotting together.

“Yes.”

“You really are a masochist,” he grumbled.

“I never knew my true parents. I was an urchin on Wresreenia before Thanos found me. I have nothing else. If I don’t have the rage of those memories...I have nothing.”

“Yeah,” Rocket agreed.  He would have laughed with the ironic similarity between them. The scientists effectively erased all memory of anything before Halfworld. What he was before he was made he did not know. All he knew was that he wasn’t always like he was now.

“Alright, last part. Hold still I’m gonna put the plating back and cover it with that same fleshy covering. The laser seal will leave a small scar but it’ll heal.”

Almost done...you’re almost done...just close her up and you’ll be outta here.

Rocket measured and set the fleshy covering that would go over the panel, already dyed to match her skin and stretched it, shifting about her shoulders and reaching as far as he could to pull it down, hold it in place and close it up.

“Okay, the eyes the last bit,” the raccoon flexed his fingers, aching from the tools and precision. His back wracked with kinks from trying to get the tools at the right angel wherever he needed them. The metal in his skeleton grind against his bones.

The cybernetics around her eye were tiny, nearly imperceptible with enhanced optical cables for enhanced night vision. The raccoonoid hunched over her face, carefully extracting the machinery that made her eyes into scopes, immediately able to identify a target’s weaknesses and anticipating their next move. He left the night vision per her request.

“Is that it?” He could hear the begging in her voice, thin and hopeful.

“All we gotta do is jumpstart your system again,” he answered. A black pit forming in his insides, he eyed the busted generator typically used to start up cybernetic systems. Wires and cables all fell around it and spilled out like guts, several pieces missing.

“How are we going to do that?”

Rocket searched around for any inkling of an idea, spare parts, batteries, something, anything.

“Uhh….”

“You don’t know?!” Nebula cried, clearly fury almost hiding her fright.

“I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin….” the raccoonoid paused.

It worked with Gamora’s arm...I could use my own cybernetics as the jumpstart….but with Gams it was just a simple set in her arm. I’d have to boost Nebula’s entire system….

He glanced behind her at the port in the base of her head. Unlike her sister’s meticulously placed cybernetics, each fixed with precise care, Nebula’s were shunted in every which way, haphazard.

Even if my wiring were enough to do it….I’d have to maximize electrical output to her...it’d be risky. I could fry my whole system…. he didn’t know what would happen. Still, he jumped down, scavenging through the drawers and store closets for any spare cables. A restraint staff with electrical prongs lay on the floor in the hall a few feet away.

“I thought...we were a family...Groot taught me that. That’s what his sacrifice meant to me. I thought....I was sure it would mean something to you too. I thought if anyone could get through to you it would’ve been him.” Gamora’s voice howled in his mind as he grabbed a bunch of wires, sizing them up.

“What are you doing fox?”

“Shhh, lemme think!” He hissed, pulling one of the blue wires from the bundle, this would do. He took his gun from his holster and crept slowly into the hall, resisting the urge to pull at his fur.

Gamora was right. You sold your teammate for money...Groot would be ashamed of you. His sacrifice taught Gamora something. What will it teach you?

“Gamora is worth it,” he whispered through his tears of fear. He seized the electrical staff, scurried back to Nebula and stood beside her on the table.

Groot thought we were worth dyn’ for…Gamora’s worth this. Even if it goes wrong. I always knew I’d die in this shit hole anyway.  

So what if he did kick the can in here? What would that make him? No better than any of the other sorry subjects who met their end against the tests or under the chemicals.

He yanked his jumpsuit down and shoved plugged the cable into the back of his head, twisting it in until he heard the click.

“What?” Nebula demanded, she sat on the edge of the table now, ready to leap off.

“Nothing. I’m gonna jumpstart your system with my own.”

Gamora is worth it, you little monster.

“This is gonna hurt for both of us, but once your cybernetics get back online you’ll know. When they’re back and you can move, unplug this from my back okay?”

The cyborg woman nodded curtly, dark eyes flashing.

“You remember your parta the deal?”

“Yes.”

“A'ight then smurfette.”

Rocket hooked the other end of the cable into her, then glanced down at his own implants and picked up the electro restraining staff.  He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his paw, tears now staining the fur of his face. He grit his teeth, switched the electrical staff on and pushed it against the bolts in his clavicle.

White hot bolts of static stabbed through his chest, expanding out his entire body, through his limbs and to his writing tail. The body remembers. He curled inward on himself, dropping the staff to the ground and gripping the edge of the metal, scraping his claws against it. Someone was screaming. Rocket’s body vibrated with the energy of electricity, his pain receptors firing off all at once. He tensed, nearly levitating off the cold slab. The thing inside his skull vibrated.

S….sorr...Gams...b...breathe...just...b..brea…

“AAARRRGGGHHHH!”

He couldn’t tell who was wailing, him or Nebula.

Roving eyes fell on the cyborg woman. He clawed to get to her, though she herself was haunched, biting her lip so hard it bled. The wire between them sparked and fizzed with electric activity.

“Mora…” he gasped, reaching out through the pins and needles in his limbs and grasped for Nebula’s shirt. He crouched on her chest, balling his fist around her collar so tight it tore.

“Gime. Your. Word.”  He seethed, choking through the pink of foam and blood and filled his mouth.

Nebula forced her eyes open, her mouth in a tightly pressed line. Like him the electricity beneath her new skin glowed with purple light.

“I….w...won’t...k...kill her. I...i'll g...give h...her...a...c..chance."

Maybe Nebula never wanted to kill Gamora in the first place, maybe she just wanted someone to listen. Rocket felt his insides shaking harder, the machine in his chest he wished was a heart jumped and started. His muscles seized, tightening, paws shaking. He tried to breathe, lungs spasming with shards of glass. Everything swam, the lights above became dull, his mind clouded, unable to think, to reason. There was no thought, only feeling and non feeling . He couldn’t feel the cyborg lady’s shirt anymore, or her chest on which he crouched. He could feel jets of agonized burning pulses tore through him, heating every piece of metal inside of him.

His mind gone, his body adapted, trying desperately to protect itself by straining to curl into a ball. If only his motor function would cooperate.

“Subject 89P13 is nearly complete…..

“I’m kinda disappointed, I thought it’d be better, this one’s kinda weak.”

Stabbing, clenching.

“You were awake...when they did this to you.”

Gamora

“Thank you.”

Her hand, warm and friendly, holding his.

“Nebula!”

Something somewhere shouted, muffled, like hearing someone speak underwater.

“Let him go! Our feud does not concern him!”

Rocket tried to move his head towards the noise, but it was so heavy, his body would not obey. He curled, tightening, vision turning to black. Pressure builded against his back, at the base of his skull and down through his spine. Pressing and restricting and then….everything stopped.

[discreetammos]

The Benelli SuperNova® is an innovatively designed pump-action shotgun made from the most advanced materials. The SuperNova is an ultra-reliable, nearly indestructible pump shotgun that’s ideal for hunting most game animals in North America. The SuperNova comes with Benelli’s ComforTech® recoil reduction system that tames recoil from magnum loads considerably and reduces muzzle rise for fast follow up shots. A shim kit enables adjustment of drop and cast; integrated sling attachments allow the shotgun to be carried with a sling. Benelli constructs the SuperNova with corrosion-proof polymer over-molded on a skeleton framework to form single-piece receiver and buttstock for unsurpassed strength and weather resistance. Exterior metal parts have a non-glare, anti-corrosive finish. The polymer forearm pushes a rotary-head bolt back with dual-action bars. Aggressive ribbing on a contour-tapered forearm provides a secure hold while cycling the action under any circumstance. A magazine disconnect button on the bottom of the forearm allows user to quickly unload the chamber without releasing another round from the magazine, to quickly load another round via the ejection port in the event that a different shooting situation suddenly presents itself. The premium steel barrel features a ventilated stepped rib with a mid bead and red-bar front sight. The SuperNova utilizes a magazine cap that doubles as a tool for pushing out the single pin that holds the trigger assembly in place; the shotgun can be fieldstripped down to basic components in less than a minute. The Benelli 12 gauge SuperNova Pump-Action Shotgun handles all 2-3/4″, 3″ and 3-1/2″ ammunition. The 3 included screw-in choke tubes (F, M, IC) enhance the SuperNova’s versatility for hunting a variety of game over a wide range of habitats. Manufacturer model #: 20100.

ComforTech recoil reduction system stock

1-piece receiver and buttstock

Magazine disconnect button

Stepped vent rib barrel

Rotating bolt head

Dual-action bars

Simple fieldstripping

3-1/2″ chamber

Review: Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

By FRED TOAST FROM gunsdiscreetsupplies.com

The first time I held a pump-action shotgun, I hated it. I had decided to take up hunting and I knew exactly nothing about shotguns. When the time came to make my purchase, I walked up and down the gun counter at my local hook-n-bullet store pointing at guns I wanted to try, shouldering them and assessing comfort and fit as if I were shopping for shoes. It wasn’t an entirely silly exercise – I later learned that precise gun fit could lead to greater accuracy and consistency. But my knee-jerk rejection to the pump, it turns out, was unreasonable . . .

I just didn’t like the play in the fore-end – I wanted the gun to feel solid when I picked it up. So I dropped $1,000 on an autoloader, and that was that.

After a few years of duck hunting, I learned that some autoloaders (read: my Beretta 391 20 gauge and a 3901 in 12) have difficult-to-reach parts that tend to rust if exposed to heavy rain, leading to tragic failures to chamber a round properly just when the most perfect greenhead glides over your decoys 20 yards out. Not that I’m bitter or anything. Given that hunting in the rain is pretty much routine for me (did I mention I hunt ducks?), the simplicity of a pump started to look pretty good. That’s how I ended up taking the Benelli SuperNova for a test drive this year.

I had two key questions: 1) Could I love a pump – specifically, this pump – after having hunted with nothing but autoloaders, and 2) was the SuperNova a man gun or was it female-friendly? The answers, it turned out, would surprise me.

First Impressions

Where to begin? The manual! Yeah, I teach, and RTFM (Read The Freakin’ Manual) is Rule No. 1 on my syllabus. I hadn’t so much as touched a pump since that first shopping trip, so I wasn’t about to try to put this gun together — let alone shoot it — without reading the manual. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

The assembly instructions were clear and simple: Unscrew the magazine cap, slide the barrel onto the receiver, screw the magazine cap back on. That took all of about 12 seconds.

Now, time to hold this baby.

The first thing I noticed about the gun is that it’s huge. Though I’m female, I’m tall enough (5′ 8″) that most guns for adults (read: men) fit me just fine. When I shouldered the SuperNova it felt pretty close to what I’m used to. But at eight pounds it was heavy and with a 28” barrel it was going to be the longest gun in my safe. And dropping down to a shorter barrel would eliminate at most 2/10ths of a pound.

Next, loading the gun. This seemed pretty simple, but then I got to the part of the manual that said the mag can hold three 3½” shells or four 2¾” shells, which would be illegal for hunting. “To comply with federal and or local laws and regulations … the shell capacity of the magazine should be reduced with the appropriate magazine limiting device,” the manual warned.

Now, if you’re an experienced gun owner, you already know that the gun came with a magazine plug. But as someone who does a lot of volunteer work bringing new people into hunting, I’ve got to say it would’ve been nice for the manual include that fact – I could just see the noobs I’ve worked with wondering whether they were going to have to order a special part to stay legal. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Range Time

The next step was a trip to the shooting range. Skeet rules be damned, I just hunkered down at Station 1 and fired a few shots. The unfamiliar fit I’d noticed in my living room melted away quickly and I started hitting clays. Hard. So far, so good!

Time to fire two shots in a row, forcing me to do something my regular shotgun had always done for me: eject the spent shell, and chamber another round. I’m not gonna lie – it was awkward as hell, and I had some hellaciously slow second shots. But I was getting the hang of the additional step, and I was hitting clays. Not all of them, but enough.

After a few boxes of shells I decided it was time to give it a rest and wait for the next result of my test: Would my shoulder be sore? I’d scarcely noticed any recoil, but I hadn’t been shooting in nearly a month, and after putting that many shells through my autoloader under the same conditions, I could expect to have a sore shoulder the next day.

But I didn’t. I was blown away.

Recoil is a HUGE issue for women getting into hunting and shooting – probably their biggest fear, and the most important factor they take into consideration when buying a shotgun. I’d always assumed that a pump would stick me with a lot more recoil because the gun wasn’t channeling inertia or gas into cycling shells. But with the SuperNova, I was wrong.

I was also pretty excited that I had an affordable gun I could recommend to new shooters who are worried about recoil. Of course, it’s a trade-off: To enjoy this benefit, they have to feel comfortable lugging around an 8-pound gun.

After several more trips to the range, I was in love with the new shotty, all ready to shove my autoloader back into the darkest recesses of my safe. It was comfortable, it was easy to use, I was hitting clays, and hot damn, I loved the chk-chk sound of the pump.

Stripping and Cleaning

Disassembly and cleaning has been a real sore spot for me. My boyfriend shoots an over-and-under and I’ve always shot an autoloader, so cleaning our guns after a particularly vigorous or soggy hunt has been, well, irritating. He’d be done in a minute, but if I wanted to make sure all the little moving parts in my gun were clean, dry and powdered, it’d take me a good 30 minutes. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Basic disassembly for cleaning the barrel was easy enough – just the reverse of putting the gun together right out of the box. But what if I hurled this thing like a javelin into swamp mud and needed to break it down and clean it more thoroughly?

Back to the manual, where I found a cool feature of this gun: no tools required! The magazine tube cap has a little peg that you can use to push out the pins holding in the trigger group. Then you can use the inside edge of the cap to pull the pins completely out of the receiver.

Well, that’s how it’s supposed to work, anyway. The front pin came out just fine this way; the rear pin needed a little push with a drift and a light tap with a hammer. But still, I loved the fact that I could at least — in theory — break this gun down with nothing but a little cap.

What I also loved was how incredibly clean the bolt and trigger group were compared with my autoloader’s comparable parts. Breaking it down had been purely academic – I sure as hell didn’t need to clean those parts. Swoon!

Finally…Wingshooting!

There was just one more test I needed to do: hunt the dove opener. I went into the hunt with some trepidation, wondering how many doves I’d miss because I’d forget to cycle rounds after each shot. That turned out to be the least of my problems for two reasons: the first was that it was just a crappy hunt – there were hardly any doves flying where we ended up hunting. But that ho-humdom revealed something I never would’ve noticed about the gun at the range: the SuperNova was made for someone with bigger hands than mine. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

At the range, it’s always bang, bang, bang, but in the field, whether I’m walking in search of pheasants or parked in a marsh hoping ducks will come to me, my default position is to have my trigger finger resting on the safety. The SuperNova’s safety is perfect for that because it’s located at the front of the trigger guard, so all you have to do is depress the button and slide your index finger back to the trigger in one smooth motion, same as with my autoloader.

But as I sat there waiting … and waiting … and waiting for the doves to come, I realized my hand was straining. For my hand to be comfortable on the grip – i.e., where it should be when I’m pulling the trigger – it was too far back to reach the safety.

That may seem minor, but for me it was a deal-breaker. About as uncomfortable as wearing a pair of shoes one size too small. The autoloader I’d been shooting – two, actually, because I started with a 20 gauge and switched to a 12 – had a grip that fit my hand better, and that matters to me. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Does this mean the grip would be too big for all women? Not necessarily. I told a friend who hunts with me occasionally about the problem, and though she’s shorter than I am, her hands are larger. The grip works fine for her. In fact, she’s totally sold on the SuperNova. But it does reinforce the need for gun buyers to put a firearm to a thorough, real-world test before laying down their cash.

Conclusion

I found myself disappointed. I loved this gun. It was simple, affordable and a good working gun. Even more important, the SuperNova came with plenty of room to adjust fit, which is hugely important for women because our dimensions are so different from most men’s.

The safety can be reversed for left-handed shooting, which is great for women, because many of us are cross-dominant – generally right-handed, left-eye dominant. I can adjust drop and cast with a shim kit. I can install one of three gel recoil pads to adjust length of pull. And I can install one of three combs to raise my eye – good for target shooting and even better for me because I have high cheekbones. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

So this is how I find myself in the odd position of saying that while this gun didn’t really work for me, I can recommend it for anyone who values function and simplicity. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going back to my persnickety autoloader.

SPECIFICATIONS: Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Gauge: 12, takes 2¾”, 3” and 3½” shells Sights: Red Bar Barrel Length: 28” (also available in 24” and 26”) Overall Length: 49.5” Weight: 8 lbs. (It loses 1/10th of a pound for every two inches shorter you go on the barrel)

RATINGS (out of five stars):

Style: * * * It’s camo on plastic – what do you want? This gun is about function; if you want style, go get yourself a spendy side-by-side. (And if you believe, as I do, that a black gun kills ducks just as well as a camo gun, save yourself some money and get the black synthetic version.)

Ergonomics: * * * * With the exception of the distance from the grip to the safety, which was a touch too long for my fingers, this gun was VERY comfortable to shoot. At 8 pounds, it’s heavy, but that weight is part of the reason I could shoot the hell out of this thing without a hint of shoulder soreness.

Reliability: * * * * * I put nearly a case of shells through it and had zero problems.

Customizable: * * * * * Safety and cast can be switched for left-handed shooters and there are shim kits that allow you to make further adjustments to drop and cast. Optional ComforTech Gel Comb Inserts can further raise the comb, and optional ComforTech Gel Recoil Pads can be swapped for 13 7/8”, 14 3/8” and 14 ¾” length of pull. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Overall Rating: * * * * While it wasn’t the perfect gun for me, it may well be for you if you’re comfortable with the dimensions and weight. A tad on the big side for me, even though I’m 5’8” and can generally shoot guns right off the shelf without problems. Still, the SuperNova is a great gun.

Benelli  SuperNova Review | What You Should Know

By THOMAS MIX FROM gunsdiscreetsupplies.com

When it comes to firearms, every hunter or shooter has their own preferences. What one person admires about a gun, another person may hate. This is particularly true in the world of shotguns where pump-action shotguns and over-unders can be surprisingly polarizing in shotgun reviews. But we think there is one gun that could really entice the interest of just about anyone. This shotgun can be used for either hunting purposes or for self-defense and law enforcement, making it a very adaptable firearm. This Benelli® SuperNova review should give you some insight into this gun and why it is such a great option for many different people.

Benelli® SuperNova Review: Features

The Benelli® SuperNova is a versatile 12-gauge shotgun that can be used for multiple purposes. It is lightweight at under 8 pounds, and yet it is very strong. This is accomplished due to its construction of a steel skeletal frame that is over-molded with a high-tech polymer material. The spacious trigger guards allow easy access even with gloved hands when the conditions are too cold to go without. It comes with a shim kit so you can adjust the drop and cast of the stock easily at home. It features a unique ComforTech® recoil reduction system to cut the Benelli® SuperNova recoil by 52% over a similar pump-action shotgun. It also has a shell-stop button located on the ridge-checkered forend that allows you to unload a round from the chamber without releasing the shells from the magazine tube. All in all, this firearm has several features that make it a slam dunk if you’re looking for a multi-purpose shotgun. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Benelli® SuperNova Review: Benefits

There are plenty of benefits to shooting this shotgun. First, you can carry it around fairly easily since it is so lightweight. That makes a big difference over a full day if you’re carrying it through the woods after grouse or through a field chasing rooster pheasants. Being able to shoot your shotgun with gloves on in cold weather is huge. Most shotgun trigger guards are much too narrow to allow you to quickly fit your trigger finger through, which can limit your usage in colder conditions. Being able to adjust the stock length of pull via the shim kit is often overlooked by most people. But making sure your shotgun stock fits you uniquely will help improve your shooting accuracy and consistency over time. A proper-fitting stock will easily glide to your shoulder instead of making you fumble around with it. The ComforTech® recoil reduction system definitely makes a big difference on your shoulder over the course of a morning when you’re shooting at fast-moving teal. Having ridge-style checkering along the forend allows you to easily grip it no matter the weather conditions or texture of your gloves. Obviously, being able to cycle another shell into the chamber is important so you can quickly follow up on shots. With a barrel length of 26 inches and a finish in Realtree® APG, it is a great option for swinging on waterfowl. But this specific model is chambered for 3-1/2” magnum shells, which is also perfect for turkey hunting. Finally, the Benelli® SuperNova price is also easier on the wallet than you might think. At $599.99, it really is a steal for a premium shotgun. Benelli SuperNova Shotgun

Benelli® SuperNova Review: Best Uses

While the Benelli SuperNova does come in three distinct stock configurations from the manufacturer – Benelli® SuperNova ComforTech®, ComforTech® with Steady Grip™ (i.e., Benelli® SuperNova pistol grip), and collapsible stock for law enforcement – this particular model is only available in the ComforTech® option. Combined with the Benelli® SuperNova camo finish, this model is perfect for waterfowl or turkey hunting, but would work great for deer (given the right slug ammunition), dove, pheasant, or really any small game animal you can think of. It is built to last through tough weather conditions really anywhere in the country. Additionally, the high quality design (as detailed throughout this Benelli® SuperNova review) will make it easier on your body to shoot it all day in comfort. As such, it is hands down a great and reliable shotgun for sporting clays and hunting alike and deserves a spot in your gun cabinet if you’re in the market for one.

[rallis-fatalis]

The Legends Quest-Pt. 1

A thing I did for fun when I saw Adam’s idea behind the adventurer guilds and most specifically the Legends’ Guild, where you get a title based on the quest you did. Funny enough, I've already had a title of sorts for Rallis due to the fact that it's the name I use in Monster Hunter, so I looked at it and thought ‘well this could be fun.’ So I ended up writing my own Legends Quest to fit the title and it ended up being so much fun to write. It'll be split into a couple parts though because it's a bit too long for one post imo. Thanks for the inspiration, Adam!

Second part here: https://rallis-fatalis.tumblr.com/post/174585438262/the-legends-quest-pt-2

The Legends Guild... Gods was it imposing. Beautiful too, but man was it a step up from Champions and Heroes. Rallis walked toward the front gate only to be halted by the two posted guards. "Halt! Only members of the guild may go beyond this point!"

"I want to join," she replied. "A friend of mine even recommended I try. Maybe you've heard of him? Name's Dionysius. Tall guy, blue hat, magic strong enough to crack the kalphite queen open like a crab?"

The guards gave each other unsure glances. Rallis huffed. "Just let me talk to Radimus before I hop the fence and let myself in."

One of them grumbled and opened the gate. "Fine, but I'm walking you there. Don't try anything funny, understand?" Rallis gave a noncommittal yes and followed the guard inside. It was gorgeous inside the guild. Well kept gardens and elegant fountains framed a meticulously paved stone path all the way up to the guild hall proper. There were even statues of adventurers and plaques placed at the end of some of the paths in the gardens. Everything looked so crisp and clean, so different from the wild and messy gardens Rallis kept at home.

They neared the massive hall at the end of the path, but turned into a much smaller building nearby. The guard knocked on the door and opened it after a moment, leading his 'guest' inside. An older man sat at a large mahogany desk, a stack of papers on one side and a smaller stack on the other. He was scribbling away on one of them, so focused he hadn't seen or heard his visitors come in. The guard cleared his threat. "Radimus, sir! I have brought a guest who wishes to speak with you!"

The man slowly looked them over, face serious and calculating. He rose from his seat, pushing the chair in, and walked over to them. The guard visibly stiffened, nervously watching the man come closer. He gave the two a harsh stare, as if he were appraising a valuable antique. Rallis just looked up at the man, curiosity plastered on her face. Suddenly, the man broke out into a smile. "My, my! You're a new face, aren't you? Welcome to the Legends Guild! My name is Radimus Erkle. What can I do for you today?"

Rallis smiled back. "My name is Rallis and I want to join!" she exclaimed excitedly. "My friend said I could, said I've done a lot, and I want to try!"

The man thought for a moment, running a hand down his beard. "Hmmm, are you sure? The tasks assigned here are not easy. And you must already be part of the Champions and Heroes guilds to join, you know."

"Yup! Way ahead of you," she proudly stated. "I've been a part of those guilds for a long time. And I've done stuff and seen things they couldn't even dream of! I think I can do whatever you ask of me, if you're willing to let me try."

The man laughed. "Confident! Like nothing could stop you! I like it! In that case, maybe I will let you try." Rallis could hardly contain her excitement, having to hold herself back from bouncing up and down. "It won't be easy though, I can assure you of that." He went back to his desk and fished a single paper out of one of the many large piles and brought it back to her. "There is a place we need explored," he said. "No one knows its name, what is there, or anything about it. It is completely uncharted. All that is known is that it is said to be the home of something terrifying, a monster of incomprehensible power. Are you willing to explore the unknown, no matter what you might face?"

Rallis nodded furiously. "Yes! Absolutely!"

"Just what I like to hear!" Radimus exclaimed. "In that case, here." He handed her the sheet he was holding. "The details of what I want done are listed on here. Don't lose it! Come back with your findings and we shall see about your joining the guild."

Rallis grinned wide. "Thank you, Mister Radimus! I won't let you down!" And she sprinted out the door and out the guild before anyone could say another word.

Radimus chuckled to himself. "Quite the spirit in that one! What I wouldn't give to be young and adventurous again." He quietly resumed his work at his desk, eager to see what unfolded.

_______________________________________________________________________

Rallis looked over the paper in the comfort of her home. The place to be explored was an island to the north of the Wilderness, beyond the poisonous waters of the Volcanic Forge. She was to document everything there, from the structures to the wildlife to the weather and more. Every little detail was to be drawn, written, and documented. Rallis rolled the paper up into a notebook and brought plenty of supplies to write and draw with. She packed food and gear and anything she needed in case she got into a fight. She threw on her white dragonhide and frozen whip, but debated on the shield. "Winter? Champion? Hmm... it's gonna be near fire with that volcano so..." She pulled out a large rectangular orange shield with the fearsome face of a steel dragon plastered on its front. "Stahlflaam, you're coming this time!"

She wandered over to a room with a scrying pool and portal. She stuck her hand inside the pool and thought about a place deep within the Wilderness, an old destroyed fort frequented by demons. The pool turned an inky murky black and a distorted view of the place she wanted to go came into view within the portal. Rallis shook the water off her hand and leapt through.

The sudden change from the perfect climate of her home to the dry and chilly Wilderness was quite extreme. Rallis shivered, trying to shake the cold off. "Ok, first we gotta get a boat. Time to visit some friends!" Rallis skipped through the Wilderness, completely uncaring of the massive dangers it held. This place was no place for the living, and what little did live here were strong and dangerous. There was nothing to survive on, with all the plant life burned away and long stretches of land holding nothing but ancient charred skeletons and deposits of soot and ash. This was a place few humans ever frequented and that's why she was alright with it, even if it was creepy. There was nothing to bother her out here as long as she knew where she could and could not go (and luckily she did).

She soon neared a long stream of lava, happily purring from the heat it gave off as she stood close. She followed the stream west until it broke off in two directions, north and south. She followed it north, skirting around its edges until she reached a break in the lava with a sign staked into the ground. It had a skull on it with the words "DO NOT ENTER - DEATH INSIDE" hastily painted on the front. Appropriately, it had a bloody handprint dried in a permanent smear. Rallis rolled her eyes and stepped beyond the sign. It was much hotter the farther she walked in, the lava hissing and bubbling all around her. She stopped walking after a moment, lava surrounding her on nearly all sides like an island. Rallis cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted. "Niu! Sinmara! Anyone! Where are youuuuu?"

The island shook and rumbled as all around her, things started to crawl out of the lava, drops hissing as they burned they ground they fell upon. These things were massive and powerful, the lava sliding off of them like water. They slammed their clawed paws down upon the ground, swished their long bladed tails back and forth, and reared their fearsome horned heads around to face whoever dare disturb them. Three of these beasts stepped forward and Rallis just smiled and ran over, hugging one by the leg. "Ooohhhh hello friend," she cooed to it. "How are you today?"

The massive beast, a lava dragon, lowered its head and rubbed against her face. The other two dragons nearby came over to be pet as well. Rallis giggled as she scratched them all under the chin. "Ohhh you're all so sweet! Yes you are! I love you all so much." One of them purred in delight from the attention. Rallis rest her head against one of their muzzles. "I'm sorry to bother you but I have a favor I need to ask." They were at attention in an instant. "You know those pirates up north? I need your help uh... 'borrowing' a boat from them if that's not too much trouble." They gave her a determined growl, one lowering itself to her so she could get on its back. She scrambled up and the three took off into the skies towards the northern pirate encampment. Moments later, three dragons were flying through the sky with a small one man boat in their claws, angry eyepatched men 'yaaarring' after them.

The dragons dropped Rallis and the boat off where she needed to go, in the water by a small strip of land jutting out from the Volcanic Forge. She thanked them and they flew back home. Rallis unloaded her things into the boat and looked around. She didn't like this place much. She had forged two shields here in the fiery depths of the Forge, and it felt like something was watching her the whole time. It made her shiver just remembering it. There was also a massive boat crashed against the burnt shore, skeletons of men thrown about from what seemed to be a harsh impact. Odd thing was, that ship wasn't wood, but rather metal. Not a sight commonly seen south of the Ditch. There was a massive hole on the ship's front as well. At first, Rallis thought it was a type of cannon, but it looked like something could retract back into the hole judging from the chains that dangled off its sides. Whatever fit in there was long gone, though.

Rallis pushed her little borrowed boat farther into the ocean, steam rising as something disturbed the waters. The water by the volcano was scalding hot and poisonous to boot. It smelled horrible, like old rotten eggs, and definitely not safe to drink. Rallis scrunched up her nose in disgust and hopped into the boat, rowing into the vast uncharted sea.

_______________________________________________________________________

It was hard to tell the passage of time out in the Wilderness ocean. The sun didn't naturally shine in the Wilderness, giving it a permanent dark and barren atmosphere, and it seemed to be no different out on the water. The sky was dark, but not the shadowy black of night. No, it was a deep crimson red, like a bloody sunset. Rallis sighed, arms getting tired. She could have been rowing for 10 minutes, 10 hours, or 10 days and be none the wiser. She couldn't see the Forge anymore so that was progress at least. She couldn't see anything else either but she tried not to think about that. Getting lost on the ocean was infinitely more terrifying than getting lost on land. And she should know! She once got lost in the desert for a week trying to find some pretty birds.

Rallis carefully stood up and scoped out the horizon, trying to find any specks in the distance that could be land. Sure enough, far, far in the distance was a small black dot. She had to rub her eyes to make sure they weren't playing tricks on her. Nope. Totally real spot. Which meant totally real land. Rallis grinned and continued rowing full speed ahead.

That small spot certainly turned out to be land, but it was definitely not small. As Rallis neared, its imposing facade sent chills up her spine. It was an island made of sharp black rocks and bluffs. Jagged fangs of obsidian jutted out from the water on all sides of the island, acting as a protective barrier. It was hard to see anything on the island from down below in the water. A wall of sharp black rock acted as a wall, separating the inner part of the island from the outside world. Even the large open bluff stretching out over the ocean was impossible to see any details of, bramble thickets shielding it from view. All that was visible was what looked like the top of an imposing black building. "This place is creepy..."

She found a small rocky beach at the base of a mountainous climb and weaved through the rocks toward it. As she neared the shore, Rallis noticed a mass of white beneath the waves. She slowed and looked over the edge of her boat to gain a better view. 'Is that sand? White sand?' She gasped and scooted away from the edge, hands over her mouth. It wasn't sand. The white creating the ground in the shallows all around the island was bone. She was swimming over a massive graveyard.

"Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it," she chanted as she tied the boat down to a rock on the beach. She focused herself on the long climb ahead of her, desperate to ignore the ocean of bone only a few feet away. Crude stairs were carved out off the rock, salty air and winds smoothing them over and making them dangerously slick. "Good thing I have claws or this could be bad." Rallis gripped each stair as she climbed, talons sinking as best they could into the slick blackened stone, tail waving back and forth for balance. On either side of her was a menacing wall of rock, shielding her from both the view and the wind.

She eventually reached the top, panting and winded from the climb. She dare not look down. She could feel how high up she was and didn't want a visual reminder on top of that. The ground opened up at the top of the steps, forming a circle of paved stone framed by six decrepit statues and a pair or foreboding metal doors fallen off their hinges. Above where the doors would have been framed should they still have been standing was a weathered sign, onyx lettering embedded into stone. "Kreathkren," she read. "The Black Fortress."

Rallis took her notes out to start and get to work. She was better at building than drawing, but wasn't too shabby nonetheless. She examined the statues before she moved on. Most were broken, completely beyond repair, but one stood in mostly one piece. It was a large dragon, just your typical four legged two winged dragon, carved out of obsidian. It had rubies for eyes and the inside if the mouth felt almost oily. 'I wonder...'

Rallis lifted up her shield and willed it to set the statue ablaze. Fire flickered over the statue, disappearing into the air, but the mouth caught fire and burned, statue's ruby eyes glowing brightly. Rallis ooh'd and aah'd over it, taking good notes before moving on. She stepped over the fallen busted metal doors and stepped out into the island proper. The view was breathtaking, incredible, but also horrifying. There were massive buildings and equally massive statues everywhere. There was a courtyard with a fountain, two dragons coiling around each other near the top, mouths open presumably where water would shoot out. The craftsmanship of the buildings was also a sight to behold, black and gray stone interwoven into complex patterns, obsidian dragons decorating the roof. Some ever had red stained glass windows. Rose tinted glass lamps hung from black metal frames around every perfectly paved stone path. In the distance, closer to the large bluff she saw on her ride down below in the water, was a behemoth of a castle, larger than any she had ever seen. It had a large elegant contraption pointed toward the sky, like the eye of a needle cutting a hole through the sky. It was a magnificent sight to behold. There was so much painstaking care and beauty here... and it was all destroyed. Crushed, shattered, broken, and most unnerving, burned. Something large and powerful destroyed this place, something Rallis couldn't even begin to imagine the magnitude of.

She slowly surveyed the scene, cautiously stepping over piles of broken glass and warped metal hunks. It was unnervingly quiet, so much so that even the slightest scrape seemed to echo one hundred fold. The silence started to make her ears ring after a while. It was painful. Being in the middle of a town and having it be this quiet was just wrong. Honestly, she didn't even know where to start. This place was bigger than both halves of Ardougne for Guthix's sake! That was a lot of wreckage to sift through and document. She turned away from the looming castle in the distance and walked. 'Save that for last.'

Rallis drew a perimeter of the island as she walked, making note of any important features as she went. She explored what few buildings were left standing and found hardly anything at all. The houses held no clothing or signs of families living there, the shops held no goods to be sold, everything was gone and empty. There weren't even broken objects outside of the glass windows and toppled buildings and statues. "Jeez, it's like these people just... disappeared," she muttered. There weren't even corpses amongst the carnage, but she shuddered as she figured as to why that was, remembering the watery mass grave. "I have to go pull some of those up, don't I?" she whined. "Gross..."

It was just a repetition of the same structures on the eastern half of the island, mostly consisting of toppled homes and shops. One building had even been sliced in two from who knows what, halves discarded on the path like waste. Rallis made her way back to the center with the fountain and to the western half of the island with the castle. If the sliced open and crumbling buildings to the east were a sign of destruction, this was a sign of a complete massacre. Massive claw marks gouged holes into the ground, buildings were practically thrown out of the way, part of one even precariously hanging on the spiked top of the black rock wall like a hangnail. Blackened patches dotted the landscape, presumably from powerful fire. Rallis groaned. "I know it said 'monster of incomprehensible power' but if it's another dragon I swear..."

Rallis soon found herself at the steps of the massive castle. It was elevated above the rest of the city, dwarfing it all by comparison, raised and poised like something royal. It was absurdly tall, reaching far enough into the sky that it looked to pierce the heavens. Rallis squinted at the castle in confusion. It wasn't burnt or collapsing or clawed. Some of the onyx dragon ornaments had chipped or fallen, sure, but it was mostly intact. It was a pristine obsidian monolith against the mass destruction below, which she could see quite clearly from her elevation upon the top of the steps. 'This doesn't feel right...'

Rallis cautiously crept toward the hulking black doors, placing her hands on it to push it open. At once, it was like an electric current ran through her, jolting her back with ears pinned back and claws out. She growled at the door, but nothing happened. Her wings folded back behind her and her tail stopped swishing about, but she still flared her claws out. 'Something is here,' she thought. 'Something dangerous.' She slowly opened the doors, slithering through and sticking to the walls inside. Elegant purple carpeting lined the middle of the tiled walkway inside, onyx dragon statues standing in silent vigil as they watched visitors walk with their judgmental ruby eyes. Rallis peeled herself from the wall and walked down the hall, hating the openness of it all.

At the end of the hall rest a massive throne of obsidian seated upon a raised altar, framed against a wall of red glass in the shape of a circle. It cast a bloody light onto the throne below, illuminating every detail in a gruesome manner. Rallis walked over to the throne, curious. The light made it seem like something was in it, but it was just as black as the throne itself. She couldn't tell what it was. When she got a closer look, her ears shot up in surprise. 'A human?! But, but, 'Kreathkren!' That's not a human name. What is going on?' The human wasn't a skeleton either as she would have expected. It was just a man, though he certainly looked old, skin wrinkled and long beard white as snow. He was covered in something black and scaly too, like armor. From chest down he was almost encased in thick black dragonhide, white sharp spines digging into his skin to hold it in place. It looked fused with him more than equipment cloaked over him.

'How odd...' Rallis gave the scaled gauntlet a poke. It was harder than any dragonhide she'd ever felt. It felt stronger than most metal too. She reached to touch one of the spines holding the armor in place in his arm and screeched as something grabbed her. The man in the throne glared at her with cruel red eyes, crushing her arm with a gloved fist. "Let go!" she cried, trying to scramble away, but the man wouldn't budge an inch. He pulled her closer, grabbing her by the neck with his other hand and forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Kill... it..." he rasped. "Kill... it... THE FATALIS!"

He let her go with a scream, armor digging into him more. His hands weren't human any longer, clawed black talons growing over what remained of his fingers. Spines dug into his chest, further cementing the armor into place. Scales started to crawl up his neck, stopping once they reached his face. Rallis staggered back horrified, rubbing her neck where he had grabbed her.

"Kill it," he whispered. "Before it kills again." His head slumped forward, not to speak another word.

[thelionshoarde]

*in the skeletons voice from The Last Unicorn* Unnnnnnniiiiiiicccccoooorn! Hymn, unnnnnnnniicorn!

“Something is coming,” Fire Walker said, his deep voice deeper still with warning. Shirayuki stood from where she’d been checking his legs – their morning ride had seen him stumbling over a hidden rabbit hole, and while he had insisted he was fine Shirayuki couldn’t help but worry – and turned to face the path that led through the woods to her cottage.

“I don’t see anything,” she said, stretching out her back.

Fire Walker tossed his head, amused. “That’s because you’re looking the wrong way, Shirayuki.”

Sparing her unicorn an annoyed glance, Shirayuki turned in a slow circuit, eyeing the thick wood that circled her home. What could be coming through there? There was only one main road through the wood, branching out here and there to lead to properties like hers. Only small animals – raccoons, the occasional fox looking to gossip – wormed their way through.

Which was precisely how Shirayuki liked it. The less traffic, the less likely anyone would come searching for Fire Walker. In the early afternoon light, with the sun nearly directly overhead, the ruby at the base of his ivory horn flashed, bright and obvious.

“Maybe you should go inside,” Shirayuki said, still scanning.

Fire Walker snorted. “Maybe you should.” His hoof cleaved the earth, dredging up dark soil and clumps of grass that Shirayuki would have to pat back into place later. “I’m the warrior, here.”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” she said, stroking his satiny shoulder. “There’s no reason for you to be seen. Just go inside and hide for now. What will we do if it’s a royal hunter? If you’re seen –”

“Too late,” Fire Walker said.

Shirayuki jerked her head up, eyes wide with surprise. Fire Walker’s head was turned, looking over his shoulder at the back of the property. Shirayuki followed his line of sight to see –

“Is that a Shadow Unicorn?!”

Fear took hold of Shirayuki for one frozen, heart-stopping moment. The coal black coat of the strange unicorn gave off a miasmic mist, rising in the air turbulent and threatening. Shirayuki could just make out a rolling, red-orange eye, flickering with real fire. It was lathered with sweat, and there was a rope tied about its neck, rubbing its skin raw where it sawed back and forth as a man tumbled out of the tree line, hauling on his prize.

Fear gave way to indignation almost immediately.

“What are you doing,” Shirayuki exclaimed, taking two strident steps forward before Fire Walker snaked his head around and caught the back of her blouse between his teeth. “That – Is this some game to you?! You’ve captured a Shadow Unicorn! Congratulations, what’s next! Are you going to – to skin it –”

“What?” the man yelped, turning so quickly on his heel that he almost fell over. Only the taut line of the rope saved him. The Shadow Unicorn groaned, heaving, and finally broke through the underbrush to join them. Its horn was dark, and flaking – like old gold foil, tarnished and crumbling.

The man’s eyes nearly matched the color of the horn, his hair its coat. A strange, nearly-matching set. Both touched with evil, too, and Shirayuki was suddenly fiercely, desperately glad that Fire Walker hadn’t gone inside. She settled, and, convinced that his charge wasn’t going anywhere, Fire Walker released her blouse and stepped forward, head bowed so that the lethal point of his horn was on level with the man’s heart.

“I believe,” Fire Walker threatened, “that you should explain yourself. Now.”

“A Royal fucking Unicorn,” the man breathed, incredulous. To Shirayuki’s utter surprise, the Shadow Unicorn took a faltering step forward, hooking its head over the man’s shoulder and sighing explosively. Its eyelashes fluttered, and without the roiling flames reflected in its eyes it looked almost – almost – normal.

Reaching his hand up, the man stroked the Shadow Unicorn on its cheek, the action utterly tender.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble – not more than I already borrowed, at least,” the man grinned, trying for charming but mostly just looking frazzled and tired. There were fine scratches all over his face from wading through the dense woods, and dirt and twigs crushed into his hair and dark, coarse clothing. “I just – she’s hurt, all right? And I heard there was a healer out this way. That’s all. I didn’t realize you were, uh, a Royal Healer.”

“I’m not,” Shirayuki admitted, resting her hand on Fire Walker’s flank. “I don’t…want any trouble, either.”

“Wonderful!” the man said, grunting. The Shadow Unicorn seemed to be putting more and more weight against the man, its head – her head, Shirayuki amended – pressing into the man’s shoulder so that he had to lock his knees and brace his feet to keep from staggering. “Then do you mind – I need some, uh, help –”

“A Shadow Unicorn cannot be helped,” Fire Walker said, but Shirayuki, who had known him for years, could read the uncertainty in his deep bass rumble. “They are forever lost to the dark, once they surrender to –”

“Bullshit,” the man snapped, breathless. His knees were beginning to buckle beneath the Shadow Unicorn’s weight. Her eyes were still blissfully closed, breathing almost evened out. But she was trembling, exhausted, and – Shirayuki could see blood dripping slowly from a wound somewhere, staining the green grass beneath her.

“It is not bullshit,” Fire Walker retorted, tossing his head angrily. Beneath her hand Shirayuki could feel his skin shivering. “A Shadow Unicorn is the Shifter’s creature, its name lost forever – there is no coming back.”

“Storm Chaser,” the man said, voice flat. There was a look on his face, now, that Shirayuki didn’t like. Hurt, and dangerous – the way an animal responded when the pain was almost so great it forgot itself. “Her name is Storm Chaser.”

Fire Walker went still.

“Did she…tell you?” Shirayuki ventured into the resulting silence, hesitant. More blood dripped onto the ground, and Shirayuki watched the way the man’s hand – large and strong – curved protectively over the unicorn’s brow, fingers combing delicately through the sooty forelock on either side of the mare’s horn. A flake of gold drifted down, revealing a speck of ebony glitter beneath.

The man looked at her, narrow-eyed and stubborn.

Fire Walker snorted, an explosive sound that had Shirayuki jumping, startled. He shook himself out and paced around Shirayuki in a tight, tilted circle before saying, “Fine. Fine. If Shirayuki wishes to, she may treat your unicorn.”

“Fire Walker,” Shirayuki chided, startled at the way he’d spat out the word like an insult. One of his big, brown eyes glowered at her, before he was shaking his head again, like there was a particularly annoying fly buzzing at his ears.

“Great! Since we’re all handing out names – Obi’s mine. Now, will you help me, or should we head back into the woods to die, probably impaled on some forsaken tree limb.”

Would she help him?

Shirayuki, for a moment, was uncertain. Everyone knew how dangerous the Shadow Unicorns were – they were the stuff of nightmares, and scary stories told to children at bedtime; they were the whispers swapped between the older folk in the tavern as they debated how long before outright war broke out.

They were not to be aided in any way, surely.

Taking a deep breath, Shirayuki began to make her way cautiously forward. The mare’s coat was still smoking, faintly, in the sunlight. A faint scent of tar and molten metal exuded, and her eyes slit open, a shifting red-orange threat. Close enough to touch, she stopped, gaze pulled reluctantly up the man’s – Obi’s – bright gold eyes. He stared down at her, a look of hope tamped down as firmly as he could still peeking around the edges of his expression. Shirayuki felt the weight of it settle on her chest, steadying her.

She held out her hand, palm flat, beneath the mare’s muzzle to greet her, and said, “Hello, Storm Chaser. I’m your healer, today, apparently. How about we see what’s troubling you, hm?”

[the-tales-of-horror]

Law & Order Doesn’t  Always Lead To A Happy Ending

Original Link By feyedharkonnen

“Knock, Knock”

“Who’s there?” I said it automatically now, which is what happens when your kid tells knock-knock jokes incessantly, having discovered their appeal about a week ago.

“Smell Mop” It was funny the first few dozen times she asked me this one but even as the guy who told her most of the jokes she now regurgitated, ad nauseum, in every waking hour, the novelty was wearing thin.

“Andi, honey, Daddy doesn’t want to knock-knock right now, I know, let’s watch your favorite show!” I jumped to my feet and yelled “DUN DUN!” Andi squealed with delight at the hallmark of her favorite, Law and Order. Who knew 3 year olds would prefer police procedural dramas over Dora the Explorer. I’m still waiting for Boots and Dora to find Swiper in an alley, having been killed by his fence.

I turned on the TV and went in the kitchen to make us some PB&Js and grab some Sunny Delight. It turned out to be a re-run, as was the norm at 2pm on a Thursday, but it was new to Andi, so she sat in her accustomed spot, right next to me with one of my arms over her shoulder, using my bicep as a pillow. The bright little sprite was wise enough to realize that Jerry Orbach, who played Detective Lenny Briscoe was also the voice of Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast. She referred to him as “Loomy Bisco”.

This episode was a good one though and it involved a missing person, so at the end of the episode, as L&E will often do they flashed across the screen, real missing people, both adults and children. I had gotten up to clear our mess of paper plates and refill the Sunny D when I heard Andi, “Daddy, that’s Unca Billy and Jeffy!” I looked up and saw on my screen, a younger version of the old guy William, who lived across the street from me with his grandson Jeffery. It certainly looked like them but I didn’t want Andi to get overly excited and exascerbate her asthma. “It kinda looks like them honey, but that couldn’t be them, does Billy look like a bad man?” She thought about it for a moment and then said “Ok Daddy, you right.”

I sent a text to my wife who was at work and told her what we’d seen. She called me about 5 minutes later and told me I should contact the 800 number for missing and exploited children to give the tip, you know, just in case. So I did, all the while pacing by the large picture window in the front room, seeing if there were any activity across the street. I explained to the person on the line that I wasn’t entirely certain, but someone on one of their broadcasts could be my 60-something-year-old neighbor and his “Grandson” could be the kid this guy abducted 9 years ago. I felt like an idiot and that I was betraying him in some way by jumping to this grandest of conclusions. If we’d had the technology in 2001, I could have sent a picture somehow. I didn’t own a fax machine and my indestructible Nokia just didn’t have the capabilities.

“Sir, this is very important,…” The person on the line interrupted my wandering mind, “I’m sorry, ma’am, what was the question?” The woman repeated herself, “Do you know if the gentleman in question owns any firearms?” It was a bit of a jarring question after making a call on a whim. “Will? Yeah, the guy is an avid hunter and fisher, has a collection that would make Charlton Heston proud, I’m kind of jeal…” She cut me off, “Stand by please sir.” and the dulcet tones of Kenny G’s “Songbird” filled my ear, gross.

30 seconds later, a man came on the line, “Mr. Jacobs, my name is Carl Singleton and I’m a Special Agent in Charge of the Cincinnati Field Office for the Federal Bureau of Investigations.” I held my phone away from my ear and stared at it for a moment, looked over my shoulder at Andi watching Disney and brought the phone back to my ear. “I’m sorry, did you just say you were with the FBI?” This was becoming surreal. “Yes sir, I’m going to ask you a series of questions about your neighbor, William.” I balked at the idea of divulging the information at first. “Are you serious?”

“I take things of this nature very seriously Mr. Jacobs. Please just answer the questions.” He asked how long we’d lived here and how long we’d known Will, any distinguishing features, quirks, and odd behavior in public around Jeffery. Questions about his temperament, any substance or alcohol abuse issues, and suspicions of any skeletons in my neighbor’s closet. I felt like I was in front of the McCarthy Commission ratting on suspected commies. I answered as best I could but nothing seemed to concern the FBI guy until I mentioned Will’s ring and a scar on his chin.

“Wait, go back to the ring, can you describe it?” I thought for a moment, “Yeah, everybody in the neighborhood can describe that ring, it’s just like the ring that Tom Selleck wears in Magnum P.I., you know, the cross, Will is a huge Magnum fan.” I could hear Singleton muffle his end of the phone and yell something to another person, he came back to me. “Mr. Jacobs, I’m going to ask that you refrain from any contact with William at this time while we look into some things, it may be nothing.” And with that, he ended the call, leaving me to stare at the cordless phone in my hand. The nothing he spoke about happened 20 minutes later as I watched 2 unmarked cars block off the end of my street.

I picked up the phone to call my wife and was greeted by a dead line. I grabbed my Nokia and it read “No Service”. I looked out the window to see men clad in black tactical gear dodging between houses toward Will’s house, the activity outside finally caught the attention of Andi, who had been riveted by Disney this whole time when a helicopter wheeled overhead and took up a stationary hover about 150 feet above my neighborhood. “Daddy! A Whirlybird!” she squealed in delight, that’s what we called them. I told her to go back to the tv while daddy tried to figure out what was going on. I walked to my front door and opened it.

Three feet to the left of my door, the muzzle of an M-16 swung up to my chest then dropped again just as quickly and the uniformed gentleman who held it said through gritted teeth, just loud enough for me to hear, “Sir, get. The. Fuck. Back in your house, and stay there.” And he pulled my door shut. I noticed Andi a few feet away with wide eyes, “Daddy, that man said a bad word!” It made me laugh through the nervousness in my stomach, “Yes baby, yes he did. Shame on him.” There was no keeping her away from the window now since she’d seen the chaos going on in our little corner of the world.

I turned my Lazy Boy in the front room toward the picture window and got popcorn, since there was nothing else I could do. Andi sat on the arm of the chair commenting on the various figures running here and there. After about an hour, a black car came though the roadblock at the end of our street and came to a stop just behind the large RV that had been rolled in, a tall grizzled looking man got out and fixed his tie, Andi stared after him with rapt attention, “Loomy Bisco?” she asked. I laughed and said, “No baby, Loomy is on TV.” As if that would distract her from the guy in front of my house who clearly looked like he could be Jerry Orbach’s younger brother.

He spoke with one of the tactical guys for a moment and then went in the RV. After 15 minutes of static nothingness, a group of the uniform clad men burst into action, one team in the front, and I can only assume one team in the back, I knew the layout of Will’s house, as we lived in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, his house was almost identical to mine. At the front, a large man stepped up to the door with what looked like a large metal pipe with handles; he swung it back once, and brought the end crashing into the door just to the left of the doorknob. The frame, to the right, came apart like kindling and the door swung violently inward.

The big man swung to the side and the uniforms, huddled in a line, streamed in the gap like an armored centipede with a shield at its head. I can’t tell if it was five seconds later or ten, but the front picture window exploded outward in a fireball, the concussion blowing in my window and showering Andi and I with small chunks of glass. I picked her up, and ignoring the cuts to the bottom of my feet rushed to my bedroom at the rear of the house. I looked her over and aside from a few small cuts here and there, she was fine.

I could see her crying, but I couldn’t hear a damn thing except for a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I felt something oozing in my ear, and judging from the small amount of blood coming from Andi’s, I could well guess what it was. I walked, Andi in my arms to the front of the house to peek out the window to see if there were new developments, there were. It was a nightmare of burning cars, people staggering around blindly, carnage, the team that had entered Will’s house, what was left of them, was strewn across the once carefully manicured lawn, viscera and limbs here and there.

I didn’t have to worry about Andi seeing this scene of devastation as she had her face firmly planted in my shoulder. I could feel her tears soaking my t-shirt. The Loomy Bisco look-a-like came staggering out of the RV, a red stain about where you’d guess his appendix would be, the stain spreading slowly, his hand absentmindedly, occasionally touching the small, shiny, crimson shard of metal that protruded from his shirt. I walked as steadily as I could toward him. I could start to hear things very faintly through the ringing.

My voice sounded, to me, like I was speaking from somewhere around the vicinity of my chest. “You’re Singleton, aren’t you!” it was more of a statement than a question. He looked at me, confused, I could see him saying “Who the fuck are you?” I mimed the sign for a telephone and said “Jacobs”. His eyes passed over me and then Andi, then around the scene; his eyes showed regret, “I’m sorry, I should have known it wasn’t going to be this easy.” He waved over a group of rushing paramedics, refusing treatment until his knees buckled and it wasn’t his choice anymore. They looked us over and we received a ride to the hospital to check us for any internal injuries. I called my wife to let us know what was going on.

Tabitha nearly beat us to the hospital, that woman is a Formula One driver when it comes to needing to get to the hospital, as evidenced by her collection of speeding tickets from Andi’s occasional visits due to her asthma, which, surprisingly had not made an appearance as a result of the excitement of the day, I don’t know if my baby was in shock and it just hadn’t hit her yet, I was ready for anything by now.

Andi had fallen asleep in her exam room near the ER so Tabitha and I stepped into the hallway to discuss what had happened. A familiar, by now, face strode up to the pair of us and introduced himself to Tabitha.

“Carl Singleton, Special Agent in Charge, FBI. I can only assume you are Mrs. Jacobs. May I speak with you and your husband a moment?” We looked in Andi’s direction and he nodded, “Agent Samuels will be watching her.” He introduced a tall black man with scrubs on who nodded deferentially to us and proceeded to enter the room and take a seat in one of the chairs near the bed.

Singleton led us to a quiet office off one of the many hallways and sat heavily in a chair, wincing when he did so, he stopped his hand from goin to where I’d seen him bleeding back in the neighborhood. “You alright?” I asked, he responded with “I’ve had worse, but that’s not why we’re here. Your neighbor…” Tabitha chimed in, “Will?” Singleton sighed and corrected her, “Will as you call him is really one Staff Sargent Jonathan Merrill; former Army Ranger, veteran of three tours in Vietnam, and a psychopath of the highest order.

He initially came to our attention in 1977, shortly after his medical discharge from the Army. He claimed to be suffering from severe PTSD and was in custody after murdering his wife and four children in a particularly bloody fashion, a Family Annihilator is what the eggheads at the Behavioral Analysis Unit classed him as. He escaped custody on his way to a lifetime stay at Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas and has been on the run from us ever since, leaving us a trail of bodies from one side of the country to the other, even foraying into Canada and Mexico. This is the closest we’ve come to him in 7 years.”

“The eggheads really want their hands on him alive because he’s unique as far as serial killers go, they usually stick to a pattern and that becomes their thing, and I rarely, if ever changes. But with Merrill, he’s a special snowflake, he changes, he went from the family, to prostitutes, then hikers, then truck drivers, and now, teenage boys, we want to stop him before he changes his stripes again, so to speak. The Bureau refers to him as Mercury, because he’s so fluid and deadly. It wasn’t until recently, with forensic advances, that we were able to attribute dozens of other victims that we had originally thought were completely different killers with varying modes operandi. Personally, this guy terrifies me.”

“Why have we never heard of him? We could have…” Tabitha started to say, but Singleton cut her off, “The powers that be kept this under for wraps for reasons that I was never made privy to, but now, after today, they can’t hide this anymore. They’ll have to give us more now, or at least give us a deadly force option, he’s responsible now for the deaths of nine of our best tactical operators. That’s on my conscience because I underestimated the lengths he would go to escape and evade us, but this was calculated, that bomb was waiting for us. And that’s not all, when the explosive ordnance disp… I’m sorry, when the bomb squad finished clearing the residence, they found several… disturbing things.”

He paused and chewed his bottom lip a bit, as if trying to decide to tell us. “We found what we believe to be several graves, which means he’s been active and we will be unaware of if he has changed anything in regards to his M.O. until we autopsy the victims. One of the oddest things was a book of knock-knock jokes, we have no idea if theirs any significance to it.” Singleton shrugged, dismissing the statement he’d just made. I felt my intestines turn to ice and I was on my feet and sprinting down the hallways before my brain came to a full realization of why. Andi.

The world started to come back to me a little at a time as I ran, people shouting at me for running in a hospital, the pain in my feet from the glass I’d stepped in earlier, the dull quality to sounds from the blast damage. I got to the room where we’d left Andi with the undercover FBI agent. I pushed the door open to an empty room. I heard a groan from the other side of the bed, I scrambled around the side to see Samuels gasping for breath through the ragged hole in his throat, foamy blood surrounded the wound and streamed down his chest. “Where’s Andi!?” I screamed at the dying man. Fear and sorrow filled his eyes just before he died and he pointed above his head to the bed-side table. There was a note.

“Knock Knock, Neighbor, (turn over)”

I felt a paralysis of sorts set in as my mind filled in the blank, “Who’s there?”

I turned over the note as I heard Tabitha and Singleton come into the room behind me.

“Nobody, bye bye.”

[the-j-esther-shalom-they]

At Abydos - Hall of Sokar & Nefertem Up & down yawn gruff grunts register from the inner chamber halls here at the temple of Sokar & Nefertem. Rocks are moved, in the shade men take breaks from market’s bustle & blaze, masons in a maze, dizzy with work for a mad son. Workers flake Shavings off the gods' limestone block stunt doubles: the daredevil twins by artisan are called, a necromancy whose mandate is to work within a dialectic’s trick scenery fit with trap doors & skeletons, specters of those who came before & did not make it through. Just a hint of ruler's visage allowable, studio pros backing up undisputed (at least not audibly) solo leads. A final comment period to public trust is given, sack of grain with a mechanical winch to reel it back when command is ex- ecuted. The first section presented just so before unveiling what will to history be visible against workers finesse, tailoring divine couture as if god attend ruler’s runway shows for the spring’s upcoming line. The manicure is precise. Vines divide terrace botanical, delicate verisimilitude in the act: Sety pours water over lotuses. sweat drips, forms brine & to petal condenses into dew. Color is absorb’d, radiation slants, incline steadfast reads steep pitch, geometric figures skew to regernation, as if ruler’s rep- lication were a spiritual thing, like a mason working the stone, dying before his work is done. Fell’d In time you & I will forget just as we forgot shoots of alfalfa pushing up through the dirt exchanged it for memorabilia of larger things system, polis the world over forget over & again bless the dead sing & pay tribute to, in debt with the dead one could say some throw gold into holes others dig bury sing & touch it is a dis– appearing act,— with piers plenty to wave at or deboard peering into another, helping the 90– year-old Russian woman regain the most temporary instance of equilibrium, the leather clog with a two-inch- thick rubber sole, brief embrace, horns & laughter part of gravity, tough waddle up three bus steps returning home to Queens, sigh of relief felt through plexiglas. Absalon Tracks Traction the night: dismemberment Perfect pitch, sensation Together cutup, fragment Ether-clean procedure limbs Reckless sun crossbraid’d thru truss came A will to delay what needed to be Dead, king’s head staked Splitting grain of solid-timber door Midas touching whatever’s in sight At a migrant site benefit party— Didn’t nothing duty full-spell do Deaf neighbor Jessica Made less than peony pullstring Note naught all nautical call cot muh-muh-muh trip-all-lit Trip all catch fly knot maze An throw a pod down from forum Crude sutures sciatica Under junipers where Mars Is a pan-risen loaf scarved In bloodwind & can’t sibling Muh-muh mirror act acrid Ligatures to bring us Neptune’s Blue storms, uninhabit’d by rock Obstacle, storm funnels & cones Pressurized cyclone, nadir Of nigh comedy is a C.S. Space bus ride where you Ain’t you used to sickus phantoms. Wigs to scalps cement bile glue Turned ten-nugget gold pan nougat Palm’d, glass inert though credits’re— For its pains suffering gaze un- Broken without respite in fact Only clean’d & polish’d, its subjects Scaring at the sight of themselves Relay’d back with ghostprint fuzz From what look like marine sponge Or Coral, blues radiating all around Bet turn ensure cutups remain with- Out locus or rose, surveyors Poking around marshland tool- Sick & dopey, does walking toward Camouflage men, bellydown on Rot logs water-bogg’d even a spring To their solar plexus & ribcages Around trunk & into bark gripping Like tines of a tool once used To bale hay into gumdrop pods Recall plateau sediment simulate Erosion, sights on dime a dozen Magi high from cliff’s cavernous Lateral dwelling prays, hiber- Nation exchange with it is said Thousands of millions of organisms A vibration said to emerge formal Quiet though approaching absolute Zero in the verdant oracular Math of moving things no longer Thought to be materials, pie Season fish on a stick twin Turbo pieta with fin de siecle All season all wheel drive all Sales final, lute season extinction Newts in creeks orange against Payne’s grey rock with neon Algae beards stretching coastal Creeks & Southwest Sea— Tabor bores Tudor, tabulates Tab for boos expected for Royal wedding on Europa during Rare Earth Materials Riots On Asteroid Earth Colony 1 Forgery document foundries Molten for extraction, Babylon 3’s Bureau of Interstellar Executors Scandals originating from Couch décor—upholstery sewn From Martian infant skin The shoreline properties discover’d It was a musical thing Saw sharpener lathe & satchel Filled with files, hatchet Versatile as lethe, familiar Lath & plaster & denim bot Pugille box in a tint’d boxcar Celan or Hades’ moat forest Forces without frame for Getting lost back to tort law Approach to campaign of ex-term Disney Lego Freedom Jet Ski Castle parapets slick no need For pales of tar or arrows arrows Non-hod carrier limp for a, for a neurochemical green volume Of a great lake drain’d & dredged Neon dropped on Hiroshima & Nagasaki though soldiers Dollie dock & ship back saki In & of itself a cold laden chute Stanchion Right On Station Jewels no art dealer wants Juice of their cores prime tv Programming ancien regime Bereaved treaties glass’d in Muses entities ties tinnitus Kingdoms cover’d but tweezers & archaeological spirit keeps live Memorabilia of contracts in whose Stanzas those destroy’d millenia Ago come alive in especial cases When precedent & hermeneutic Legal arcs are heed’d with obedience An impossibility comic twine- Drying thyme urges in curse’s re- Veal crops dust’d consciousness Masses shelving off palisade con- Tinuance aunties with nuance Necessary forgetting polish’d Glaze or stonehound barrel Dissident principia lending den Lens abstinence centennial Hawk’s Nest Raptor Fiasco Translucence penumbrae Scalds craters ships dock’d Wreckage age’d heaps keeps Hacksaw brigade near grave Sides sly slays Santa Ana winds Chainsaw wedge ponderosa O pine dies with cyan beetles Hematic recess highest “C” Pitch but curvature & integral In silence follow’d cost leant Against an afterward fence Durable adhesive memorabilia Across the street bandits plasma Blast neighbor pulpwood Take megafauna personals Hands up (Mars metal mines Irradiating north county) Pairs dime with dozen split Down the middle bisectional Purse his story bright lunar Cy Tom to morse code us crypt Align myo-like bind terror for Or fail fuss with a hitch Gripping cord so-call’d voce Boxcutter turnkey paddywagon Deviation pregnant Di of soFi Percussion punks devilish Re Entry schemes when MaryFay Of Earth’s Elite Fleet 1 fell Expiration began O2 levels Ration’d bleeds in young & old Breath stretches sputter sputum Smut knick’d by one of time's blades Without thickness still there in the grass Marrow frozen cores Ice sheet winter wheat Lake thickened to tar so surfacable A planar gift on whose surface Crews cross to just between junction Junk pose & jukeboxes floating In tanks of Penny Does It shops Mountains of bodies like peat Or dirt was when oldtimers leave Wagon shells mountains of bodies Where it dirt would glow from Neighboring moons as it said Insect world motion & frequency Quiet absolute zeroing instruments The glow so black & dense that’s Where everyone stops when talking Whole mountains of bodies turn’d to peat In a single season. Aquarium Diver In the water-color piranha tank Said to exist across conjugation’s verse forms—dust cov'rings spackle glass faces in multiples, untended but lunar, it shrugs off pride of its shine. Stardust pink clouds informed by a regional firm’s to-do list: di- Vest & still back-slides reputed collective hero; marshmallows Grovel from stomach, corn the eye. He’s a centenarian on a speaking tour. Preschoolers kid around, play nation’s diplomatic chaste chaste severity assless with meat stick hat. It’s time to stuff another gaunt crow with a pig-in-a-blanket. The tank’s edges’re shellacked, free & with house dealer catch light Radiating moss; a geometry Suggests placement, shape, & core relational routine to a performance. (Its layout when described sounded like a composer speaking of a fugue Or requiem). He from the tank's reasonable vantage took it in, the audience, it appears the Physio dinosaur workout machine lacked facticity (not to mention near-imperceptible). A dilation: Even to watch (an imperative) This singularly collective act Ramrods the tank’s face in A snowed-on snow-boot Step, crunching over gravel— Had there been any to boot. The diver breaks Water. The drooling Catalyzes loss, something Curates, courses, pressures, pushing Muscle organ bodies There, we’re gourded afloat, the diver Dips down through fans of blue Toward the white sand, to neat Scripts of sea anemone. Muzzled chatter Grows elocutionary... for whom Yet not known. Over glassfuls of wine marvel a Greek ending: Can you make out the record? I h___ li__ ten___y but Now __ mu__ re___, to— As a token (what else) Of concern, those looking in Throw something of value, Tulips and roses pulled up From the neighbor’s pots. “Travel safe, have a good trip!” The cameras wrestle out The pocket and purse already On camera in the observatory On camera on the large City block. Hunkered down. The laborer steps up To the flat glass tank, Eel in right, eel in left. Faces modulate, echoing Limited sets of expression In infinitely shifting ways, To feel hydrangeas have a code To themselves, amnesia, like love Is for these very viewers. T hrills fill light, matter, mass Anticipation for not just a passing, But the sound bite of sacrifice... It is clear the diver cannot Return to his beautiful Green ship. His body to Be dispersed, a scattering: Why memorialize a detail here Another there, really, the Eels calibrate a method For a prize like any good Member of the animal kingdom, Barely a dance their corded bodies flex Blurring circular blinks against fish, Ribbon twirls, effusion. Sand Makes a bed for sleep, deep sleep. Unnamed resonance in witness The teeth robotonate As any buzz saw removing Fungal-prone limbs Shadowing heavy traffic. Gambling Splendor rises from cuneiform In a classroom, the ceilings of which Hold mirrors dangling like a trick. Shape making patents drawn from given shapes— Trachea airlock gambling coin & air carrier tube. Spare the necessity of value for sheer farce Nickel coats & dusk's banishment Suggestive of aging luster Madly in love with exiling others Before monarchs carry off a corpse To be disincorporated Over mountain & desert expanse. Refraction cues transparency —wheeling projector just to Skip real time with mama Dickinson. But would customer ask plumber If they really knew how to use A silver-based solder Or ask their preference when copper Supply lines are off the table & galvanized lead begin their Second century soiree? Concentricity works with a verb like swirl. Light, transfixing fire; occurrence chord Tritonal phonics opt for optics department. Rubber pupils make dilation comically elastic; Last city to fall cataclysmically? To generate a billion-dollar surplus? When watching an all-day troupe act, A student reminds me: it’s not just Parsing gesture; it’s language In its own right; it’s its own language. “Becoming light stretches latex cordage For parachute discussions, scuba whales Steeples knifing skyline, diacritical skyline Chip dip finish gloss on the nails, Underestimated frontal growth in a forge. Untied to anything: this, a king; United by belief sweetdick king. When Frederic stops by, top hat stacked, annals of paysage Artemis, cross Off the remainder of the day's Appointments, sounding like an Employee shadows that in the mirror. What happened next: art missed. Radioactive materials gotta be handled With care when expressed or moved. Like a stage, a player's habits stagger An unbecoming show, casino chip danger Dagger turns wager spins badger churns Wholesale body fuck. No. Those coins Are to be measured; not till the till's right. Sluices sink into drain, violets rainwater Runoff into gutter where parent-teacher Conferences are underway!— Amazon’s thing is Stalinist plus web pornography & cartel meth for a diverse american spread. Sand to glass. Velvet blinds. Across a face slap thing is—the thing is— This is where PhD candidates Emphasize the body, the body, the body. Polyps phonograph ear tuft cirrhosis Crust in foam headphones, cacophony The shimmering winnings raining down In a room of misery & pleasure. Gloucester, glue, metal melts on skin Like hot topping over ice cream scoops. Strap. Strange, manufactured jaws Fractured source-code error in larynx? This word isn’t pluralized with any “i” see? Coercion rivets a spur along sandy lane. Deep between rail blades, this bliss, this ecstasy to a landowner married young you say Though specifying botany & geography need it no defense. Remember to zip tie them If there's a chance they defy taxonomic classification. Accompany the doctor down to the incinerator Before he's off to meet with the research team Super fun university funders company. That shouldn't have to be repeated. [oregonian orkin man] What should I gaine by the exaction of the forfeyture? [Movement 1] Light scars mountainside in bars - filets assumed substances’ shared atmosphere - returning radiation mark’d - light laying on in a line on the side of a barge – though none of it – not a thing – not nothing (thin nog, hint within) none of it stays on - save for atom at home – moat un- scroll’d - aqueous ring constable centering city in a trick play - urn ash fuzzy - swore a radio statistician in baritone comb’d through daily spaghetti with Lachrymose D-minor most arks Mozart a gluten 8 binding in fins it t-shirks calligraphic DEX text - tares scale weight back to zero’s enduring baseline oblong song heard through speakers full of wool KG’s voice sable coated coated in honey LR help’d in harvesting from HUMVEE engine compartments - redemption from resume buttons so on all the time they froze - LR laugh backing yard & garlic & iron horses & slabs of wood & Cedar keeping watch Ruth scoping library books - Gandolph using eBay but a woman - John’s sorrow agile under- understood though though a gaggle would sit or stand with him through impossible hours - friend in Bucharest the call issues out from cellular mass but no echo do amoeba colonies register thermodynamic circles tight- rope walking one of time’s tensile steel cable lines - clouds work rote routes - cursory but heavy with shape codified jest surf syrup clot in figured may pole grain - am hurt am burst by black light excretory polygons touring a green-blue or three - audible then booking a ride 512 bus means dig out zinc from sink’s secretarial cove - look of suburban versions of teethwhite crime whose luster’s best seen dead on – lining up in yards with two-car garages in hailing DEET sargeants - boysenberry trucks & good brags - hum-mum-bull-full & well clean goes in archaeopteryx skeletal remains - neighborhood’s vale of value’s optimus primus sending in marine ex- term nation-gate pizza farmer – germs churn in whorls - ohm mite god! at last this report tablet Sumerian imitation but grain tables & floodwater chronology tabulated in you - 4 “e” vows follow’d by tomb’s odd homophony zoom rocket boost mic - scope the algebra solving at least for lost bracket tearing up during grapheme golden hour - shunt in a valve casing sausage cowboy tennis - see mimeograph mime eidetic charm! - the lightbulb field sprouts prussian turnips - nip in the bud see what turns up geniuses – wingèd – tentacle suction-cup-horn’d – morpheme - then hand-name manus - hand jest in the style of factus - in helices like peas climb up stalk & – though no time lapse accelerants on board – given time & giving time — beyond but this is where jupiter’s Martian splotch becomes a gaseous swimming hole & neptune creates a billion-note tonal scale out of its blue winds undisrupt’d - no instruments meter’ing utilities, runaway customs - cuz faith in a stoic’s a valueless stock – cussing at innocents vellum crow’d to Kum & Go lot - from a gap bodying amplitude empty between the clefs - canyon’s sounds maintain : none-of-em stay always on - records in logs – recall Abel’s speech-spokes from low gravity zone - chlorophylls postal carriers with alphabets scribed into sugars & enzymes – mycological threads tethering spore print rorschachs - gill diameter a hundred minnow fishbones – language CFCs escaped from pressurized cans refrigerants boring through air with drillbit none - no torsional force at all chemists grab Erleynmeyer just to be sure ezra-cyborg.z1 get it - symbolic arrangements from tongue to hex- ameter for fire’s dis- appearance past seek to recover its ashes by way of tale - the survival of which depends in part on the pre- servation of the unrecover- able mystery of fire’s de- parture into pieces sold for parts - exorcisms of black light pitch’d back - script with spirit encryption to be re–constructed though green-blues’ll lack ideogram or alphabet from original tongue of groups around the fire, a task thrown out so in - to- ward one of the many namesake others in drag for the day - using the name by which our loves call us :: man age game holsters cent & usury menagerie bisque detail multiplies pension - sutures pence curves hull as tug holds tight & charge goes by :: [movement no. 2] ensures barn noon nuns find between them lodged A prism, protractor, styliss & without cartography no part of it — evolving equation. tools re-visit listening shapes then if in possible way broke biscuits shared, a company of others engagèd - deuterium green plums ripening about catnip at its base - Naps lucky moment - sum indecision parietal orbit profiteering caricature well-meaning derangement ignorant in excursus forgo excuses from start, hard Hart— raid : raid ration : rationate : state rate raid : nation race ration : clay state raz's iron rate station raid: throw drain nation : air rations raid state : rain bow’d station: terrain bowl’d stain shun: ratio nation rate stadium gain : raid rations gold radio waves : save nation : everyone nation : discard nation : rat ate ionization : polite save aid : ration: come here : rapport nation : rapt gate nation: contain nation caution: raid nation : raz’d notion of the prism shift, gist & contract legal sneeze read with ease squared-off edges millimeter machinèd possibility exaction contact focal point photons lit internals at a boil - locus mapp’d then gone— landscape sculpting a— ”the sam hell are we”-- forays of alpine terrain altitudinal gains weathervane move with bot any name errs or moves with its directional intent - not one of capture but fortune’s junction : brackish carbilimades source bracket “frick” sound top teeth gripping bottom lip axel’s racket flakes of dust rust off featherlike at first fistfulls accrue suddenly your’re hunting for labor - COLONIAL LANES - HIRING NOW at town’s edge you got bowling lanes booze lot chop-chop chatter practically a legislature lube shop & a remoteness schooled to be so peculiar - part by part it ticks - talc cuts in nonstick - it’s home in the sine wave signs - “sin” - “nature” foreground give-in a laughter full - the fugitive Parthians follow through Media Mesa - Patmos - aim ame love shakes a tackle - rattles bait free - line - hook - sinker summon then from bottom deep the shelters whither the routed fly nuns around triangular prism in intervals angles just-so though there are,— some nights complications. — architecture bur to fur picket sticks stymie tics sweat wet burning surfaces collective magnification — heat tough penninsular nunery stay link’d with ease stoke a giant a jar sprouts out dirt floor con- fiscation & props lining cool glass walls pliant gymnasts carpenters with plumbing wrenches oil paint recipes catechetical erasures radical handbooks one nun calls a zine — short word blurb from a— from scene disbelief together climbs rafters tall then falls back down to ground, kink in a pipe sneaks a leak geese bleat — squeezed beatitude with attitude :: & just nowhere a head, torso but above & below nothing— as in—traction as to the arc of Orkin’s spin & stir salesmanship decaffeinated say i brief sublimity encrypted thoughtless error, subtitution, pressure applied to glib clips but squid swim just off rocky Sequim Washington but for a second: flesh silicone casters, enamel robotic limb-assisted controls— torn even so torso goes on senseless it raises hatred body & self to but bother’d not they in the slightest— mess in front visual field — gore orthography, special signs nuns a specialized structure to labor have— picking away with probable probe, chisel to chip, fine-haired brush to sweep sweet enameling & nothing one finds is said to be filed as fine by team— were there grenadine a feeling hearse on the go — cold brew braggadocio— vivid temp stations silver illness—abscess from absence stiff-arm serif— momentousness no moment us to suss us, mousetrap from foam mousse, toupee glue dripped down in- to odd-tune soup— gloop a hoof a huff hoarse from — nuns wiping brow my back sticker’d with hay, molasses to molecules hangs blurs--hand feels absent tool belt & spray canisters & moldable insect models gigantic & not to scale for effect gulp :: time slow go there a necessity :: engine — tears gasket swears bit it —snake oil that’d seal it & save the gremlin out loud denim sleeve fed, sling— is that wind? water sips from pewter tongue an audible sense of its cold lip— distant winch’s capitulation between sheets tanks out pyramid sky- seismologist over a moat cascadia subduction junction future’s figure spree spending a coin or two anthropocene gravity —(just now already passed not so much point as on-ramp access on different dimension or synthetic scrim script’d outside parameters of limited programming functions) / deter - rinse - rate - aerate - ate shunts to cement stunt landing - caught in netting, wear— woo’d by worcester, wool piccadilly robe, rhombu rocking chair : so go beams sift awl holes in the sheets still, compressed into reams , phasor hex head lag screw together a stone graph consequence charting territory old sour fig [sic.] signature :: anything new Noob — bile bite grip’s nipples got my — tips overlay / knit coriander doves hover joists cloud qualia from clover & radishes — for i but have — my gut, it covereth breast & anon.’s a favorite speaker please god prayer blankets choral quality of Is IVs & Vs their voices reconstituting body then it clear now an accident victim surveilled thought I an other but supercede —given by others me to temporary lay pain low so grave & stave to shapes may rise can’t - can’t knot - esc. key signature haze! in inner space face settles with spies charts & map graphs screen creamtop adhesive Elmer’s elementary glues muskox copper ties side tongue tasters to cheek-bit torsion of titanium bit - tighten it one nun at noon says with gesture - linen sheets set before lowering I'm HELLO — SEA - AT - AL! rummaging. wow. so. loud. craven cranberry pair justice the neighbors before asked about the nuns— nuthouse fuckbag hang yourself, save the world! nice neighbors - in silk bands the hours go tender practitioners render to center solar plexus landing strip punctuation - notes worn by torso flat float secure & bedded to carriage upholstery— revolutions per, — up scabrous reality don’t mind do I distant stochastics scattering murmurations moor’d to shroud & this fear neutralizèd a shine only is left - shirks sharks shoulders do they solo mother— sex & rage downstream ripped text- tile — chips evidentiary to story’s misnomer hovering— nuns with shovels now conical blades metallics gold only what dust does pressurized & shot through with light ascendancy high-8 tapes demonstrate salmon run sells itself fantasy turbulence, thicket gross domestic product recollection recovery - lost daimon dominion prints prison,— scratch wall border the fact of a body scarf or collar jug- ular in regular thumps swells into drum earing disappearing —calendar baseball on AM radio in pitcher’s palm who happened to be dad of a boy in a book— scene overcrowded with nature’s angels roaming moor in romantic flux on schisms rely - nuns social bulwark against this —what scenes degrade as most light cannot get through layers of dirt covering blood hares skate surfaces pools light inside & glass sacrament wine, ligature & typeface design patriot at his climax truest rendition :: gratitude glazed by grace’s drunken fender expeditional piths myths molten-core driven show true, how to— background of sirens & vehicles moving with velocity accelerating, danger (how shine incisors with the sale, no training in drama, awe, obvious) scrap sell-off from any collision floss through teeth as if a meal metal flesh together proxied by petrochemical fires — blue-grey & red with weaponries of white moonshine for a feeding step right up to drive-in theater seats endeavor letters heat-death's in leather afternoon sun driving through un- an T’s adage sort teary hullos hourglass god gives mourning folk waiting at the wake for forest of clear rings cut - kind of thing where as long as rock tumbler or track spins the lot loose - ‘’ not of loss but from it - wade in to banks whose river-marsh don dune buggies they themselves caught with tusks - walrus tusk, mammoth oathes - it doesn’t come but but the wake works - this ending up leech gripping concrete between orange sutures & backhoes frozen as if waiting for a pike from drainage grate to strike - construction project, bolts soldiers aligned With flags & settlements if hit by idiots— T-REX PROJECT & congestion— sienna lilac bogies thick spokes of upward brushstrokes suspended beneath cash register’s 100-story shadow.

[inkling-writes]

the muzzle and back and metal skeleton are not mine mckinely pointed out what Shiro’s back probably looks like I know Boss has made a fic about Shiro having his skeleton switched out on him  and idk the artist but there’s fanart with shiro getting his scar from a muzzle (it makes more sense than an arena wound ever will)

the rest of Shiro’s Scars are my own HC based on his fighting style + things Haggar and Sendak both alluded to in s1 (even before getting much more...explicit. Sendak especially) (Shiro was already coded as such. And Sendak’s comments while torturing him (and making Pidge listen to it)

(but. then season FRIKKIN FIVE AND SIX. look I already had those HC and hated them. but now they’re def all but canon.) THANKS I HATE IT

on the flip side I do HC that part of what Fascinated Haggar so much with Champion (so much so as to make and mature HUNDREDS of clones) is that she discovered that Shiro already had BlackPaladin Quintessence despite Zarkon being the first BP and still living and...well. besides wanting to Upgrade Champion and his illness being a Puzzle and MOAR Champions = MOAR Ideal Test Subjects&Shit

she prolly also took Shiro’s Quintessence (and the developing clones) to beef up Zarkon even further (then nearly exhausted her BP Grade Quintessence Farm after Shiro&Black with Voltron knocked Zarkon into a coma (...and it still nearly failed ‘cause...well. Jiro’s quintessence is So Damn Close to Shiro’s but. He’s still not the BP (Jiro’s simply just Close Enough for Black to sense via a preLink and eventually fly with. (he’s closer than the others save Allura if Black didn’t stubbornly want SHIRO back (and thought Keith could do it which didn’t happen rip) (but he’s still not the BP and doesn’t quite have Shiro’s stamina (altho a witch in his brain? it’s impressive he can fly at all)

(Tags by @void-tiger​)

It just isn’t practical to me for Shiro’s Scars to have come from the arena. Oh, he definitely has some, the majority being defensive, but they’re almost all superficial, and many of them already fading.

Because the Galra aren’t going to waste medical supplies treating gladiator, not even crowd favorites or careers, and certainly not the slaves and fodder. And despite Humans maxing out their endurance even if they’re not the fastest or strongest, bones and organ and skin are still very delicate things. They’re sturdy enough, but one bad fall or hit or wrenching motion is all it takes. Contusions and stress fractures can still be Very Bad if left untreated. And the galra would kill off a sick slave (or even another freeborn galra) rather than risk an epidemic.

“Victory or Death” —wipe out the weakness.

So Shiro’s fighting strategy is to quite literally DON’T GET HIT; Get Fast or Get Dead. Use his mind to outthink and use his “smaller” body and insanely high stamina (and stubborness) to out maneuver and outlast. Don’t be shy about killing blows or disabling strikes—it’s Them or You, and the Galra will either condemn them to a slow, agonizing death or put them down much more painfully than even you in arena conditions. (Also Jiro telling Keith to Just Let Go softly—he probably inherited that from Shiro. Shiro trying to comfort his opponant as he’s killing them, because Dying Isn’t An Option for Shiro, but he also knows that they both can’t survive, that the Galra will just kill the other slave, that the arena is lonely enough void of any scrap of kindness. But giving a swift or easing death? Making sure they won’t die ALONE? That he can do. Be the Angel of Death rather than be the Arena’s Champion.)

That doesn’t mean Shiro doesn’t rebel. He certainly does, and pays dearly for it. The only reason why he wasn’t struck down right then is because Sendak enjoys breaking his toys, and Shiro’s spirit is a delicious challenge he hasn’t seen in milennia. Sendak’s going to relish Champion.

That doesn’t mean Haggar and her Druids and Scientists and Androids won’t take Champion apart piece by piece to see how he’s made, how to put him back together again, see if Terrans are worth the effort to take as stock, see what sets Champion apart from the other two Terrans taken and every other known being she’s seen over her very long life. See what improvements she can make, ideas she can test. (Champion’s illness is also both a frustration but also a wonderful puzzle. She will FIX him. Make him BETTER. And he will be HERS and worship her for it.) Haggar is very deliberate in putting Champion back together again and sealing the wounds she left. But her methods still leave raised, angry-looking scars that are tender to the touch. (She’s careful not to damage nerves. Pain is a nuisance Champion will endure if he’s wise. But she made the mistake in causing a subject to lose feeling—he died soon after. Haggar never makes the same mistake twice.)

So when Shiro looks at himself, his back is a mottled mess of electric burnmarks left by his guards, he assumes. Viciously he doesn’t mind—GOOD. He fought back. They didn’t break him. He knows they didn’t...right? But. He gave them hell right back.

His remaining arm and hand and legs and feet are crisscrossed with faded slashes and sometimes dotted with double-Us left by teeth. Defensive marks. By color they were all presumably superficial. He fought, and he survived. They never got a good hit in. He’a both relieved and overwhelmed with horrible guilt—if he survived, that means they didn’t. He killed them. What kind of monster does that make him if he valued his own life over theirs? But what would’ve happened to his kids and Allura and Coran and the BlackLion if he didn’t? To the Universe? But. He still killed innocents. What right does he have to the Black Paladin mantle over Zarkon after that?

(His thighs and ass and pecks have much deeper bite wounds and claw marks. Shiro tries very, very hard not to think about them or to let anything touch these scars directly. Tries not to remember remember his instant recognition of Sendak, particularly his teeth and definitely his claws, both natural and artificial. How Sendak entering the Castle and hurting his friends and taunting him—don’tthinkdon’tthinknodon’tthinkabouthimtouchingyou—forces Shiro to lie awake or have a new set of nightmares. His guilt over that vicious relief when Sendak was finally gone and off the ship.)

Or the scar on his nose—Shiro hates how visible both it and the shock of white hair are (and how tender that part of his scalp is whenever he accidentally brushes it). He can’t hide it. Not unless he wants to keep his face covered for the rest of his life. He could dye his bangs back to black...if the Alteans even have hair dye. (Do they just change their haircolor like they do their height and skin when they’re bored??) But, other than being so visible and a testiment to the world about that year he can’t remember (probably for the best...right??) and his scalp being this constant itch and his face a raw, tender ache that pulls (and makes him have snuffled snores now. Snoring’s new...) they don’t exactly look bad.

Frosted bangs are a classic look. He’s never had them but he’d definitely been curious about it. (The GG’s just barely lax about haircuts, but still had a stick up their ass with dyed hair. And his faded undercut and bangs were already pretty expensive to have kept all the time.) And he can kinda pretend that his scar’s just the Voltron Symbol upside down—he doesn’t really put much stock in fate or destiny, but still. It’s a nicer thought than most. (His opinion sours slightly after seeing Shay suspended and muzzled. That contour. It’s the same one on his own face. At some point they muzzled him, but it either rubbed his skin raw, or didn’t fit him properly, or both.)

But the scars Shiro cannot avoid and definitely bother him—that mortician Y incision on his chest. It’s raw and it’s raised and it’s ragged. Someone cut into him, mucked about inside, sealed it up, used the same spot and did it all over again. It’s ugly and tender in a way none of his other scars are, and fills him with helpless rage when it catches (all the time) or he sees it (he tries So HARD not to look at it. He’d rather cover the bathroom mirror and use a hand one when he’s stuck shaving off his whiskers. He hated shaving before—it takes so damn long. He definitely hates it now, but traditional blades are slightly better than buzzing electric ones that close to his face and throat...if he doesn’t nick himself, anyway...) The raised lines that follow the contor inside his arms (well, what’s left of his right arm) and legs match in precision, but they’re not as angry looking, if slightly.

The reason Shiro learns why, though, is less than comforting. He could say that he’s Wolverine Now but. He didn’t consent to that. He didn’t consent to any of this, and they still violated him so thoroughly and invasively, anyway. And unlike his Arena Scars, the raw scars and callouses on his remaining wrist and ankles say that no matter how hard he tried to resist, they still got their way, anyway. They took him at his most helpless and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. And he wasn’t strong enough to keep things from progressing that far.

Before Kerberos, Shiro was already pretty modest. He didn’t like people staring at him or the snide remarks and other unwanted attention. He felt fairly comfortable in his own skin, but didn’t like either being jeered at for “not earning things” or dealing with people liking the way he looked but not really liking him (and okay so he’s tall and his eyes are unusual but...he just looks fairly average?? Trying to buy clothes is also awful—it’s always too tight or HUGE. How can awkward fits be attractive, anyway?)

After Kerberos. Well. He has a new set of reasons to not want the other paladins to see him even with just his shirt off. He doesn’t want to see his own scars, and he definitely doesn’t want to deal with anyone looking at him with pity or morbid fascination or revulsion (either because of his scars being so ugly looking...or worse, because of how he got them. For not being strong or smart enough to stop them, and instead became someone else’s pet to survive many times over. For getting them as “payment” for being unable to save his crew, and flying too damn well and landing them all in danger.)