#the soundtrack for man of steel also came up AND ONE OF THEM TRIGGERED ME BY SAYING ITS THE THEME OF THE SUPERDUDE

[scottishoctopus]

You a monsterfucker???

I assume this question is for me rather than Mr Davy Jones himself but if not feel free to send it again to get Davy's answer, IF YEH DARE- UH!

Nope, I am not that. I'm not really comfortable with that sort of thing to be honest but if anyone who follows me who is, then that's perfectly fine! I don't have an attraction to cursed Davy, but I do find human Davy handsome. I'm more into the reasons why Davy is the way he is as that's how I fell in love with his character; angst, tragedy, drama and all sorts of things like that. He's a tragic character, and I am a sucker for all things angst!

There's also a reason why I don't write smut on here either, it's just not something I feel comfortable to write and I also don't really feel a need to write that sort of stuff anyway.

But hey! Anyone interested in that, that's all good with me. Keep being your awesome self!

[dlamp-dictator]

Allen X Wants to Like Guilty Gear Part 1: Allen X Does Not Like Guilty Gear

Folks, I tried. I really tried. For the last few years I’ve tried to like Guilty Gear. I’ve honestly been playing bits of this series since around the time Accent Core was on the PS3 store. I’ve really tried. I’ve played Accent Core Plus R, Xrd, Revelator and Rev 2, and I’ve been trying my damn hardest to like this series because I can see all the cool and fun stuff in it. I can see the cool grungy-rock meets 90s anime aesthetic. I can see how insane and cool Roman Cancel combos are. I can hear all the awesome music in the soundtracks. And I see all the blood, sweat, and tears poured into this series to make it the coolest hard-rock fighting game it wants to be and I really want to like it.

But I don’t... God, it’s Samurai Shodown all over again.

I just can’t get into this series, man. Something, some things about it keep me from fully enjoying it. Mostly some petty things that just add up and tumble the pile over, but things nonetheless. 

And... I wanted to talk about that a little. 

I wanted to just let out all my love and misgivings for the Guilty Gear in hopes of finally purging all the negative from my being, or at least write it out in a constructive manner so I can lay all my transgressions bare and maybe... possibly... actually want to purchase and play Strive on launch day.

But first, as usual, a synopsis. 

The Guilty Gear series is a fighting game developed by Arc System Works, helmed and created by Daisuke Ishiwatari, who I know as the composer of the Blazblue soundtrack, but has quite the large track record that I won’t go into here. Guilty Gear as a story focuses on the lone bounty hunter Sol Badguy, a human experiment known as a Gear, half-human, half monstrous being of science and magic. The storyline of each game tends to focus on Sol finding the humanity in his would-be marks as well as confronting the still-lingering humanity in himself as he copes with both his self-loathing and loathing the for one who made him this way, a scientist simply call That Man, or Asuka as the most recent games have shown us. The storyline itself is long and complicated but as of Strive it seems the final battle between Sol and That Man is finally at hand and the battlefield will be the United States.

Gameplay-wise, Guilty Gear is a fast-paced, combo-centric series that uses chaining attacks that can cancel into special and super moves, along with the unique Roman Cancels, which slow down time and leave your opponent open for more punishment mid-combo. Think the Chain Shift in Under Night with a bit more hangtime if you want a comparison, or the Rapid Cancel of the Blazblue series with a slowdown effect and more flash. 

And with the basics out of the way let’s talk about the specifics.

The Good Things

Of course, that isn’t to say I hate this game series. There’s a lot I like and enjoy about the Guilty Gear series that I’ll go into greater detail in a later essay, but for now I’ll give a brief mention of all the things I enjoy about it.

The Music

I was introduced to Daisuke Ishiwatari’s music through Blazblue, and while I love Blazblue music to this day I’ll also admit that it sounds very... video game-y. It doesn’t sound like something that could be listened to from anything other than a game. But Guilty Gear music sounds like actual music. I don’t mean that in an insulting way toward Blazblue, but... man does Pride and Glory sound like something you’d listen to while driving your pickup truck on the highway. Damn, does Get Down to Business sound like something an actual rock concert would play. And the Xrd soundtracks sound so good man. One Dawn, Enough is Enough, Starry Sky, Lily of Steel, they all sound so damn good. And as cheesy and over-the-top as they sound I love the LA and NY Vocals of this series. Personal favorites are Keep Yourself Alive II, Fuuga, and Suck a Sage. 

The Aesthetic

If there was one thing I didn’t really like about Blazblue it was a lot of characters, even the ones I mained, had an aesthetic I just couldn’t latch onto. A weird mix of fantasy, eastern, and early-2000s action anime that just didn’t click with me save for Hibiki Kohaku. Guilty Gear is a lot more my speed with a more rugged look to their characters. Something about a lot these characters just have that good mix of grunge and 90s fashion I love. Some of my favorites being Answer, Ramlethal, and Jam.

Tension

While there’s a lot about Guilty Gear’s mechanics I find unappealing and convoluted I love how building and using meter works in this series, specific in Accent Core Plus R. Dust being a sort of EX button works really well in this game since I personally feel like Dust is kind of under-used a lot of the time save for the universal sweep.  This point probably won’t get an entire essay covering it, but I did at least want to give it a shoutout.

Setting

This point will be getting its own essay, but to keep things short and simple I like the setting of Guilty Gear, medieval-esque magitech with a dash a modern-world flavor just hits with real well with me. Like a nice mix of Under Night and Tales of Symphonia.

And that’s it for the good stuff, at least the good stuff I can make into later essays. Now let’s talk about...

The Conflicting Things

Really, my issues with Guilty Gear are similar to Samurai Shodown and Granblue Fantasy Versus, where I love those game aesthetically, but actually playing them is another matter. However, unlike those two games my issues are almost the opposite. Where Samsho and GBVS had a slower and more fundamentals approach that didn’t appeal to my cocaine-esque addiction to combo chains, special cancels and air-dashing, Guilty Gear is almost too fast for my taste, or at least a different kind of fast. This is something very hard to explain. If you've read my initial thoughts on Crystar then you have a good idea about what I mean. This is something very hard to explain to people that haven’t played the game and is likely more a technical part of Guilty Gear’s mechanics that I can explain with an real sophistication aside from saying ‘this game feels weird,’ but... I’m gonna’ try.

The Button Layout

Alright, this is something I can actually explain. I’m... not a fan of 5-button fighters. Really, anything more than 4 buttons is hard for me to grasp. This is mostly due to the fact that I use a standard dualshock controller when playing fighting games. I frankly don’t have money for an arcade stick nor the patience to figure our how to work with one, so I’m stuck with the PS4 controller. For games like Blazblue, Granblue, and even stuff like Tekken and Dead or Alive this works out fine, as even when those games have a fifth or six button they usually aren’t heavily involved in combos or can be supplemented by other means. But games like Street Fighter, Skullgirls, and Guilty Gear the fifth and sixth button are used very liberally. Granted, Dust isn’t used as often as heavy punch, but it’s still a key button used for sweeps and air combos, turning my hands into pretzels as a results. 

I don’t you dare tell me to just get use to it or get good. I’m a Carl main. I’m used multi-tasking with my hands.

...

...

...

Dammit, that came out wrong, but you know what I mean. 

Anyway, a smaller issue I have is just the way Punch, Kick, Slash, and Heavy Slash are mapped both on the controller and on the display screen. It just doesn’t mesh well with me where they’re mapped, and switching the button layout honestly makes it worse because the display proper doesn’t adjust for where I map the buttons.

Roman Cancels

Roman Cancels are just a tool I don’t think I’ll ever find a good use for, or at least something that would take me a long time to use optimally. Like I said before, they’re basically Chain Shift with more hangtime, but it feels like the Rapid Cancel in the sense that I have to move very quickly after activating or I outright lose the combo, and unlike Chain Shift and Rapid Cancel where I can just ignore the mechanic, keep the meter, and focus on small, easy combos with good defense, Roman Cancels feel somewhat needed to do decent damage in this game. Or at least the trial mode really thinks so.

From what I’ve seen of Strive’s mechanics I think Roman Cancels will be a little easier for me to conceptualize and use, but... I dunno’, I’m not feeling too confident on that. 

I do recognize that this issue is a me problem, but it’s a probably I have nonetheless.

The Look

Specifically on Xrd, something about the 2.5D makes certain movements a little hard to read and judge. This isn’t something I can really describe that well, but something about that game specifically feels weird. Like the cell-shaded, 3D contrasts a little with the feel of motion in that game. I have a similar issue with the recent Street Fighter games as well. Again, it’s nothing concrete and it’s honestly indescribable for someone of my knowledge on the subject, but... something feels awkward when I’m playing this game in a serious light.

The Fandom

This has nothing to do with the game, but tends to create cracks in me when I play this game. As a guy that got into Arc System Works games via Blazblue Calamity Trigger, seeing a lot of the Guilty Gear be demeaning and insulting toward the Blazblue Community has always rubbed me the wrong way and I have a difficult time getting into this series in a more serious way because of it. I know this is likely a vocal minority, I know this isn’t every Guilty Gear fan, but it feels like a vocal side of Guilty Gear community keeps thinking that Guilty Gear is some sort of antithesis to anime air-dashers like Blazblue, as if the grungy rock aesthetic cancels out the anime aesthetic of Blazblue. This has always annoyed me, but it tends to crop up everytime someone brings up Guilty Gear designs versus Blazblue designs and while I find the idea of discussing and comparing the two interesting it always seems to devolve into insulting Blazblue.

Though to give a short version of my opinion this: I don’t want to hear shit about Blazblue waifus when Baiken mains don’t even play Baiken. And I especially don’t want to hear shit about Blazblue’s pandering fanservice when Dizzy, Ram, and Elphelt exist.

About Strive

I think that covers the main things keeping me from liking Guilty Gear, or at least playing Guilty Gear. So I want to talk about Strive, the next game coming up. This will also be something that will be expanded on in a later essay, but for now I’ll say I’m cautiously excited about Strive coming out and I look forward to at least giving it a shot. Though to give some rapid-fire bullet points on the matter... 

Overall, I think Strive looks great, the presentations is fantastic and I love a lot of the new designs for the characters, though I hear that opinion is actually contentious in the fandom.

I heard that Strive is gonna’ have a dub again. I’m... curious, but I’ll save my opinions for a different essay. Long story short, if they get a new director or the old director puts more care into the performances I’ll be happy. I did overall like Xrd’s original dub barring a few performances.

So far everything about Strive looks cool, but it’s still Guilty Gear, so... debating on if I wanna’ get that day 1. Especially since I still only have a base PS4. I’ve no interest in getting the new hotness for at least another year and gamers are self-centered demons that mock those using lesser hardware. That isn’t a Guilty Gear thing, it’s just a gamer thing.

For those wondering, if I pick of this game I’ll probably main Chipp, Ram, and maybe Giovanna.

I have mixed feelings about the soundtrack. Save for Smell of the Game the lyrics in the themes I’ve hard are a mix of okay to... not okay. Hope they have versions without the lyrics similar to Raven in Rev 2.

And I think that’s everything. Next... probably another essay about Arknights.

[fantasy-zelda-blog]

Shards - Kurootsukki angst week 2018

Hello everyone. This is part my one-shot for kurootsukki angst week 2018, and also one chapter of my Haikyuu!! / The Legend of Zelda crossover series. I am writing a bit behind schedule as this one-shot is inspired by prompts of day 1 and 2, respectively break up and sacrifice. Thanks to @chigayuazlin​ and @kuroocult for organizing this amazing event.

To @mitrr and @eroismpro for their constant support. <3

I have never written a sad ending fic in my whole life, will I be able to do that this time?

Enjoy your reading :)

Read it on ao3:  https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287938

An orange-hued light was coming through the patio doors, so gentle that his eyes didn’t need to adjust to it. Tsukishima left the door slightly ajar behind him. Should Akaashi wake up, he would be by his side in just seconds, ready to comfort him again. He sat on the floor of the hallway, knees drawn up and palms pressed against the cool surface beneath him. He could feel the pleasant warmth of the desert dawn, giving him a bit of relief as he settled his shoulders and head against the wall. Try as he might to stop the flood of questions Bokuto’s words generated, his mind was throbbing with worry.

He heard a twinkling bell, a long shadow soon advanced toward him. He sighed, not knowing if he should be happy or sad. A pair of golden, slitted eyes looked at him and blinked a couple of times. Wasn’t it ironic that his mind wandered to when he accepted his lover’s proposal? Tsukishima snorted. He stretched his legs and reached out to scratch under his new guest’s chin, who immediately purred. “Come on,” he sat it down on his lap then started to pet its black fur. The cat offered his belly and closed his eyes. “Brave like a panther in battle, but a scaredy cat when it comes to serious talking, uh?”

Golden tendrils enveloped the pet and Tsukishima’s fingers now carded through dark-ink bed hair. “Do we need to talk?” Kuroo asked, panic marring his features. His mind must have been as tired as Tsukishima’s one. “You could easily guess what I think.” Seeing that he elicited no answer, he kept speaking from Tsukishima’s lap. “I think Bokuto is the dumbest and most stubborn person we’ve ever met. He crushed Akaashi’s heart in the stupidest way and I’m so...” Kuroo covered his face with both his hands, dragging them down when he spoke again “... so angry at him that it’s a good thing he flew away.”

They fell silent for a bit. Far noises of the house starting its day were a comforting soundtrack. Some birds on a rare, nearby tree engaged in a singing contest, their soft melody louder than anything else. Tsukishima’s thighs were becoming a bit numb. Not a chance his mind would become equally deprived of sensation and find a bit of peace. His soul, indeed, was a battlefield. Whatever he could choose to do, someone would suffer. If he kept dating Kuroo, Bokuto’s best friend, he would constantly remind Akaashi of his lost lover. But would it be any better if he broke up with Kuroo in order to let any traces of Bokuto disappear from Akaashi’s life?

He only wanted to curl up somewhere and cry. “Tetsurou, I can’t do this to Akaashi.” Kuroo sat up but Tsukishima slumped down his head. A warm hand stroked his hair, “You think Akaashi would be happier seeing the both of us heartbroken?” Kuroo sounded almost disappointed by Tsukishima’s way of reasoning. “Of course not,” he moved away from Kuroo’s touch. “But it would be a constant stab to his heart if we kept seeing each other. Bokuto brought you here, Bokuto played matchmaker for us-” “Bokuto will be back soon when what triggered his absurd panic is stone dead,” Kuroo said with finality. “I know it will take time for Akaashi to forgive him, but they are meant to be together,” he muttered, “just as you and me.” Tsukishima’s lap was again occupied by Kuroo’s head, who took a strange interest at the ceiling and started to frown at it.

Tsukishima felt all the more shattered, sensing how much Kuroo believed in their own love and was sorry for him as well. Tsukishima had indeed talked with Bokuto, and he was sure Kuroo had too because he witnessed them arguing the last night. But Kuroo evidently didn’t want to accept his friend’s decision.

When Tsukishima met Bokuto for the first time, they were kids. Bokuto was smaller than average young owls and so insecure that he quite never shapeshifted into a human and just kept staring at Akaashi. He followed the young prince everywhere, at a distance, thinking he was not noticed. It wasn’t impossible not to grow fond of the shy owlet who became Akaashi’s not so secret admirer. Besides, they owed it to his constant night patrolling near Akaashi’s chambers and to his courage that back then Akaashi survived. He already loved him to the point he disregarded his own life in order to save him.

Tsukishima shook his head, “He will not come back. He knows he will put Akaashi in grave danger if he stays by his side.” Tsukishima shivered at the memory of Bokuto’s words. “Grave danger?” Kuroo asked incredulously, “I thought you wouldn’t care about superficial diplomatic shit, Kei..” Tsukishima closed his eyes. “He didn’t tell you...” “Of course he did tell me. But, Kei, you can’t possibly think that the Ritos would break their alliance with your realm only because Bokuto, their champion, could one day have a lovers’ quarrel with your prince Akaashi, whom Bokuto just chose as his betrothed, to boot.” Kuroo nervously waved his hands as he talked. “Bokuto panicked because he is overprotective of Akaashi and couldn’t stand the thought of any diplomatic issues stemmed from their eventual breakup. This is insane, only Bokuto could come up with this sort of thoughts. Why would you think so negatively right from the start? Why would they ever break up, they’re two peas in-” It was hard to interrupt Kuroo’s rant. “No, Tetsurou, he really didn’t tell you anything.” “Tell me what?” Worried by the recurrent statement, Kuroo brought his hand to Tskukishima’s face. Kuroo’s thumb stroked his cheek, and it immediately tingled in a pleasant way. In a too familiar, soothing way. Kuroo the cat wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He considered to back away again, however, his greedy side made him lean into it.

Tsukishima glanced to the side and whispered, “He foresaw it, he dreamt it, Tetsurou, he dreamt him…” Finally, he cried, thankful he had long learnt to do it silently. Even if Kuroo promptly hugged and cradled him, he didn’t want to acknowledge the fact tears were streaming down his face, that his nose became stuffy and his head heavy, as though only sobbing could reveal he was a crying mess. Kuroo tightened his hold, Tsukishima could feel his hot cheeks against his shoulder. “Kei, please, please, tell me what he dreamt.” But from the way Tsukishima hiccupped, Kuroo must have understood and didn’t ask anymore. When he was sure he could talk, Tsukishima spoke again with a thin voice. “I can’t encourage him to ignore what he foresaw.” “I know,” Kuroo murmured. He was probably trying to accept the idea that the four of them would never again be together in the same room, that their mutual friendship was in tatters. And the worst part was that they shouldn’t try to piece together its shards.

But Tsukishima had to steel his resolve, “I can’t go happily around with you by my side. ” Kuroo exhaled a long breath. “We will give Akaashi time to heal.” He kissed his neck and left his lips there, his breath fanning over Tsukishima’s skin. “I’ll wait for you.”

Tsukishima opened his eyes. No one was around. Akaashi had ordered not to disturb him the whole day. No sound came from the room to his right nor the daylight reached its interior through the door Tsukishima left open just a crack. He entwined one hand with Kuroo’s long fingers and with the other he coaxed Kuroo out of his hiding place. “Kei,” Kuroo pleaded. As if it was a forbidden gesture, at first their lips met softly. After some minutes, though, they became hungrier, spiralling down the pit of their love, driven by passion and desperation.

A gust of southern wind swiped the floor and brought inside some dry leaves. At their rustling, Tskukishima gently pushed on Kuroo’s arms to break the kiss. Dust floated in the air, heavy with a bit of sand, a perfect, warm-toned background for the man in front of him. Kuroo’s hair was messier than ever as if matching his internal struggle, his smile loop-sided yet unsure, his eyes watery and his nose red as a cherry, how could Tsukishima shatter the heart of a guy near to his breaking point? He avoided his gaze once more and with trembling hands he removed the bracelet Kuroo gifted him as a seal of his love, “Take care of it for me.” Kuroo sagged on himself and grabbed Tsukishima’s wrists. He begged, openly crying, “no, Kei, please, no...”  “I can’t ask you to wait for me, Kuroo.” He inhaled deeply as he sensed Kuroo stiffen and heard him make a strangled sound. He quickly added, “but I can let the choice to you at one condition.”

Had it been any other circumstance, it would have been hilarious the way Kuroo sniffled and craned his neck. He looked at Tsukishima full of hope and eagerly nodded, not daring to speak. “You still have to be our Sheika ambassador but you will not visit us for at least one year.” He gulped down the lump which was strangling his throat. “I-I will be in charge of receiving your updates through letters until… Gods! I can’t tell you when we can properly be together again… Akaashi has loved Bokuto since we were kids, you know?” Kuroo cackled. Tsukishima couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Kuroo doubled in laughter, even heaved for breath. “You,” he tried to recompose himself, “you scared me to death, Kei!” Annoyed by the strange reaction he caused, Tsukishima swatted Kuroo’s head more than once. Kuroo grasped his forearms and kissed the back of his left hand before pulling him into his lap. Tsukishima was straddling Kuroo’s thighs, facing him. If Akaashi witnessed them right now, their public display of affection would crush him. So much for trying to protect him. Tsukishima felt incredibly uncomfortable at that mere thought and wiggled in Kuroo’s hold, who in any case didn’t loosen his grip on him.

“I thought you were set to get rid of me for good,” he said, now calm, almost sad. “But I will always love you, I would have in any case.” Looking him in the eyes, he muttered, “I believe you’re too smart to misunderstand the meaning of ‘forever’.” “Idiot, don’t remind this kind of promise while we are breaking up!” But it was clear that no heat animated Tskushima’s words. “We’re not!” Kuroo protested. “We are!” Tsukishima rebutted. While he squeezed Tsukishima more fiercely than before, Kuroo saw Akaashi standing by the slightly ajar door, a hand clasping it for purchase. The light was enough to let him see Akaashi mouthing the words “Love him, please.” Only when Kuroo gave him a nod, Akaashi retreated into his room.

[eccacia]

These Games We Play

Notes: Um, so, the muse has been kind to me lately, so here’s another Savitar/Killer Frost speculation fic, partly based on the 3x22 promo. I wanted to explore their dynamic more, and Savitar’s motivation for turning evil and all. @blackirontyrant asked me if I was going to and I didn’t initially plan on it, but the characters ran away with the story, so here it is.

Warnings: This is a lot darker than what I usually write, even compared to my other Savifrost fic. They’re crueler to each other here, I guess. There’s also cursing, violence (although nothing that we’re not used to on the show), and smut (like, in the first scene, so if that’s not your thing, avert your eyes. If it is… er, read on. I’m not used to writing smut, but I hope it doesn’t disappoint). If any of these is triggering, please be kind to yourself and don’t read this.

Soundtracks: Largely inspired by “Gasoline” by Halsey, “Love Is a Losing Game” by Amy Winehouse, and “Circles” by Greta Svabo Bech. Give them a listen if you haven’t already, they’re wonderful.

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: ~ 4,450

i.

Are you deranged like me? Are you strange like me? Lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me? Do you call yourself a fucking hurricane like me? Pointing fingers ‘cause you’ll never take the blame like me?

— Halsey, “Gasoline”

Her back’s chafing up against the rough concrete wall behind her, and his painful grip on her thighs are already leaving bruises, but she can’t bring herself to care about those right now.

“Tell me how much you want it.” His breath is hot in her ear. She can feel his smirk against her skin, his hand inching up the inside of her thigh. “Or do I have to make you beg?”

She makes a strangled noise when he brushes a thumb over the fabric covering her slit, already soaked with her arousal. They haven’t even undressed yet—her coat and his jacket are on the floor, but her skirt’s still bunched around her waist, and his pants are still on, unzipped—and already she is so close. She grits her teeth and digs her nails into his shoulders, wishing she could rip his shirt off and tear her nails down his well-muscled back. “You’ll never—ah—you’ll never make me beg,” she snaps back.

“Never?” he says, amused. His thumb traces lazy circles around her clit, and she arches into him, trying to grind into his hand, but he keeps to that agonizingly slow pace. She nearly whimpers in frustration. “Is that a challenge?” he continues, his lips now ghosting the smooth expanse of her neck.

“You’re not”—she gasps when he slides a finger into her, and he bites down hard to leave a bruise on her neck, before soothing it with his burning tongue—“you’re not up to the challenge.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says with a dark smile. He slides another finger into her. Her entrance is so slick that it meets no resistance, and he begins pumping into her at a steady pace.

She shuts her eyes and digs her heels into his waist. “Faster,” she says. “For fuck’s sake—”

“Beg for it,” he growls against her skin. He withdraws his fingers, but he thrusts his cock inside her with such force that her head slams back against the wall. He flicks her swollen clit with his thumb and it takes all her willpower not to come then and there. “Fuck, Princess. Beg for it.”

“No. Just—God, move,” she demands, grinding her hips against his until he lets out a groan. She smirks, knowing that he won’t last much longer, either.

“Not until you beg,” he grits out. And then, with a glint in his eyes, he grasps her chin and he kisses her roughly. His mouth collides with hers; he thrusts his tongue in to plunder her mouth, he bites on her bottom lip until it’s swollen and close to bleeding. The onslaught of heat from him, and the sheer force of the kiss, is blinding and intoxicating; she feels like she’s been set on fire; his desire is raw, consuming, corrosive, and it proves too much for her to bear.

“Fuck me,” she gasps into his mouth, yanking on his hair to break the kiss before she loses her mind. She gulps in greedy breaths of air and licks her lips, tasting the remnants of him in her mouth. “Come on. Fuck me.”

He gives her a feral grin. “The magic word, Princess.”

She digs her nails into his back. “Please fuck me, you sick bastard—”

She hasn’t even finished her sentence when he slams into her, increasing his rhythm until her toes curl and she throws her head back in a silent cry of ecstasy.

He comes not long after she does, his groans muffled in the side of her neck, his hot seed trickling down the inside of her thighs.

She slides down to the floor afterwards, trying to catch her breath, and he folds into a sitting position beside her, leaning back on his hands.

His flashes her a triumphant smirk. “I win, Princess.”

She smoothens her skirt and flicks her hair back into place, gathering the sweaty strands away from her neck. “I told you not to call me that.”

He snorts. “I have nothing else to call you.”

“I don’t either, but I don’t give you a pet name.”

He shrugs and zips up. “Call me God.”

She scoffs. “Don’t delude yourself.”

“You’re one to talk,” he returns. “You call yourself Killer Frost, but you haven’t killed anyone yet. Maybe I should test your limits again.”

Her gaze darkens. “You almost killed me the last time you did.”

“I almost killed you?” he laughs. “I stranded you in the middle of a feast. You were the one intent on killing yourself.”

She doesn’t respond. She remembers that incident well. It had happened a day after she’d failed to kill Tracy, when she’d almost depleted her energy reserves from fighting Flash and his team. He’d been disappointed, but he said he knew exactly what she needed. He’d brought her to a small factory in the outskirts of the city. It was an all-male factory. At least fifty warm bodies, he’d said. For your target practice. Or your next meal, whichever strikes your fancy, he’d said. And then he’d left her to herself.

She’d already been weak then, nearly unable to stand from her battle with Vibe—she’d been unable to conjure a single icicle—so she’d decided that she would feed first.

But when she’d held the first man around the throat, smirking at the terror in his green eyes, she’d suddenly seen Barry Allen’s face superimposed on his. This isn’t you, Cait, he’d said. Don’t do this. Underneath all that cold, you’re still you. She’d abruptly let go of the man, and as he’d scrambled away from her she’d tried to silence the voices in her head, but she’d started seeing more of her friends in the faces of the remaining men—Cisco, in the young man with the shoulder-length hair; HR, in the middle-aged man with blue eyes; Julian, in the man with blond hair; Wally, in the quiet young man with serious eyes. And their voices, ricocheting around the inside of her head—Cait, please, you’re my best friend. You can always come back. It’s never too late. Please. Please. Please. We love you. Come home.

It had been Caitlin Snow’s memories, she knew, from the last time she’d overcome Killer Frost. She’d been trying to fight her. She might have been weak with hunger, but Caitlin Snow was not; and for the brief moment that she’d been able to control over the body they shared, she’d handcuffed her wrist to a steel pipe.

I’d rather die, she had found herself thinking through the haze of delirium. It’d felt like it had come from her as much as it had come from Caitlin Snow. Better me than them.

That was how Savitar had found her, wrist bleeding from the steel of the handcuff, half-deranged from hunger, paralyzed by the voices in her head.

“Pathetic,” he says now, lips curling into a cruel smile. “Perhaps the name Caitlin suits you better than you realize.”

She gives him a venomous glare. “Don’t you ever speak that name.”

“How did it feel like, Princess?” he continues, leaning forward. “We’ve never talked about it, have we? How did it feel like to be at the mercy of a mere slip of a girl? To be completely, utterly powerless?”

Her hands are balling into fists. “We’ve agreed to never mention the past.”

“What did Caitlin Snow tell you? That they’re going to take you back with open arms?” He smirks. “That they love you?”

“Stop it,” she hisses. Cold steam rises from the ground she’s sitting on.

“Let me tell you something, Princess.” His eyes are glittering with malice. “I know the past and I know the future, and I know that they only ever came to you when they needed you. I know that you contented yourself with whatever scraps of attention they gave you. They gave you a prison, and you thanked them like they’d given you a gift.” He sneers. “Pathe—”

She slams her hand onto the ground, and an icicle spears him from behind.

He gasps and chokes. When she retracts the icicle, he coughs out blood.

It will take an hour for the flesh wound to close, and four or more for the collapsed lung to mend. In the meantime, he will feel like he is suffocating to death.

“You’re forgetting that I am not her,” she says coolly, although in the back of her mind, she can acknowledge that Caitlin Snow’s medical knowledge has been useful to her yet again. “Now, Barry. What was it you told me when I first joined you? Wasn’t it ‘Never speak of the past’?”

He’s glaring at her now, his breath ragged and stuttering, but he’s unable to make a sound.

“I’ve abided by your rules,” she continues. “I expect you to abide by them, too. I’ve never asked about your scar or your little vendetta, so from this point onward you’ll never speak of Caitlin Snow again, either. Understood?”

She takes her coat from the floor. She brushes the dust from it and flares it around her shoulders in a flourish. “I’m going around the city,” she tells him. “You are not to hunt me down, or I’ll destroy both your lungs.”

When his wounds close, he doesn’t hunt her down. She regards him coolly when she returns, challenging him to hurt her, but he merely turns his back to her and leaves.

ii.

He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. [ . . . ]

For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

— Oscar Wilde, from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”

They find him.

He’s made a slight miscalculation. He’d underestimated just how wily the team becomes under tremendous pressure, and now, they’ve managed to track him down.

But it doesn’t matter. They’re letting Iris walk to her grave, after all.

He watches the expression on their faces now. It’s only Joe and Iris facing him, although he knows that Barry Allen lurking in the vicinity. He can almost imagine the conversation that took place. Let us talk to him, Bar, they would have said. Maybe we can reach him.

Fools, they all are. The future has been set in stone.

He smiles at their expressions. They’re thinking they can save him. Ridiculous. Gods have no need for salvation. “Joe. Iris.” Her name is like poison on his tongue. “I see Barry has told you about me.”

“We want to talk to you,” Joe begins, putting his hands up in surrender, as if to calm him down. “Whatever you’re planning, please don’t do it. You were my son once. Please, Barry—”

The name sets him on edge. “That’s not my name!” he growls, his shoulders tensing, his hands turning into fists in his pockets.

“I am not Barry Allen,” he adds more evenly. “My name is Savitar.”

But Joe is undeterred, and he takes another step forward. “Please. Tell us what happened to you. Let us help you, son.”

That word is acid to him, and against his will it corrodes the walls around his memories—Barry’s memories, memories of Joe taking him in very gently when his mother died, of Joe bringing him to ball games and watching every one of his quiz bees, of Joe bringing him back to his senses every time he’d doubted himself as The Flash. Memories of a time when he’d been cared for, cherished, loved.

And on the coattails of those memories are the uglier ones, memories from the future—Joe seeing him for the first time as a time remnant. Joe saying, “You’re not the real Barry. What have you done to him?” Joe loading his gun, pointing it straight at him. Joe firing. The bite of the bullet on his shoulder. The smoke from the barrel of the gun.

“You’re not my father,” he grits out. “You’ve never been a father to me.”

Joe’s gaze falters. Iris puts a hand on the crook of his arm and turns to face him. “This isn’t you, Bar. Please don’t do this.”

“Oh, but this is me,” he says. “This is me after you broke me.” He gives her a twisted smile. He remembers the sting of her rejection across all the timelines he’s been to, but the memory is but a phantom pain. He is immune to pain now. “Even now you refuse to see me as I am. Tell me, Iris, do you love people only if they’re what you imagine them to be? You loved Barry Allen when he was human. You loved Barry Allen when he was a hero, even if he was a hero burdened by the world. But me, a broken Barry Allen, you’re incapable of loving.”

“That’s not true,” she says, her gaze fierce and unwavering. “I love all of you. All versions of you. That’s why we’re here now, because we want to bring you back—”

He laughs. “Bring me back,” he repeats. “Bring me back to what? To the light?” He takes a step towards her, and like the Iris he remembers, she does not shy away from him. She stands her ground. She looks him in the eye. She knows she will die by his hand, but even so she looks at him with the deluded certainty that he will yield before her.

“You know what I realized, Iris, over the centuries that I’ve been God?” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “God creates man in his image, and like God, man fashions other men in his own image. We only see what we want to see in the people we love. We are blind to what will hurt us. And you, Iris, fall prey to that human fault.”

“I never said I wanted bring you to the light,” she says softly. “I only want to bring you home.” She takes a step closer to him. “I want you to come home to us as you are now.”

His gaze darkens. “Never.”

She searches his face. He remembers those eyes. He remembers the ghost of Barry Allen in him looking into them and thinking, I’m in love with her. I will always love her. She’s the light and love of my life. She is my world. But when she will look at him in the future, she will say, “You’re not the Barry Allen I know and love,” and she will turn away from him, like all the others will; but it is her rejection that cuts the deepest. He had made her his light and love and life, and when she leaves, light and love and life leave with her, too. She will leave him a blind man in a labyrinth, she will leave him to descend into hell, and when he emerges from it he is never the same again.

She touches the scar on his face. “I see you as you are now, Savitar,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry for whatever I’ve said to you, or whatever I will say to you. But time doesn’t matter now. Only this moment does. And in this moment, I’m telling you that I love you. Barry or Bart or Savitar, past or present or future...” Her voice breaks. “In whatever form, I love you. In whatever timeline, I love you. In whatever life, I love you.”

He knows those last three lines. He almost whispers them with her as she says them, because these are the lines she will tell him right before he kills her. Right before he watches the light leave her eyes. Right before she takes her last breath. He’s seen himself kill her a thousand times. He’s relieved it a thousand times.

He doesn’t know why, in this moment, imagining her die by his hand makes him feel something akin to remorse.

But it lasts only a second, and in the next the steel returns to his eyes, the walls around his heart.

Iris must die, or he will never be born. It’s the pinnacle of greed, but he isn’t Barry Allen anymore; he thinks of no one but himself now, and he makes no apologies for it.

“Very touching.” He grasps her hand in his and pulls it away from his face. “But love is just a memory to me now, Iris,” he says, flashing her a cruel smile. “And soon you will be, too.”

iii.

For you I was a flame, love is a losing game Five story fire as you came, love is a losing game One I wished I never played, oh what a mess we made And now the final frame, love is a losing game

— Amy Winehouse, “Love Is a Losing Game”

She’s leaning against the entrance when he returns. Her gaze is accusing.

“You still love Iris,” she says.

He sweeps past her and ignores her.

She follows him. “I saw the look on your face when she touched you. You wavered. You said you don’t feel pain, but you’re lying—”

He slams her into a wall, his arm to her throat. The cold metal digs into the skin of her neck. “Never speak of the past,” he growls.

She narrows her eyes at him and tightens her hands around his arm. Frost crawls into the fissures in his armor, biting into his skin; and when she twists her hands hairline cracks appear on the metal surface.

He snarls in fury and loosens his hold around her throat. When he does, she swings her legs up and kicks him on the chest, so hard that he loses his balance. He catches himself in time, but she falls into a heap on the floor, gasping for breath.

And then suddenly, she’s laughing, a low, raspy sound. “This isn’t the past anymore,” she says. “This is the present—”

“This is all past to me!” he fumes. “There is nothing that I haven’t already experienced—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she hisses. “Don’t fucking lie to me. You were surprised when they cornered us. You were surprised when Iris touched your face. When she said she loved you, your face changed.” Her gaze is heavy with accusation. “You can’t bring yourself to kill her, can you?”

“You weren’t even supposed to be there,” he spits out. He emerges from his armor. “You were supposed to be fighting Vibe, and then you were supposed to kill the girl.”

“I did fight him, but he sent her away before I could knock him unconscious.” She got to her feet. “You haven’t answered me. Do you still love Iris?”

“What does it matter to you? Are you jealous, Princess?”

Now she throws her head back and laughs. “You’re hilarious,” she says, clutching her stomach. “You come face to face with Iris once and instantly you go soft. You can’t even summon enough malice for your insults.”

He glares at her. “This is none of your fucking business.”

“Of course it’s my fucking business,” she snaps. “Because if you’ve had centuries to forget and you still haven’t gotten rid of Barry Allen, what hope do I have of ever getting rid of Caitlin?”

“They’re not real,” he bites out. “Those memories and feelings aren’t real. They’re phantoms.”

“Phantoms,” she scoffs. “Phantoms that still haunt you, you mean?”

“Don’t test me, Princess.”

“And don’t patronize me,” she says. “You know what I heard back there, in your exchange with Iris? I wasn’t hearing a God who’d transcended pain. I was hearing a man who’s scared of being broken by the woman he loves.” She gives him an icy look. “You don’t fool me, Savitar. You’re no God.”

“Leave me,” he says evenly, turning his back to her. “Leave this place now.”

“You’re a coward,” she says with venom. “You can’t even face the truth about yourself like a man—”

He lunges at her before she finishes speaking, and she falls face-down to the floor from the force of his blow.

He crouches beside her. “You want to know the truth, Princess?” he rasps in her ear, holding her face to the ground. His anger sparks electricity down his limbs, and his voice drips with acid. “The truth is that I am not a man. I am a phantom. I am a relic of Barry Allen’s mistakes.” He can see her digging her fingers into the ground. “I am not real, but the pain they inflict on me is.”

Suddenly, sharp tendrils of ice burst out around him, and he’s barely able to flash away before they pierce the place where his body was, but several nick his clothes and draw blood from his skin.

She props herself up and spits out the blood in her mouth. The scrapes on her face are already healing.

“So that’s it,” she says, smiling grimly. “You don’t know how to deal with pain. The reason you want Iris dead is because she’s the one who can hurt you the most. She holds the most power over you. If you kill her, you’ll be free of any weakness.”

He leans against a table. It seems that her persistence and their fight has worn him down. She can see from the slump of his shoulders that the adrenaline has fled his system, and he suddenly looks smaller in the dim light. “The reason I want Iris dead,” he says, enunciating the words, “is because her death is the beginning of my ascension. Once I kill Iris, Barry Allen will kill me, and then he’ll become me.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Kill you?”

“One of the possible futures,” he says. “Perhaps the most probable one, from what I’ve seen. After I kill Iris, and after Barry Allen kills me, the only thing that will stop him from becoming me is if he can save Caitlin Snow.”

She strides towards him. “I won’t become Caitlin Snow,” she says, her voice hard and determined. “And you will not die. You will not die. I won’t let it happen.”

And then, for a brief moment, her eyes flash brown.

His gaze softens. His fingers curl around her chin. “Princess,” he says, and the way it rolls off his tongue now sounds nearly affectionate. “We both know that there’s more Caitlin Snow in you than we first thought.”

“Nonsense.”

“Tell me,” he says, “did Caitlin Snow ever love Barry Allen?”

She looks away.

“I never loved any of them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I gave them everything,” she continues, her eyes flashing brown again. “I stitched them back together each time. I listened patiently when they told me how hard it was to see me like this. I kept quiet when they didn’t ask me about my pain. I didn’t even nag so much anymore, even though I worried myself to shreds when they were out.” Her breath hitches. “I gave them everything.”

“And in return, they gave you a cage,” he murmurs.

“A pretty cage, but still a cage.” She leans in to his touch and her hand ghosts around her neck, where her necklace had been. “They said they loved me, but their love was a cage, too. Why did they do that?”

“Men want to contain what they fear,” he says. “Especially if what they fear is a woman.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “You men have fragile egos.”

He lets out a gruff laugh, and she gives him a tentative smile.

She hasn’t answered his question, he notices, but he knows it’s one of those questions that he can never ask again if he wants to keep her by his side.

He tilts her face to the dim light of the room, and he notices that she is paler than usual. From her fight with Vibe, no doubt.

He runs a hand along her jaw, and rests it on the back of her neck.

“Hungry, Killer Frost?”

Her smile widens. “Mmm,” she says, and he pulls her to him and dips his head to give her a kiss. It’s entirely unlike their previous kisses—this kiss is tentative, leisurely, probing. He runs his fingers along her curls, licks the seam of her lips, savors the taste of her in his mouth.

When he pulls back, he subtly vibrates to restore heat to himself. He puts his hands around her waist and settles her on the table behind him, and then he gets down to his knees. 

She gives him a bewildered look, but doesn’t protest when he tears her underwear away and flashes her a wicked smile.

“For what I said about the factory incident,” he says, and before she can understand what he means, his mouth is already on her clit and he’s eating her out like a man starved. He’s unbelievably skilled with his tongue. All she can do under his ministrations is to scrape her nails down his scalp and dig her heels into his muscled back and whimper incoherently as he takes her to the height of pleasure.

When he’s through with her and she’s able to see straight again, she shoves him into a wall and palms the front of his pants. He’s already hard, and his pupils are dilated in arousal.

She smiles. She gets down to her knees, and then runs her mouth over the tented fabric. “For the icicle to your lung,” she says. “And to even the score.”

She unzips his pants and takes him into her hot little mouth, and as she had been, he finds himself helpless and incoherent and completely surrendered to her.

———

The next day, they carry on as if nothing had changed between them. After all, they never speak of the past—to them, there is only the present, and the agonizing, all-consuming hope for a future where they will no longer be shackled to their pasts.

But in their heart of hearts, they both know that that future is unlikely to happen. He knows enough of her to see that she is still Caitlin Snow, and she knows enough of him to see that he isn’t trying to transcend pain—he’s only running from it. And yet they hurl themselves towards that future as men and women hurl themselves at their burning houses, greedy to salvage whatever they can before the fire turns everything to ash.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 51)

“Fuckin' hell, can you dig any slower?!” the Boss of the Valentinian goons complained.

“This'd go a lot faster if someone didn’t pull off that shit with the dirt-blasters!” replied one of the goons digging with shovels.

“In my defense, it did significantly cut our travel time past that mountain!” Abner said as he stood with his hands and ankles shackled together. “Why take the long way 'round when you can just send your carriage straight through it, right?”

All five of the goons glared at Abner, trigger fingers itching, knuckles turning white from how tightly they were gripping their shovels.

“… I'll just be quiet now...” Abner muttered.

“You do that...” spat the other goon on shallow grave duty.

All was quiet for a while save for the sounds of digging and cursing.

“Awright, that's deep enough!” said the Boss. “Get outta there, grab your guns, and let's all shoot this motherfucker dead—and I want ALL those clips on empty, and a grenade on his face when we're done, in case he's wearin’ bulletproof clothes again!”

“Do we have to shoot him, Boss?” asked one of the goons climbing out the hole.

“What, you want to give ‘im a chance to pull off more of that Houdini shit on us?!” the Boss barked.

“Nah, I was wondering if we couldn't just beat the ever loving shit out of him till he stops moving,” the goon replied. “Got a LOT of stress built up from the trip here, and I want to let it all out before we all head home.”

One of the other goons snorted. “He not help you enough when you thought we were all asleep?”

“Fuck off!”

“All of youse, shut up!” the Boss cried. “We shoot him, toss some dirt over ‘im, then we get the fuck outta here, all accordin' plan!”

“What, you afraid the Keeper's gonna get us?” one of them teased.

“Never thought you'd be scared of fairy tales, Boss,” another hummed.

“Keeper, wild animals, whatever the fuck is killing and eating everyone that comes here, I don't want to meet 'em, capisce? Now get your guns before my trigger finger 'slips!'”

“Alright, alright!” “We're going, we're going!”

Soon, all five of them were standing in front of Abner, his feet right on the edge of his grave, the barrels of their guns point-blank on his chest.

“Anyone have any last words before we ice this fucker?”

“I'd just like to--” Abner started.

“Anyone other than this fucker have any last words before we ice ‘im?”

“Yes,” said a new voice. “Get out of the Valley before I have to dig graves for ALL of you.”

The goons spun around, and came face to face with the Keeper.

“I had the good fortune of being knocked into my grave; ironically, it ended up saving my life as it was just deep enough for me to avoid all the bullets that went flying around, or being caught in Ilaya's scythe swings, and also gave me time to finally pull out the lock pick I'd fashioned from the dirt-blasters.

“It was a miniature seismic-wave generator that could easily liquify the anchors for my bindings, you see.”

“You made that on a bare-bones trip to the Valley, with five armed Valentinian Debt Collectors who wanted you dead riding with you and watching over you at all times?” Weiss asked.

Abner nodded. “The key is to feign stupidity; people will be wary of a smart man, but quickly grow tired of an idiot. And sometimes, actual stupidity works in your favour, when it provides you with a new angle you hadn't seen before, or a window of opportunity.

“Anyway, I managed to break my cuffs, and waited for the sounds of fighting to stop. After that, I attempted to climb out, after which a hand reached in to help pull me out. I had assumed that the Keeper had left, and that one of the goons had survived and had made the rational choice of keeping me alive to better our chances of survival…

“… Only it wasn't one of them, it was Ilaya.”

Abner stared up at the face of fear itself, her crimson eyes glowing in the darkness, his hand wrapped tightly around hers, frozen like the rest of his body.

“You okay?” Ilaya asked.

Abner screamed, his free hand pulling out the lock pick, and blasting Ilaya's wrist with it. She yelped, unharmed but surprised, he took the opportunity to use the last of the pick’s battery to dig handholds for himself.

“STOP!” Ilaya cried as he scrambled out and ran into the woods.

Abner replied by screaming even louder.

“SERIOUSLY, STOP! YOU'RE GOING TO RUN OFF A--”

Abner wailed and flailed his limbs in the air as the ground beneath his feet suddenly disappeared.

“… Cliff…!” Ilaya finished too late.

His screaming continued for a few more seconds.

Thud.

Ilaya ran up to the edge of the cliff with the help of her mask's night vision. “Are you still alive down there...?” she yelled. “Groan once for 'Yes,' and—uh, I guess I'll just climb down and look for you! Wait right there!”

At that, Abner's head shot up from the ground. The canopy was thinner here, the moonlight illuminating the little grove of plants he had found himself in. He grabbed one of the wild tubers by the stalk, and pulled it up as food for later.

He stopped as he realized that it had a face.

:o

Abner blinked.

D:

The elemental started letting out a high-pitched, ear-drum bursting wail. Abner dropped it and clapped his hands over his ears, running through the grove as the rest of them woke up and joined in the bone-chilling pandemonium.

“I ran until the screams of the elementals stopped ringing in my ears, at least, and found myself in an ironbark forest. The Fae do in fact harvest them from the wild, considering that it's difficult to replicate the conditions that allow the quality they desire for their weapons and other projects. Aside from that, they only ever grow so strong thanks to the constant love and attention of their symbiotic caretakers:

“Steel Spiders.”

Abner stopped for breath, put his hand against a tree for support. He didn't notice that he had cut himself on the bark until he felt something other than sweat dripping down his palms. He quickly pulled it away, wrapped his wounds with some bandages he always had stashed somewhere on his body, before he took in his new surroundings.

The moonlight shined down on the ironbark trees, massive, angular titans with branches that shot out like metal spikes, twisting and turning like a set for a horror movie. All that was really missing were the bodies and viscera hanging from them.

Abner nervously made his way through a spacious gap in the trees.

He hadn't noticed the steel-silk web until his palm had already been caught in it.

Twang.

Abner paused as he heard the strand vibrate, letting out a musical sound like an instrument's string being plucked. He turned his head to the noise, watching it vibrate an attached strand, and another, and another, making an admittedly lovely chime.

Then he saw some of the ironbark “branches” start moving, eight eyes opening and glowing in the dark.

Abner tried to pull his hand from the web, but it was stuck, and the strand held strong.

The music became louder. More and more of the webs began to resonate, alerting the other steel spiders that there was prey.

Abner bit back a yelp and began to walk backwards, trying to see how far the strand could stretch until it broke. He stopped as soon as he felt several sticky somethings attach to his back. His teeth began to draw blood as he tried to jump forward, and accidentally got his foot caught in a low-hanging web.

The chiming had become a full on melody now, echoing all throughout the grove. Even more of the spiders woke up, excited, for it seemed like there was even MORE prey that had gotten caught in their webs.

Abner desperately, violently jerked his limbs and staggered around, trying to free himself from the webs, only succeeding in getting himself even more tangled until he could not move an inch. The music he was making would have actually been quite pleasant to the ear, had it not also been the dinner bell for the steel spiders, and the soundtrack to his doom.

Abner saw one of them begin to crawl down the ironbark tree closest to him.

His two eyes met the spider's eight, saw his reflection in those glimmering orbs, its giant fangs curl and twist upwards.

:3

Abner screamed.

“… Would steel spiders happen to be why Fae invented the word for 'BIG FUCKING SPIDER, RUN!'?” Weiss asked.

“Oh, goodness no! Those are MUCH larger than the steel spiders could ever be and bounds more dangerous.”

“… How large are we talking about?”

“Oh, somewhere between half the size of a building such as the Plushie Palace, to little larger than it.”

“… Do these happen to live in the Valley?”

“Oh no, they live in the—ow, OW, OW—sorry about that, seems my thought process got too fast for my governor and it had to pull the emergency brake. Shall I resume the story?”

“Can we skip to after Ilaya rescues you?”

“Can we not? It's quite a daring, musical escape; the melody she made as she cut the webs and sometimes even plucked them intentionally to fool the spiders is permanently stuck in my head, both for being so catchy, and because this was how I got my crippling fear of steel spiders and ironbark groves!”

“I think I'll pass, thank you...”

“Oh, alright... anyway, after Ilaya performed her daring rescue, she took me far away from the grove and to a stream so she could refill her canteen—chasing after someone like me is thirsty work. Because the grand crescendo of the rescue, where she stunned the entire grove of spiders with a sound not unlike an especially powerful electric guitar riff, I had become temporarily deaf, and couldn't understand a word of what she was saying.

“She tried her best, but unfortunately, Keepers are better at killing the horrors of the Valley than they are at breaking language barriers...”

Abner stared at the Keeper, frozen in fear, dumbly nodding his head as she made cryptic signs with her hands, no doubt what horrible, terrible things she was going to do to him if he misbehaved.

She had taken off her mask, revealing a surprisingly human and friendly face, nothing even remotely close to what they rumoured to lay underneath that skeletal visage, but he knew all too well the disconnect between friendly appearances and what sort of person lay underneath.

Satisfied that Abner understood she wasn't going to kill him, that there were going to be more horrible things that would actually try to kill him if he got out of her sight, and that she was just going to get a drink of water, Ilaya turned around and pulled out her canteen from inside her cloak.

She was taking a long drink of water when she heard a splash.

She spat it all out as she noticed that Abner wasn't where she left him any more.

“I'm quite an excellent swimmer, as it was a regular part of my cardio exercises, and a lot of my more daring and close escapes have been made through watery routes—you'd be surprised at how many people close off the streets first, and sometimes never bother to check the sewers or the canals, Valentino being the only exception.

“I could have easily escaped Ilaya, if not for the carnivorous fish that lived in that river who did NOT appreciate my presence.”

Ilaya ran along the bank, her mask back on her face, trying to find Abner's aura—a difficult task as the magic in the water was gumming up the sensors.

Bubbles rose up to the surface—as they popped, Ilaya could hear the staggered bits and pieces of a now familiar scream.

She dove into the water.

Splash!

Moments later, pieces of dead fish floated up to the surface. Ilaya broke through soon after, gasping for breath and hauling Abner over her shoulder. She dug her scythe into the roots of a tree growing over the water, and pulled them back up to dry land.

She laid Abner on his rear, held him up by his shoulders. “You okay?” she asked.

Abner threw up all over her.

“… Probably should have seen that coming!”

“You were extremely lucky that Penny's creators had the foresight to build a water filtration unit for her; the microbes and elements in the Valley's water are vicious little buggers if you aren't adapted, and the ones in magic-enriched water like that river more so.

“I was stuck in the hospital for weeks! I should have died from a mixture of dehydration and water-borne illnesses, but Ilaya, kindhearted soul that she was, managed to convince the Council it'd be better to try and keep me alive than euthanize me.

“And this was no mean feat: up to that point, no one knew anything about me other than the fact that a Valentinian organization thought it was necessary to bring me all the way here to execute, and it wouldn't have been too far of a stretch to assume that I was a gigantic problem they wanted gone for good reason.

“It didn't help that caring for me was difficult, with at least two menders on me at all times and hourly visits from a water weaver trying to detoxify my body and acclimate it to the Valley.

“And oh sweet Shepherd, the buckets. There were so many buckets…!

“About the only thing that kept me going was that Ilaya always came by to try and cheer me up, and as I'd later find out, act as a subtle means to guard against someone euthanizing me under the Council’s noses.

“This was before they installed my governor, and I was quite loopy from the water, the sickness, and the trauma, you see.

“Eventually I recovered, and together with Ilaya, made my case for the Council. I was a controversial issue ever since she returned from patrol early with me unconscious over her shoulder, and the division only grew with how expensive my treatment was, and the opportunities lost to both the Valley and the Fae that took care of me.

“I managed to convey to them that I was a highly skilled inventor, and with Ilaya's help to keep me on track, I helped create the Tubes. Funny how it was inspired by my noticing how fast the current was taking me and the distance it was helping me put between me and the aquatic predators trying to kill and/or eat me, and my complaining about how long it used to take to get to and from Keeper's Hollow to the rest of the Bastion—even if all that rowing did wonders for my arms!

“That was where I helped build the very first Tube station, by the way, with the maiden voyage being to the Tree of Life, the second station.

“As I had proven myself more than worth everything they had already invested in me, I voluntarily had a governor-chronicle installed to help tame my worst impulses, took a vow to maintain the Fae's secrecy, and I've been living the good life here in the Valley since.

“And that, Weiss, is the True Tale of the Keeper of the Grove!

“… Well, my section, at least.”