#then prison happens and he became the man you see in sink or swim

[citylighten]

20-something year old Pietro was a man who knew he was good looking and you couldn't tell him shit 💅🏾

[strange-lace]

Meltdown (Rewrite)

I suddenly decided to do a rewrite of an old story I did for my Monkie Kid OC here since then, she’s gone through quite a bit of changes and I found myself not happy with that story anymore.

Content warning for body horror (it’s kind of the main premise of this fic with Nagi’s shapeshifting powers going wrong). Enjoy!

Nagi had long since became aware that while her shapeshifting was very versatile, it had made her body unstable as a consequence. There was a limit to how much she could shapeshift in a day, how many transformations her body could handle before things got… messy. Both physically and mentally.

She had made a list of symptoms that she could keep an eye out for a long time ago, when it was still new to her. The list had long since been lost during her countless travels but the words were practically etched into her very brain.

Yet the demon seemed to have forgotten the list in most dire of times.

Her new family seeing her meltdowns for the first time.

It was the aftermath of another battle with the Demon Bull King’s forces where Nagi admits, she had already been pushing herself with multiple changes in her form. Shifting into a Bull Clone, numerous animals, Red Son, even a shadow on the wall on one point, all for the purpose of causing confusion for the enemy and allowing openings for MK and Mei to do their thing: causing complete chaos. She wanted to prove herself useful to the team while still remaining a hidden element, an ace up their sleeve if need be.

She was feeling strained after it all but in a pleasant way, like the ache in your muscles after a workout. Exhausted but nothing that she couldn’t handle after some rest or another shot espresso in her system. And the sight of her friends, her family, all gathered together in celebration made her feel a warmth in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a while. Not since…

It wasn’t important now. What was important was teasing her little brother figure for trying too hard to be cool.

“’It’s a beach man, why don’t you take a swim and cool off!’” Nagi mimicked, seamlessly shifting to the form of MK just for emphasis. “You had been waiting to use that one ever since you met Red Son, haven’t you?”

She let out a giggle in her own voice at the sputtering received in response before it devolved into a slight cough, a sudden tickle in the back of her throat. A tickle which soon developed into a full-on coughing fit that left her struggling to speak and had the others looking at her in concern. Now Nagi was the one with an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, gratefully taking the water bottle offered to her by Sandy.

“Looks like I got a little sand down my throat, no big deal!” She said, doing her best to give a reassuring smile while ignoring the strange feeling of… something in her throat.

Symptom #1: Sudden coughing fit followed by the sensation of something building up in the lungs.

Yet even with the water, the constant need to cough just wouldn’t go away. Pigsy and Tang were starting to go from mildly to extremely concerned, especially when the flush on Nagi’s face ceased to go away as they left the artificial beach and back to the shipyard. Not helping was the fact that Nagi was suddenly feeling very warm, to the point that Tang had yelped in shock when he felt her forehead to test her temperature.

If Nagi had sweat glands, she was sure she’d be sweating bullets despite it being a relatively cool day.

Symptom #2: Extreme fever, to the point of body feeling like it’s on fire.

“Nagi, maybe we should have you see a doctor,” Tang said, genuinely starting to fret at the snake demon’s state. Nagi was quick to shake her head at the idea, knocking off the cloth on her forehead that had been soaked in ice water to help with the fever. Going to a doctor was absolutely out of the question for her because, practically speaking, what could they do from someone like her? Human doctors were used to patients with non-regenerating skin, a sturdy skeleton, and ones with typical organs.

None of those things which Nagi possessed.

A part of her was more afraid of just what would be found if anybody had examined her.

“Don’t be ridiculous Tang, it’s just a slight fever! I’m sure I’ll be fine after some rest,” She wheezed, struggling to breathe as the sensation of something in her throat had become thick, cloying and making it difficult for any air to reach her lungs.

Sparks of panic began to bloom in her heart once things started to get fuzzy and blur, as if she was about to pass out. Yet Nagi remained wakeful and suddenly it hit her.

Symptom #3: Sight begins to blur as eyes become unstable.

Her list, how could have forgotten her list.

Shit, it was a meltdown.

She had to leave immediately.

“I just… realized that I have… something to attend to at home. Excuse me,” Nagi said while clumsily attempting to climb off Sandy’s sofa, managing to weave her way past MK, Mei, Tang, and Pigsy before being stopped by the brick wall that was Sandy. She could only wheeze as the room began to spin around her, droplets of something running down her face.

Oh no. That wasn’t sweat.

“Whatever it is, we can take care of it. You should probably just focus on resting Nagi,” Sandy said, placing a hand on her shoulder to reassure her that everything would be fine.

Only for his hand to slowly sink into her shoulder with a nauseating squish sound. And when he pulled away in shock, some of it stuck to his hand to form a goop bridge between the two which drooped lazily before falling to the ground. Nagi could only numbly watch, her hair beginning to droop from MK’s gravity defying spikes before another coughing fit suddenly hit. These were strong enough to force the demon to her knees, hands over her mouth as her lungs convulsed to get whatever was depriving her of air out.

She felt faint relief as she finally hacked up whatever it was clogging her throat.

Only to pull her hands away to see them now stained with a red goop which seemed to fuse with her rapidly softening hands.

Nagi only faintly heard the screams of horror surround her.

Symptom #4: Body begins to destabilize.

“Ah shit…” She mumbled, faintly noting the strings of goop that were trying to glue her lips together. Stumbling to her feet, guilt gnawed at her chest at the sight of the others no longer screaming but the room was still in absolute chaos. MK and Mei were raiding Sandy’s freezer out of hopes that ice could somehow stop her melting, oh right she was indeed melting, while Pigsy did his best to help Tang from getting sick on the living room floor. Sandy was still staring at the slimy remnants of Nagi’s shoulder on his hand, face frozen in shock.

“Sorry Sa-” Her words were cut off with a choke as the world suddenly shifted by only a couple inches, yet Nagi could feel that something had changed. The sensation of a tail sluggishly moving behind her and her ears being much larger gave her a good idea of who she had suddenly shifted to. Or maybe not, as she looked down to see her newfound fur was both peach and black in the pattern of shifting stripes. Her clothes were an unfamiliar mishmash of orange and dark fabrics that were struggling to not fall apart at the seams.

It only hit Nagi that she had hit the next symptom when her tail began to split into two and only seemed to worsen when she tried to reel it in. Her control was slipping through fingers like sand and she was nothing more than a prisoner to the whims of her unstable biology.

Symptom #5: Uncontrollable shifting, often resulting in traits mixing together to a painful degree.

She could only let out a mournful gurgle, regretful at the mess she was making on Sandy’s floor as fat droplets of her being dripped down like candle wax. Said man’s face suddenly lit up, as if hit with a brilliant idea, and Nagi let out a startled wheeze as she was suddenly picked up and gathered into Sandy’s arms. The man visibly struggled for a moment, genuinely surprised at how much she weighed yet persevering. She did her best to not look at the globs of… herself which fell off in clumps that splattered across the hardwood floors and carpet.

Quickly moving to his bathroom, Sandy carefully placed the demon in his large bathtub while making sure to plug the drain. Last thing he wanted was any piece of Nagi going down his drain. She allowed herself to be positioned in the tub, limbs limp and boneless though not out of choice as pain wracked through her body relentlessly. A whimper broke through her waxy lips as large, bull-like horns ripped through the sides of her head, metal material now circling her eyes.

“What’s happening to you Nagi? Is there anything we can to help?” Sandy asked, hearing the others entire the bathroom behind him as they looked upon the bathtub with concern.

“Meltdown… happens when I… use my powers too much,” Nagi wheezed, speaking a struggle as it become more and more difficult to keep her lips separate, the melted strands of her self getting closer to gluing them together. “Can’t do much… except wait it out. Burning up.” She sagged in relief at finally finishing her words, leaning her head against the rim of the tub. Her entire body was on fire, so much so that it was no wonder that she was practically melting.

The loss of sensation in her legs made her look down, only to see her legs begin to melt together into a mockery of a snake tail. Her fangs elongated, poking past her lips, and scales popping out in random patches from her fur, fire hot itchy pain that she had long since grown numb to.

Nagi let out a mix of a croak and squawk in surprise when MK and Mei barged in to start dumping buckets of ice into the bathtub. She could only jolt and squirm helplessly as the cold assaulted her senses, whimpering as she struggled to get out of the tub and away from the cold. Thankfully, Sandy was quick to pull her out of the bath and away from the ice, cradling her against his chest with no mind to her sticking to his hands.

“Kids, you’re not supposed to stick someone with a fever straight into an ice bath, we can’t risk putting Nagi into shock! We gotta start with lukewarm water and work our way from there, C’mon, get this ice out of the bath so we can use it for later.” MK and Mei were quick to follow Sandy’s lead, guilt heavy on their shoulders that they could have hurt Nagi by accident.

Once the tub was clear, Sandy carefully placed the snake demon back in and turned on the faucet. Nagi relaxed as the lukewarm poured over her melty tail, sagging in relief and letting go of the illusion that she had any bones. The mild temperature was a welcome relief to her fever, a sigh leaving her lips.

“There we go, that’s better!” Sandy chirped, patting Nagi on the head before going still again as more goop stuck to his hand. At this point, the previous slime-like residue had dried and caked on his hands, which he was doing his best to ignore until Nagi wasn’t on the knife’s edge of overheating.

“T-Thaaannk yo-” Nagi choked, feeling something almost pop in her chest and in a snap, Sandy’s tub was on the verge of overflowing. He hurriedly cut off the tap, just as surprised to see that a tub that almost looked comically large for Nagi’s small frame could now barely hold her in, the tip of her tail trailing to the bathroom floor. She could only let out a wheeze that was questioning the universe as to why she must suffer this constant discomfort and torment.

“Well that’s… new. You alright there Nagi?” Mo echoed his concerned sentiments, giving a curious meow by the door of the bathroom.

“Juuuuuuussst fiiiiinnnnne,” she said, her words slurring but not wanting to worry Sandy more. Nagi wiggled about to try and get comfortable while he slowly began to add more water to the bath of colder and colder temperature. As the water’s temperature began to drop, the snake demon’s shivering only got worse but Sandy noticed that the rate of her “melting” was slowing down too. He took that as a good sign if anything.

They continued this for hours with Sandy eventually switching places with Tang and Pigsy once the two noticed he looked exhausted.

“Ti… tiiiiirrrrred,” Nagi hissed quietly, struggling to keep her eyes open now that she didn’t feel on the border of falling apart anymore. Her mind and ability to speak was still as coherent as syrup but all the internal alarms were quiet now and she didn’t feel like she was approaching death’s door. “Wanna sleep…”

“I know you wanna kid, just try and eat some of this broth, okay? You need to eat something after all this,” Pigsy said, his tone soft as he held the bowl of warm broth to her lips. She whined but complied, taking cautious sips to put something in her stomach. Turns out being in agony for hours worked up an appetite as Nagi found herself close to devouring the bowl itself once it hit her how hungry she was now.

Thankfully Pigsy was able to pull away fast enough that he didn’t lose his hands by accident.

“Hey don’t eat Pigsy’s hands, he needs those! Take it slow, last thing we need you upsetting your stomach,” Tang joked, less unnerved at the sight of Nagi’s unhinging her jaw with the Monkey King’s face since everything she could do and would do in future paled in comparison to what he witnessed today. In a way, seeing her so vulnerable made her slightly less terrifying to the man.

Just a bit.

Nagi, nonetheless, did what she was told and slowly finished the broth. With her belly not eating itself in hunger and instead filled with warm broth, she couldn’t help the purr which rumbled in her chest. Eyes sluggishly began to close and this time, she didn’t bother fighting the pull of sleep and instead welcomed it. Sleep was always gentler with her compared to the abrupt darkness that was passing out from the agony of a meltdown.

Tang and Pigsy couldn’t help the sighs of relief once they saw that Nagi was finally asleep.

“So… we gonna talk about what happened or…”

“For now, let’s just help Sandy… clean the place up. We can talk about everything when Nagi wakes up. However long that takes.”

Tang let out another sigh before taking off his glasses to clean them. A nervous tic of his.

He could work with that. They could all work with that.

For now.

[trassellynn]

Bad Dreams

Day 4 of @weeklygrishaprompts  (I highly recommend to take a look at the event, it’s lovey and funny to participate!)

Prompt: Horror  Fandom: Six of Crows Warnings: Horror, nightmares, canon typical violence. I added two elements from the SoC 3 story I have planned with @mandrake-arya, that are: Van Eck died in prison and Brum was killed by Jesper (long story, but I love the scene we imagined). Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa; Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck; Nina Zenik/Matthias Helvar  Plot:  Wylan, Nina and Kaz are tormented by nightmares that follow the same scheme. Ghosts from their past are back to haunt their dreams, but, luckily, they're not alone. You can find the fic on Ao3 HERE 

WYLAN He was wandering alone, in the dark hall. Thousands closed doors on each side, a single source of light from the candle he was holding. Wylan knew someone was hiding from him, waiting for the right moment to attack. He tried to open one of the doors, with no results. He swore behind his teeth, trying to protect the feeble flame of the candle. Suddenly, a creepy noise behind his back: a door was opening. “Who are you?” the boy screamed. “What do you want from me?” A dark figure towered over him. Then a voice... his voice... “I am the man who you once called father. And I'm here to finish what I started in life...” “Go away!” Wylan cried, taking a step back. “Leave me alone! You have no more power on me! You're dead! You're just a shadow!” Van Eck let a cruel laugh out. “I am a shadow... a shadow that will erase the mistake you are!” With the free hand, Wylan tried to punch the dark ghost, but his knuckles meet nothing. Van Eck vanished, in a scary whisper. “Where are you?” the young man growled. The voice spoke at his ear. “Behind you.” Wylan turned around, trembling. The flame of the candle enlightened the spooky, rotten face of Jan Van Eck, his eyes two white balls, his grin a sharp, bleeding cut. He blew on the flame and everything went black. Wylan screamed, while two cruel, familiar, cold hand surrounded his neck. Then... a voice, a sparkle of hope in the darkness, called his name. “Wy! Wylan! Hey, merchling, wake up!” The redhead awoke screaming, grabbing Jesper's wrists, who was gently shaking him. The Fabrikator cupped his face with his soft, warm hands. “Hey, hey, calm down, it's okay! You fell asleep on the couch, while studying for a new chemical combination.” “I did... what?” It was true: Wylan realized he was sitting on a couch in the library, he still had a Chemistry book open on his lap. He took a deep breath, struggling to keep his eyes dry. “My father... He still haunts my dreams...” Jesper kissed his nose, then, he made their forehead touch: “I should enter your dreams too, to kick his ghostly ass, then!” They both giggled. Jesper's voice became sweeter. “He's gone, Wy. Maybe he can still haunt your dreams, but he cannot hurt you anymore, in real life.  He can be nothing more than a bad dream, now.” Wylan sighed, then, his lips curved in a little smile: “You're right. Nothing more than a bad dream.”

NINA She was wandering alone, into the dark woods. Black, naked trees surrounded her, their branches looked like claws of shadow, ready to grab her, to drag her into a hollow world of darkness. She didn't know where to go, where to hide. She knew he was there, she could feel his presence, his hatred, his thirst for blood and revenge. A whisper behind her back made her shiver. She turned around. No one was there. “I know you're here!” she cried. “Show yourself, you coward!” “I'm here...” His voice, his cruel laugh filled the air. “I'm everywhere, witch! You will never be freed from me! I will haunt your and that traitor's dreams and minds forever!” “Come out and fight me!” she insisted, her hands raised. “So I can destroy you again and again!” A cold hand suddenly grabbed her throat and she saw him, Jarl Brum's ghost, his eyes two dark wells. There was a hole, on the left side of his head, a hole left by Jesper's bullet. Nina struggled against the phantom's grip, growling. She instinctively dug a finger into the bullet wound and the monster screamed, letting her go. Nina tried to use her powers against him, but the branches of the trees moved towards her, surrounding her. She was trapped. “Filthy creature! You will pay for everything!” The ghost ran towards her, his hands, stretched ahead, looked like claws. A voice called her name. Once. Twice. “Nina!” The dark woods, the cruel branches and Jarl Brum's ghost vanished. Nina found herself in her bed, panting, sweating, trembling. Matthias was holding her in his strong arms, gently caressing her wet cheeks: “Nina, love... I'm here... it was just a nightmare...” The young woman looked around, almost afraid to see Brum's shadow in the corners, but then, she tried to regularize her breath, focusing on her boyfriend's blue eyes. “It felt so real...” she whispered, touching his bearded cheek. “So real... it was him... Brum...” For a moment, Matthias' jaw clenched, hearing that name, then, he wiped out her tears with sweet kisses. “He comes to my dreams too. But he can be nothing more than a bad dream, now.” “Nothing more...” she echoed, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, to impress that words in her mind. “Yes... you're right...” she whispered, pressing her body closer to his. “Nothing more than a bad dream.”

KAZ

He was wandering alone, into the dark waters. Cold, salty waves around him, pieces of everything floating on the surface. He struggled to swim, to keep his head out of the water, but there was no land on sight and he was feeling tired, so tired... “I... can' stop...” he told himself. “They will catch me...” He knew they were there, under the surface, their pale claws ready to grab and drag him down, in the depths.  He never looked down, he couldn't bear the sight of their ghostly, emaciated faces, their cruel grins, their hollow eyes. And... and the possibility that Jordie's face was among them... Kaz swallowed, forcing himself to ignore the pain that was making his leg stiffen. If Jordie was there... if Jordie was one of them... Ghezen... he would have been driven insane... The pain finally won. His injured leg was completely paralyzed and his other limbs were losing their strength. “No... no, no, no, no, no...” A skeletal claw grabbed his ankle and he tried to scream, swallowing cold, salt water.  “No!” The monsters surrounded him, their cruel hands on him. Their rotten nails scratched his skin, their horrible voices tortured his ears and his mind. Kaz tried a last, desperate last effort. Then, they dragged him underwater He found himself praying to faint, to die quickly, but something was keeping him awake, his brain was refusing to surrender to the darkness.  And then... her voice. Her voice. Like a sudden music in a silent, hollow day. He opened his mouth, to call her back and... and he suddenly found himself in his studio, his face over a pile of documents. He has fallen asleep while sitting at his desk. He growled, taking a peek at the pendulum clock: it was half past three in the morning. “Inej?” he called. His voice sounded horrible and weak.  “Kaz?” She was still awake, not a surprise. She entered the room with her silent walk; a long, violet nightgown wrapped her petite body. “Are you okay?” The young man stood up, rubbing his eyes: “Yes... I mean... no...” Inej surrounded his waist with her tiny arms and rested her head against his chest: “What happened?” It was so good feeling her warmth through their clothes. It was like sitting before a crackling fire, with a cup of hot chocolate and a sweet music in the background. He quickly kissed her head, sinking his lips into her soft, black hair, and, even though he knew it wouldn't have lasted, he felt safe and free from his nightmares. “Nothing, Inej. Nothing more than a bad dream.”

[justauthoring]

prison // robb stark

prompt: What had started as prison, turned into a home. You never expected to find solace to a man you’d been sold off to, but, with those kind eyes and that charming smile, you’d clearly been wrong.

a/n: i realize this is sort of unexpected, but ive recently been in a robb stark mood. and i will forever stand by that this bby deserved better than he got and continues to get. so, enjoy this little piece ;)

please don’t plagiarize my work!

word count: 1,865

You are quiet and reserved. Keeping to yourself. Often, Robb can’t gauge you at all. He can study you for hours, if he so wished, and he still wouldn’t be able to pick up on a single thing. You are just guarded that way -- and you had been since you first walked through the Gates of Winterfell.

You were Robb’s betrothed. And while he felt a physical attraction to you, he wished to know more about you before your actual wedding day. He wished to know more about you past the pretty face and distant eyes. He wished to know who he was marrying and who he’d spend his life with, who he’d have children with and raise a family with.

And despite all that Robb had been taught, or how fast he’d been forced to grow given that he was his father’s heir, Robb was still a young boy at heart. At the young age of seventeen, he had the same childish urges as any boy his age would. He didn’t simply want to get to know you by sitting down and talking, or through a walk around the castle. 

No, he wanted something more. More fun. Something more thrilling.

For once, he wished to be a boy before he was wedded and became a man.

So, without a single word to anyone, he whisked you off from his sisters after training. He’d practically wasted no time, greatly confusing his brother and Theon as he’d cleaned up quicker than usual and left without so much as an explanation. Normally, after training, Robb would stay and mingle around until he was needed once again, or until his father wanted to talk to him.

But that day, he’d left without wasting a second.

He’d politely excused you from his sister’s sides, taking your wrist in his own and gently pulling you away. You’d gasped in response to his sudden intrusion, sputtering at first, but hadn’t argued when the initial shock had dwindled. You simply let him pull you along the outer walls of the Stark Home until you were by the gates, and you found two horses, already saddled and packed, ready to go.

Robb finally slowed, and he turned to you with a wide grin. One you returned with furrowed brows and a tilt of the head. “My Lord,” you called question, your tone questioning. “I did not know we were scheduled for a ride today.”

“We aren’t,” Robb dismisses with a shrug of his shoulders and a shake of his head. At the look you send him, the grin widens even further upon his lips. “This is a secret I've only told my mother, and she helped me prepare everything. I promise you it will be fun.”

As your eyes fall back on the horses, you find, you can’t possibly refuse. Robb looks excited and it’s the first time you’ve seen him look genuinely energized in the past few weeks you’ve spent in Winterfell. It’s only the first time you’ve seen him genuinely pleased to be spending time with you, and it causes your entire body to flutter in excitement.

Without a word, nothing but a soft smile on your own lips, you move towards once of the horses, easily hopping onto the saddle. When you glance back down at Robb, he is smiling up at you, almost proud, before eagerly making his way over to his own horse and following your lead by climbing on top. In the next second, the gates are being pulled open and the two of you are kicking your horses into action and galloping outside.

You continue to ride for a while, your pace slowing somewhere along the way. You and Robb share in idle conversation. It dawns upon you somewhere along the line that this is the first conversation you’ve shared with your husband-to-be that hasn’t felt forced or wasn’t scheduled. The two of you are simply conversing as friends might -- for once actually getting to know one another rather than getting to know what is expected of the two of you after your marriage.

For once, you feel your actual age. A young girl at the age of sixteen, blushing as she converses with a boy her age, enjoying the scenery around yourself.

And after a while, what couldn’t have been more than a half hour, Robb slows to a stop. You’re quick to follow, yielding your own horse to a stop before turning to clamber off your horse, accepting Robb’s help. You slip your hands into his own, landing onto your own two feet with ease before taking a look where Robb’s stopped you. There is a beautiful body of water to the right of you, one accompanied by a tall, wide and very flowered tree.

It is summer here in Winterfell, and you easily pull off your cloak, basking in the fresh air and warmth as you stare at the forested area, covered in flowers of pinks and reds and blues. It is truly is a sight to see.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, turning back around to Robb with a smile on your lips. Your lips part when your eyes fall on what he’s prepared, only then noticing the mini-picnic he’s set up near the water, underneath the tree you’d focused on earlier. He stares at you with bright, shining and hopeful eyes, his own cloak off and thrown on to the ground next to him.

Taking the few short steps over to Robb, you smile up at him, your heart fluttering. “You did all this for me?”

Robb takes your hand in his own, sitting down with you; “I want to get to know you better, Y/N. And not just because we are to be married. I simply want to know you better, and I hoped having this moment, away from everyone else and everything that is expected of us, could help us.”

The idea, in all truth, sounded wonderful.

And it was. You and Robb once again fell into an eased conversation. Once again, it did not feel forced, and instead, the two of you were actually getting to know one another. You find yourself actually smiling, which felt foreign to you, as Robb treated you with such gentleness and respect. It also helped that he was easily charismatic, and with those shining blue eyes and that winning smile, he almost had you sold.

After the two of you had ate and then continued to talk for a while, Robb had promised he would clean up everything. During that time, you found yourself migrating towards the water, taking in the fresh air through your nose as you stared out, seemingly taking in the world. It had been so long since you’d felt free like this, and you never expected to find it through the man you’d been sold off to in all respects.

All your life you’d known you would grow up only to be married off, but that hadn’t meant you ever accepted it.

You’d expected Robb and Winterfell to just feel like another prison, and at first it had been, but now, standing here because of Robb, you were beginning to believe otherwise.

Then, suddenly, the peace was interrupted.

You felt a force hit your body from behind, causing you to stumble forward and sink into the water you’d been admiring seconds before. A gasp left your lips in response, instantly swimming upwards, to resurface, the moment you realized what had happened. You inhaled sharply the moment you resurfaced, raising your hands to brush back the wet strands of hair that stuck to your face as you searched for the one who’d pushed you in.

Your lips parted when you found Robb staring back at you with a wide smirk, his own hair wet and dripping like your own. He was laughing loudly, clearly pleased with himself as you stared back at him in disbelief.

“What are you doing?” You exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Having fun,” Robb shrugged, swimming over to you. You glared at him, half-heartedly, when he stopped before you, shaking your head over him. He only continued to smirk down at you, mischief obvious in his gaze. “Everyone is always expecting so much of us,” Robb begins, and you gasp softly when you feel his hands fall on your waist, pulling you close.

It’s the closest the two of you have been since you’d met him for the first time. It elicits tingles to fall over your entire body, your cheeks warming slightly as you meet his eyes intently.

“Just this once, let’s do something for us.”

“Swimming is doing something for us?” You question, shaking your head with a raised brow.

Robb snorts; “having fun,” he corrects, pulling you until your stomach hits his chest. “No ones expecting us for another two hours. Let’s just have fun.”

You hesitate, thinking over the idea. When you think about it, Robb’s right. You can’t throw away your duties, especially Robb, but that didn’t mean the two of you couldn’t have fun right now. Just for a little while.

Decision made, you pull back slightly from Robb’s grip, instantly pulling your arm back before swiping it forwards, splashing him.

His lips part in disbelief, turning to you with a grin as you giggle loudly. Instantly, Robb retaliates, and the two of you continue to splash one another, his laugh and yours mingling loudly into the silence as you swim around. Eventually, it turns into a game of tag, Robb being the one to catch you.

When he finally does, and his hands fall on your waist once again, pulling you up against his chest, your laughs soften as you meet each other’s eyes. You just stare at him, him doing the same, for what feels like forever, before Robb whispers; “a smile looks beautiful on you.”

It causes your cheeks to burn, your eyes blinking in surprise. But you find you don’t mind the compliment. Instead, you love it and it causes your heart to flutter.

In that one moment, you realize, you don’t mind marrying Robb anymore. He’d been a man you hadn’t known, but now knew so well, and spending your life with him seemed like a blessing rather than a curse.

And something told you Robb felt the same.

“Thank you.”

When you finally did return home, Robb’s parents had been greatly confused on why the two of you were wet. While the trip home had allowed you time to dry off, your clothes were still soaked and your hair still hung wet.

Yet, you found you didn’t care. Let them wonder.

That moment, the moment the two of you had shared, would be something you cherished and held close forever.

And now, as you were whisked away by Robb’s mother and handmaidens, professing that they needed to get you cleaned up for dinner. And Robb was pulled away by his father, the latter already talking his ear off, the two of you found each other’s eyes. 

For the first time, you found a smile permanently on your lips as you gazed back up at him. And, now, you couldn’t wait for your wedding.

-

let me know what you thought? remember, reblogging always helps! requests are closed!

[galadrieljones]

A Funeral: Chapter 19 (Arthur Morgan x Mary Beth Gaskill)

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Found Families, Brotherhood, Fatherhood

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big—all of which bring them closer to the insidious dangers of the natural world, as well as to one another, and to their future.

Credit to @bearly-tolerable for the banner!! Art is my own.

***For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog.***

Chapter 19: Poison Arrow

“What exactly is going on, Hosea?” said Dutch.

Hosea sighed. He ashed his cigarette, smoked, put it out in the ash tray. Somewhere nearby, you could hear the newspaper boy, calling out the headlines for the day. Dogs were barking. There were several other patrons out on the balcony with them that morning, having their coffee and their breakfast in the sun. “Arthur is leaning toward walking away, Dutch,” said Hosea. “With Mary Beth. Leaving the gang.”

Dutch did not look up. His brow became very firm and unyielding, like it got when he was thinking hard. “And.”

“And I have encouraged him to do so,” said Hosea.

“You have encouraged him,” repeated Dutch.

“Yes,” said Hosea. “I’ve been encouraging him for years. You know this. It’s just that finally, he’s listening. And I think it’s about time.”

“I wish—” Dutch looked up at the sky, squinting into the clouds. “Why hasn’t he come to me himself?”

“He would have,” said Hosea. “But I wanted to…feel things out first. Talk to you about it, just us.”

“I see.”

“We need to support him on this Dutch,” said Hosea. “Both of us. He’s been through…hell. With Mary and her degenerate father, and with Eliza before that. You remember Eliza, and Isaac, the brutality of how that ended. How it destroyed him for years.”

“Of course I remember, Hosea. Isaac was Arthur’s son.”

A flock of geese went by over the top of the city, squawking and flapping in a long, elegant V. “How do you feel about it, Dutch?” said Hosea. “How will you react to Arthur when he tells you he’s leaving the gang to make a better life?”

“Better?” said Dutch, confused, looking up at Hosea. “Better how?”

“All of us have lost people we love, Dutch. To this life. All of us. You, me, and Arthur. We thought, both selfishly and erroneously, that we could live the lives we live and keep our women safe. We dragged them down to the underworld. They stuck by us, because they were loyal, good girls, and they paid for it in the end. Eliza, Annabelle…Bessie.” Hosea looked down at his hands, flexed them open and closed. “It isn’t right. Arthur has a chance now, to do better.”

Dutch’s focus was dark, not sinister, but fearsome. The mention of Annabelle had spurned him. Hosea knew that it would. “We can’t…lose him,” he said.

“Why not?” said Hosea. “We’ve got a lot of good guns left, and I’ll stand by your side, Dutch, till the end. You have my word.”

“We need him. I…need him.”

“Is that your love for the boy speaking, Dutch?”

“What else would it be?”

“Your fear of losing his loyalties,” said Hosea. “Your fear of losing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because that’s what this is,” said Hosea. “He would be choosing her, and in some essence, himself, over his loyalty to you. Do you understand that?”

Dutch began to fuss with his rings.

“You look afraid, Dutch,” said Hosea. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“He’s like a son to me,” said Dutch. “He’s more than that. That’s what’s on my mind.”

“Then you should be happy for him. If he chooses to leave, you should support him.”

Dutch looked up then, desperately curious. “Is he—does she make him happy, Hosea? Mary Beth Gaskill? You’ve seen it?”

“That’s how it seems, yes.”

“How it seems?” said Dutch. “Or how it is?”

Hosea gave him a long, careful look, reading his agenda. “Arthur would not be with her if she didn’t make him happy. He’s not exactly the settling sort. He doesn’t give himself to women with any sort of freedom at all, not in the past five years at least. And we know Mary Beth. She’s been in the gang for several years now. She’s a good girl. Her and Arthur have always been friends, shared interests. It’s not like she’s come out of the blue or anything like that. I think it’s safe to say she makes him happy.”

“What if she hurts him?” said Dutch.

“He’s a grown man,” said Hosea. “He’ll survive.”

“Arthur has a habit of getting hurt. Badly. If he runs off with her, and she leaves him, we’ll be right back where we started.”

“She won’t leave him,” said Hosea.

Dutch sighed, his jaw set firm. He folded his hands together on the table. “I want to talk to him myself,” he said.

“As you should,” said Hosea. “With this all coming from me, certainly you’re not getting the whole story. How will you handle it?”

“I’ll listen. I’ll deliberate.”

“And then what.”

“And then…we shall see.”

Hosea sighed, smoked. “Forgive me, Dutch, for saying what I’m about to say. But I must warn you—don’t attempt to poison him. Against her, against the idea. He’ll see through you. It won’t end well.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve done it before. With Eliza.”

The accusation took a moment to sink in, but once it did, Dutch became venomous. He slapped his palm to the table, very fast, so hard that it made a big noise, alarming a couple of nearby patrons.

“Dutch—”

He pointed his finger, in Hosea’s face, but he did not look at Hosea. “That was not my doing,” he said, angry. “Do not blame me for what happened to Eliza and Isaac.”

“I’m not, Dutch.”

“Eliza and Isaac were murdered,” he said. He ceased pointing. He ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, like looking back—it burst into him, regrowing some old pain he had not confronted in years. “They were murdered, by goddam barbarians in their own goddam home.” He opened his eyes, confronted Hosea with disquieting focus. “I searched for their killers for months, if you’ll so kindly recall, while Arthur, ruined soul that he became, succumbed to the power of his grief and nearly drank himself to death. Had I found them, I would have ripped their hearts out through their goddam throats with my own bare goddam hands, and you know this.”

“I would never blame you for what happened to Eliza and Isaac,” said Hosea. “That’s not what this is. Don’t be a fool.”

“Then what is this?”

“You weren’t crazy about it—the prospect of Arthur going back there to see them, as often as he did, and you let him know.”

“Of course I let him know,” said Dutch. “I also told him to corral her and the boy and to bring them with us. I never once told him to leave her behind.”

“As far as we know, he tried to get her to come with us, on multiple occasions. She just wouldn’t budge.”

“And had she simply acquiesced, perhaps the two of them would still be alive. But she didn’t, and they’re not, and Arthur—my blessed Arthur—suffered,” said Dutch. He lowered his voice now, as if what he was saying next was somehow a secret. “Forgive me for not wanting that to happen again.”

“He could’ve stayed with her. He could’ve made a life with her. That’s part of my point. But you encouraged him against it.”

Dutch lowered his voice then, displeased. He leaned forward on his elbows, looming as far over the table as possible. “He was twenty-five years old when she had that baby, Hosea.”

“I know.”

“He wasn’t gonna choose to settle down. Not with her, a teenage bar girl who he knocked up on a one night stand in a hotel room over the George Washington Tavern in Butte, Montana. What was he gonna do? Marry her? Sell his lungs to the local silver mine to keep her in rags while she raised his child in a tin shack, becoming an impoverished mining widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one?”

“Maybe,” said Hosea. “At least it would’ve been his choice.”

“Sure. His choice. His choice to die miserably, in a hole in the earth, a slave to some foreman with a loaded rifle in his hands. Well, god bless his soul, he didn’t make that choice, did he, Hosea? And it was not me forcing him.”

“You’re right,” said Hosea. “You’re right, Dutch.”

“You’re goddam right I’m right.” He relaxed, slouched back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and looked out past the clean air of the balcony.

“But this is precisely why now is so important,” said Hosea.

“Whatever do you mean?” said Dutch.

“Because he’s moving on from all that. Talking with him, yesterday, he yielded as much. He's healing. All that business with Mary and her asshole father, and all that grief leftover from Eliza and Isaac. He’s making a choice now, to heal, and it might not be a choice that pleases you.”

“Then so be it,” said Dutch. “He’s not a prisoner. He is free to leave at any time. Why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because he loves you, and he looks up to you, and he’s gonna want your approval. That’s why.”

Dutch looked right at him and blinked.

“He’s not twenty-five anymore,” said Hosea. “That’s a decade past. He’s grown. But he still counts on you, on both of us. And I know you’re worried about him. That much I can ascertain. But Mary Beth is not a bar girl from the sticks in Montana. They didn’t make with a one night stand on the pretense of physical attraction alone. She’s capable, and she’s intelligent, and she’s been around for a long time now, and she loves him.”

“And as I said before,” said Dutch, “I believe you, Hosea. I do. I'd just like to him. Myself.”

Hosea sighed. He nodded once, very stern. “Then I’m trusting you,” he said, “to not attempt to destroy this for him. His loyalty these past twenty years is worth more than that, Dutch. Do not poison his mind, even in subtle ways. Do not force him to leave on uncertain or angry terms.”

“I would never. Do that,” said Dutch.

“Good,” said Hosea, looking out over the edge of the balcony. A sparrow came and landed on the railing, chirped, looked around, flew away. “That’s all I needed you to say. Now I’m gonna head back to Shady Belle,” he went on. “You and young Lenny come on when you’re ready.”

“What?”

“I said I’m gonna head back to Shady Belle.”

“Wait,” said Dutch, though he wouldn’t look him in the eye. He seemed flustered.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you don’t need to be…riding alone in these parts. It’s not safe. Just wait.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Hosea.

“Just—” Dutch took a long, deep breath, staring down at his hands, planted hard on the table. He was fucking pissed off, but trying hard to collect his composure. “—wait,” he said. “I don’t want you riding alone.”

Hosea was looking right at him, waiting to see if Dutch would look up, soften, or retract, but he didn’t. Hosea took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go tell the boy we’re leaving then.”

“You do that,” said Dutch.

Meanwhile, back at camp, Mary Beth was in the shade, touching up her blush, looking in a hand mirror. Everywhere was wet from the storm, but it made the swamps feel cleaner somehow, and it was invigorating, and after they’d woken up and gone off to do some chores round the yard that morning, she and Arthur had found each other and wandered into the surrounding tree cover alone. Once they’d left the purview of the camp, he picked her up and put her hard against the back of a tall cypress, and he made good of her with a kind of hidden speed reserved only for sex in the wild. She was still frazzled from it, and now he was over there, fixing a busted wagon wheel, with John and Charles, his sleeves rolled up, sweating and wearing his hat. She was caught looking by Karen, who came by holding a shotgun on her rounds from the perimeter. Karen stood, admiring with her for a moment, then she nudged Mary Beth with her elbow and said, kind of cheeky, “He sure is a snack, Mary Beth, but is he as good as looks?”

Mary Beth blushed and acted surprised by Karen being there. “Excuse me?”

Karen started to laugh. “Oh don’t be so shocked. I know. Everybody knows. It ain’t every day Arthur Morgan gets broken by a woman. That’s big news.”

“I didn’t break him,” said Mary Beth. “He ain't no horse. That’s not what it’s like.”

“Then what is it like? He ain’t been sweet on a girl since that Mary. I’d say good work, but I ain’t surprised by the two of you being together, to be honest. It’s nice.”

“Why’s that?”

“The way you’re always nerding around here, with your big ideas and your journals. Sean told me, too, before he, you know, got his brains blown out, that going robbing with you two, it was like being stuck in the third wheel. Arthur’s been hard on you for a while, it seems. Sweet, sensitive Arthur. You're lucky.”

Mary Beth sighed. The mention of Sean made her sad. “We never really talked about Sean,” said Mary Beth.

“Why would we?” said Karen.

“Because you two…kind of…didn’t you?”

“Didn’t we what?” said Karen. “Have a few go-rounds between the sheets while under the influence of whiskey?”

“A few go-rounds is more than one,” said Mary Beth. “Even on whiskey. If you kept going round, that’s a choice. At some point. Maybe it was more, maybe not. I just want to make sure you’re okay. I mean, it ain’t pretty. What happened. I’m real sorry.”

Karen got kind of quiet then. She was stone cold sober, which was a rare sight in those days, but it wasn’t unheard of. She lowered the gun down a little and looked away. She looked at the muddy ground. Then she looked at the sweaty sight of the boys fixing the wagon wheel. “Nobody ever asked me if I was okay with it,” said Karen. “Well, I mean, except Arthur. He’s always asking me if I’m okay.”

“Arthur is a good man,” said Mary Beth, smiling. “And are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Karen, looking down at her hands, holding that gun. “Thanks, Mary Beth.”

“I’m here for you,” said Mary Beth. “If you ever wanna talk. Or you just want someone to drink with. I ain’t great at holding my liquor, but I’m better than some.”

Karen smiled at this, very knowing. “Well, I’ll take you up on that. That is, if you ain’t too busy sneaking off with Arthur, carving out a slice together in the swamps.”

Mary Beth was scandalized. She nudged Karen with her elbow. “Karen!” she said. “You watched us?”

Karen was laughing now. “No. I didn’t watch. Not exactly. I just…saw. By accident. Don’t worry. It was only me, and I ain’t telling no one.”

Mary Beth’s face felt very warm. She tried to remember what it had been like, tried to remember what it was Karen might have seen…exactly.

“He’s a hair-puller, ain’t he?” said Karen, her voice low.

“Sweet Christmas,” said Mary Beth, exhaling. “Get back on your rounds before Miss Grimshaw comes over here and yells at us both.”

Karen laughed. “Whatever you say.” Then she was on her way back out into the trees.

A little while later, Arthur was leaning in the shade over by the scout fire, drinking some water from a canteen. He was talking to John, who smoked and looked serious. Mary Beth had just mended a busted tent belonging to Charles and given it back to him at the campfire. He sat with her now, and he was showing her how to mix together a kind of poison for weapons in return. He was a very good teacher, and a kind listener. He didn’t ask her about Arthur, though she knew he knew. His stoicism and restraint made her feel comfortable. He said she could use the poison on knives, arrows, or even buckshot if she wanted to get creative. In the background, Javier played his guitar, the music pretty and drifting in the waning hours of the early afternoon. Karen and Tilly sat beside him, over by the wagons, eating apples and swaying side to side. Sadie could be seen not far away, her turn on the perimeter, holding her gun, looking fierce but also somehow bored with the horses.

“It never hurts to be prepared,” said Charles, as he showed her how to tip an arrow in the poison. “Make sure you wash your hands real good after making this stuff.”

“I will,” said Mary Beth.

He smiled. He didn’t say everything that was on his mind. He was a quiet and careful sort of soul, like Arthur. She thought it was no wonder they were friends.

“Charles?” she said after a little while.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you kind of a personal question?”

“Sure,” he said.

She took a deep breath. She was curious. She thought he'd give her an honest answer, no matter what. “Do you ever…think about leaving this place?” she said. "Leaving the gang?"

He sighed, shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said, cleaning his sawed off in his lap. “But I’ve got nowhere else to go. And I still believe in Dutch. Even if he does seem…lost. For the time being at least.”

“You know,” she said, feeling wistful, admiring the poison arrow in her hands, “when I first got into the gang, I never wanted to leave. I’ve always trusted these boys. You boys. I still do.”

“If you and Arthur want to leave,” said Charles, looking up at her, right at her, reading her mind, “you should leave. Don’t look back. Find a better life, Mary Beth. I know I would if I could.”

She felt him gazing into her, so even in his temperament. His control. Then he blinked, and he broke his own focus, looked back down at his gun to continue his polishing. The arrow she held was beautifully fletched with beautiful feathers from a golden finch. She sighed, listening to the clanking sounds of the day—Pearson carving out a hefty deer for their dinner, Micah sharpening his knife at one of the tables nearby, Abigail feeding the chickens, Javier’s guitar.

Dutch, Hosea, and Lenny returned to Shady Belle around five o’clock. They had been in St. Denis, but it turns out they had stopped to fish along the way and came bearing a great bounty for Pearson. Arthur and Mary Beth had canoed out into the river a little ways and were emptying traps full of crawdads out in the surrounding swamps, a favor for Pearson. Arthur had his pants rolled up to his knees, and Mary Beth had her skirt near hiked over her shoulders. They were both barefoot in the mud. At one point, Mary Beth spotted a nasty Copperhead in the weeds, which Arthur flipped over with a stick and shot point blank with his pistol. It floated away, real dead, into the murky river. When they got back to the pier of Shady Belle, the light from the day was waning, and they rinsed off in a bucket of clean water, and Arthur put his boots back on. They were walking back to the house with a huge basket of the crawdads carried between them, and that is when they were greeted by Dutch, who was waiting by the gazebo, a surprise, reading a book and smoking a cigar.

“Arthur and Mary Beth,” he said, smiling in welcome. He closed his book and tossed it to the earth, took one last puff off the cigar and tossed that as well. “It’s good to have you two home.”

“Hey, Dutch,” said Arthur, as they came up with the basket. He and Mary Beth were carrying it together. “How goes it?”

“Just fine,” said Dutch. He then tipped his hat to Mary Beth. “Miss Gaskill.”

“Evening,” she said, graciously. “How long have y’all been back?”

“Oh, not long,” said Dutch. He took a deep breath. “I heard the two of you had quite the trip.”

“That, we did,” said Arthur. He gestured to Mary Beth to put down the basket. Then he dusted off his hands and approached Dutch head-on. She followed. “How was St. Denis.”

“Fine,” said Dutch. “We can talk more about that later.”

“Sounds good,” said Arthur.

There was a pause then, not awkward, but filled with some sort of tension. In the background, you could hear the fish swimming around in the river and also the Reverend somewhere, talking to Herr Strauss about the weather.

“Miss Gaskill,” said Dutch then, out of the blue.

“Yes?”

He removed his hat altogether now, held it in front of him by the brim. A gentleman. “Would it be all right if I…borrowed dear Arthur for just a moment?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you,” said Dutch. Then he replaced his had atop his head. He looked at Arthur. “Arthur? Will you walk with me?”

Arthur nodded, real certain, chewing a piece of tall grass. “Always,” he said. He looked down at Mary Beth, put a little hair behind her ear, kissed her forehead, smiled.

Then he looked back at Dutch. “Come on.”

[jessemccowbae]

🔪

🔪- A memory about a dangerous situation

[[ CW for graphic violence and bloody injury under the read more. ]]

“Deadlock, huh?”

The comment came over Jesse’s shoulder with an audible sneer. He looked up from his scotch, his surprise completely absent from his face. He was halfway to goddamn Salt Lake – who the hell around here even knew who those scrub fucks he’d grown up with were?

“Not hardly,” he grumbled. “Fell in with ‘em when I was a kid. Got out in a hurry. Where you from that you know of ‘em?”

The stranger’s lips curled into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.”

“Well, if they’re operatin’ this far north, they’re clearly gettin’ on just fine without me.” His mind spun briefly, acclimating to the new information. If they were operating this far north, he needed to get the entire hell out of town. He took another sip of his drink. “No hard feelings, I knew a few good guys in there. Just work better on my own.”

It was as bald-faced a lie as he’d ever spun in his life; the few superiors he’d had in Deadlock had sent him and the few ‘good guys’ he’d had on a suicide mission, with the dual intent of baiting out Blackwatch and getting rid of the upstart crack-shot kid who could have come for their jobs at any second. They’d gotten shut down with extreme prejudice, and he’d been so spitting angry at the betrayal that he sold them all out to stay out of prison without a moment’s regret.

It was the biggest blow the gang had ever taken; the consequent busts crippled them for nearly a decade. The last he’d heard, twenty years later, he was still a no-questions-asked, kill-on-sight target. It was the only thing that had kept him from going home after Overwatch collapsed. ‘Hard feelings’ didn’t even begin.

The stranger laughed derisively, and a chill shot through Jesse’s veins. Yeah, he needed to get out of town yesterday. “Fair enough,” he said, turning back to his own drink. Jesse nodded briefly, and nursed his scotch just long enough to make it look like he wasn’t turning tail and gunning for the nearest horizon, before doing precisely that.

It was still in the wee hours when he got back to the shitty hotel he’d crashed at, shoved the few things he’d bothered unpacking back into his bag, left enough cash to generously cover his stay on the nightstand, and headed out. He was halfway to the train station – a couple of old-fashioned slow freighters came through every night that he could probably catch without too much trouble – when a booming voice interrupted him from a side alley.

“Jesse goddamned McCree.”

He kept walking. The dramatic stop and turn shit was straight out of the movies. No reason to set the bastard’s shot up for him.

There was no shot; he was grabbed by the shoulders, and as soon as he spun around to swing, tackled by the legs by someone else. He hit the ground unceremoniously, and his arms were immediately jerked behind him. He snapped his head up, trying to get an eye on – fuck, there were at least six guys, count on Deadlock to be the only outfit on earth that didn’t underestimate him – and then he felt a needle plunge into the side of his neck.

Well, shit.

—

When he came to, they were far enough outside of town that he couldn’t see it anymore, and his arms were tied securely behind him.

“Ol’ man McCree,” somebody sneered, tutting and shaking his head, walking around to face him – nobody he recognized; he’d been out far too long. He could sense the rest of them still crowded around behind him. Odds said the stranger from the bar was among them, or else had tipped them off to curry favor. “Never took you for the nostalgic type, but here you are still flyin’ our colors after all these years.”

“Soap that strong’s expensive,” he barked back, gritting his teeth. “Look, I ain’t no threat to you jackasses anymore. You all know what happened, I’m on the lam from every government on the planet, I ain’t had a decent night’s sleep in two years and odds are I never will again. Y’all want me to suffer, I’m already there, and you know damn well none of you can call in that bounty the feds got on me.”

He wasn’t sure where all the words were coming from, why he still felt any drive to escape with his life. He’d been the walking dead since the shutdown, ambling from place to place, taking whatever work would keep him fed and not grate on his conscience too much, nothing left to drive him on but the most base human instinct to continue living. Hell, if he’d been able to specify who the reward money went to, he’d have turned himself in by now. Forty million was the least he could do for the family he’d walked away from… what was left of it, at least.

The man in front of him just laughed low in his throat, shaking his head. “Don’t that just figure,” he growled, grabbing Jesse by the front of the shirt and hauling him to his feet. “You still think this is about you.”

Right. That was why he was arguing. Because these fucktrucks didn’t deserve the satisfaction of killing him.

The first punch came from behind, the next from the front, the third was a kick to the side, and the rest quickly became a blur. Definitely the most thorough ass-kicking he’d ever gotten in his life. He did what he could to block shots, to minimize the damage, but their only threshold for being ‘done’ was that he got too weak to fight back, so struggling would only prolong it.

There was blood dripping into both of his eyes by the time they slowed down. He was definitely soundly concussed, had several broken ribs, something he couldn’t identify was seriously wrong with his right shoulder, and his knees were finally giving out from under him.

The ringleader stepped up, making a show out of pulling a pocketknife slowly from his belt. For the first time since Overwatch fell, Jesse could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes. This was it, then. Everything he’d overcome, everything he’d been given, all the trust that had been put in him… and this was all it came to. Bleeding out slowly in this same shitty desert by the hand of this same shitty gang.

The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, the stars fading into the twilight. Maybe he’d at least get to see one more desert sunrise first.

“You know,” the man drawled, kneeling next to him, “the plan here was to slit your throat and leave your ass for the coyotes. Woulda been nice and simple. But you…” He reached back, cutting off the ropes around Jesse’s wrists, then pushed him back and knelt hard on his chest. “Your showboatin’ ass just had to change my mind.”

He grabbed Jesse’s left arm, wrenching it upwards, a near-lecherous grin spreading across his face. “There’s a whole lot of other arteries you can bleed to death from, you know.”

By the time Jesse’s muddled mind managed to make the connection, the blade was already sinking into his forearm, just below his elbow. It didn’t even occur to him to try not to react – the blood-curdling scream shot straight from his nerves to his lungs, bypassing his brain entirely. He sawed in deep, nearly to the bone, before turning the knife and sliding it down. Jesse’s mind wasn’t even processing the pain anymore; he was nothing but nerve endings and reactions, shrieking himself hoarse, tears streaming down his face. The pain didn’t end so much as change once the work was done, a grotesque mass of skin and muscle falling into the rivers of blood with a sickening, wet noise.

If they said or did anything else, he didn’t notice; all his other senses had shut down in the wake of the blinding pain. By the time he could even properly look around, they were all gone.

The pain definitely wasn’t gone, but it had gotten so intense that his brain seemed to be muting it somehow. He blinked slowly, taking a few deep breaths, glancing at the softly lightening sky and around at the horizon. The town he’d been in was just south of the mountains, so they must have gone south out of town. It was situated on the west side of the interstate, which ran on to the southeast.

If he walked towards the sunrise…

He hadn’t been Angie’s favorite field medic for nothing. It wasn’t anything you could rightly call a tourniquet, but he managed to wrap his serape as tightly as he could around his arm and clutch it against his chest with his other hand, keeping as much pressure on it as he could manage. The ground lurched under him the first couple of times he tried to stand up, but slowly, surely, he got to his feet.

It was slow going, the world swimming before his eyes, his legs threatening to give every step of the way. He stopped for a long moment to slouch against a rock, gasping for breath.

I didn’t let you die for that shitty ink the first time around, vaquero. You better not die for it now.

“Who the fuck said your grouchy old ass could haunt me, fuck off,” he growled, a bit startled by the sound of his own voice, and continued walking.

The brightening navy blue of the sky was streaking with pink and gold by the time he reached the interstate. His serape was more blood than cloth now, still dripping onto the dusty ground as he dropped to his knees next to a mile marker, leaning heavily against the metal post. Just had to stay upright enough for some passing driver to recognize he was human. Or at least a body. He’d done what he could. Lady Luck would have to handle the rest on her own.

—

The headlights just barely woke him.

“–even alive? I can’t – oh holy shit, his arm–”“Alex, what’s going–”“No no no don’t look, it’s awful – just, get in the backseat with the kids and pull up directions to a hospital!”

[mostthingskenobi]

CHAPTER 6: THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL -- The Dark Side of Obi-Wan Kenobi - Part 2

SUMMARY: Obi-Wan begins to tailspin while he fights to maintain discipline. As his body grows hungrier, his thoughts grow darker. How long can he keep this up before he snaps?

Thanks to all you wonderful readers out there! I hope you're enjoying yourselves. In a few chapters, things are going to take a turn. Hope you like where it goes.

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CHAPTER 6: The Downward Spiral

Coruscant – Jedi Temple

The first time Obi-Wan snapped at a youngling, Anakin wrote it off as exhaustion. His master was obviously not sleeping; in the first few days after his release from the medical ward, Obi-Wan seemed continually drowsy, but after a week he began to look downright wild. There were deep bruise-like circles around Kenobi’s red-rimmed eyes and he was constantly fidgeting and irritable. One morning, during their walk, they sat on the grass near the temple lake. A group of children were swimming in the clear water, splashing and laughing. Kenobi grew more and more annoyed until he finally shouted for them to “cease their incessant prattling.” It was not the first nor the last time the Jedi master openly lost control of his temper; on one occasion he even called Mace Windu an “arrogant ass” right to the Council member’s face.

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After a week of following Yoda’s dietary regimen, Obi-Wan was starving, driven to distraction by hunger pains. Clear broths and simple foods were not enough to feed the Jedi’s blood, nor give him sufficient nutrients to improve his mental and physical health. He took his meals with Anakin and he often found himself staring longingly at his friend’s plate, fighting the urge to reach out and snatch a morsel into his mouth. He always finished eating well before Anakin, his stomach still audibly growling despite the food he ingested. Kenobi knew that Skywalker pitied him; in an act of solidarity the younger man even made an attempt to follow the same dietary restrictions. Within two days Anakin was clearly losing his mind with hunger, grumbling constantly to Obi-Wan about the stupidity of the Council. Though Kenobi did not disagree with his friend, and though he appreciated the act of camaraderie, he told Anakin to drop the routine and return to eating whatever he wanted.

“There’s no point in both of us being unpleasant company,” a chagrined Kenobi said to Skywalker with a frown.

After weeks spent in captivity and under a doctor’s care, Obi-Wan was desperate to sink his teeth into something satisfying. He did his best to control the jealousy that scuttled around in his heart, but he wanted what Anakin had, he wanted his freedom back. The angry voice in Obi-Wan’s head fueled his unrest, hinting that the Jedi were using food to keep him in a weakened state, that they were distracting him with hunger in order to keep him under their control.

They’re trying to restrict your powers, it whispered to him daily.

The Jedi fear your potential.

Patience, it soothed. Soon you will be set free.

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Accompanying Obi-Wan on his journey to recovery had become an exercise in patience for Anakin. His restless nature made it difficult to follow a methodic, plodding daily routine, but for his master’s sake he was determined to do his part. Therefore, every morning he met Obi-Wan in his quarters and escorted him on a walk through the gardens as Yoda’s regimen required. The two men talked sparingly – in truth Kenobi rarely spoke to anyone these days except Anakin and Yoda – but they never missed a chance to poke fun at each other.

Occasionally during their walks, Kenobi abashedly asked Skywalker to pause for a while so he could meditate. He even went so far as to ask Anakin to sit directly next to him. At first this surprised Skywalker because Obi-Wan had always been very private. However, after observing only one session, Anakin quickly learned that meditating had become a harrowing experience for his master. He understood that Obi-Wan was not asking him to participate but wanted him nearby for emotional support. Though Skywalker had never been fond of meditating, he would patiently sit for an hour or more while Kenobi entered a light trance.

Each time Obi-Wan slipped into a meditative state Anakin knew his friend faced paralyzing fear; watching his master struggle with unspoken burdens was heartbreaking. Serenity nearly always eluded Kenobi; as he drifted deeper into his unconscious world he would grow panicked rather than sedate. His jaw would tense and his hands curled into fists while his breathing became unsteady. When this happened, Anakin would reach out and pull Obi-Wan’s hands into his own, pressing his thumbs against the pulse points on Kenobi’s wrists. Using the Force, he would gently guide Obi-Wan back to consciousness.

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Every morning Obi-Wan made his way down to the practice hall and worked through his katas. He tried to arrive as early as possible, hoping to spend most of his time alone. He felt grateful that in spite of all his turmoil and confusion, his lightsaber still felt natural in his hands; it made him feel powerful and controlled.

Anakin had returned his weapon to him the day after he was released from the healers. Obi-Wan feared his lightsaber had been lost forever, taken by Maul along with everything else, but Skywalker explained that Cody found it on the floor of the Sundari prison cell and had quickly scooped it up as they carried Obi-Wan to safety. Anakin had placed the weapon gently into Kenobi’s palm; holding it made Obi-Wan feel more like himself, like he had been reunited with a piece of his soul. He reverently inspected the familiar hunk of metal. Dried blood was crusted on the hilt and the emitter. Obviously that’s mine. He remembered how Maul had used the blue blade to burn and cut him over and over. Kenobi expended a considerable amount of energy cleaning off the red stains.

On his first day of training Obi-Wan was nervous, so he decided to start with something simple. The initial kata he performed was an introductory Soresu pattern; he went slowly, just to test the waters and to see how his battered body would respond. His technique was graceful as ever, fully controlled and extremely fluid. Kenobi had a reputation for precision and ease, and he was pleased to find he could still hold a form nearly indefinitely. His muscles were tighter than usual, not surprising considering their recent abuse, but they loosened with each new kata he tried.

However, as the days passed and he grew hungrier and more lightheaded, he began to feel tired and less disciplined, especially regarding his Council-enforced restrictions. Obi-Wan actively forbid himself from letting his lightsaber skills suffer as a result of his lethargy. Consequently, he became obsessive during his practices, holding himself to an almost impossible standard, exhibiting unparalleled control and truly beautiful technique. The slow repetition made his muscles stronger than ever, while his lack of nutrition kept his limbs sinewy rather than bulky. The self-control required to perform at such a proficient level, coupled with his low caloric intake, was physically taxing and Obi-Wan would often be terribly exhausted after a session. He hid it well from his fellow Jedi, but later in the afternoon he would have trouble staying awake. Anakin was a good sport, gently nudging him whenever he dozed off, saving Obi-Wan from embarrassment, but Kenobi began to wonder how long he could carry on this exhausting charade.

He felt tension building in his energy like a coiled spring, as though it would need a release soon or he feared he would explode. He desperately wanted to spar with Anakin, but Yoda had expressly opposed it. Obi-Wan had to content himself with solitary practice patterns – occasionally Anakin would join him but Skywalker rarely had the patience for methodic katas.

The Council would not let him eat enough, nor would they allow him to fight. How could he ever achieve balance if all he felt was constricted? These frustrations began to manifest as anger. Every time he watched Anakin spar with their fellow Jedi, Obi-Wan felt sickeningly jealous.

They don’t trust you anymore.

Kenobi had grown used to the cackling, ice-cold voice in his mind.

You gave everything to this temple, to the Jedi, and now they treat you like a criminal.

He had stopped arguing with it long ago.

If only they would let you off your leash, they would see how powerful you’ve become.

Obi-Wan did not know how it was possible to feel so strong and so weak at the same time. How could he physically be so certain, so confident, but mentally be a tumultuous wreck?

In a sudden moment of clarity he was able to silence the voice inside his brain as he realized he absolutely should not be sparring if he was so unbalanced. Anyone he fought would be at risk; he knew for certain that his pent up energy would leave someone injured, and, worst of all, he feared he might enjoy it.

--------------------

On several occasions, Anakin found Obi-Wan sleeping in strange places around the temple. It was fairly obvious that his master was not sleeping at night, but he was still surprised to find Kenobi unconscious on a bench in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, in the library surrounded by scattered datapads, and even once on the inner courtyard steps under the bowing branches of the ancient Jedi tree. Kenobi always tried to laugh it off as an unfortunate side effect of Yoda’s strictures, but Anakin saw through the façade. Obi-Wan was starving, exhausted, and troubled. He was confined to the temple, he was haunted by awful memories, and he refused to confide in anyone. Anakin began to truly fear for his master’s well being.

There were times he could forget Obi-Wan was trying to recover from a horrendous ordeal, times were Kenobi would crack a joke or say something biting that only the two of them would understand and find funny. But just as often he would see things that unnerved him, moments where Kenobi’s temper got the better of him or where he would catch Obi-Wan staring listlessly out the window for long periods of time.

Anakin started to doubt the Council, wondering if they really had Kenobi’s best interest at heart. Obi-Wan was obviously languishing; anyone close to him could see that. He wondered if Yoda was aware of how bored and irascible Obi-Wan had become over the last week. Every evening Skywalker escorted Kenobi to Yoda’s chamber and waited outside while the two masters talked and meditated together. Obi-Wan always looked shaken and bone-weary when he emerged, but he would never tell Anakin what was discussed. Skywalker feared Yoda was ignoring the truth, that the Council was more interested in punishing Obi-Wan for breaking the Code rather than helping him heal. He worried this continued alienation would unintentionally push Kenobi to the Dark Side.

Considering how little they had discovered about Obi-Wan’s altered Force signature, and considering Yoda’s stringent requirements, Anakin believed the Council’s course of action actually left the Jedi more vulnerable than if they had developed a socially inclusive healing plan for Kenobi. If Anakin were in Obi-Wan’s shoes, he would feel betrayed by the Order. Skywalker thought the Council should tread more carefully. He believed Obi-Wan needed kindness more than he needed structure.

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NEXT CHAPTER: Obi-Wan has a particularly unpleasant session with Yoda, which leads him into some dangerous territory. Something changes inside our handsome Jedi. And Anakin learns the hard way not to sneak up on Kenobi.

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READ IT ON AO3 - Kudos and Comments Welcome :-)

READ CHAPTER 1: Disturbance

READ CHAPTER 2: Waking

READ CHAPTER 3: The Voice

READ CHAPTER 4: The Council’s Lackey

CHAPTER 5: Demons

CHAPTER 6: The Downward Spiral

CHAPTER 7: The Change

CHAPTER 8: Forbidden

CHAPTER 9: The Prophetess

CHAPTER 10: Doubt

CHAPTER 11: The Push

CHAPTER 12: The Fall

CHAPTER 13: The Horrible Truth

CHAPTER 14: The Only Way

CHAPTER 15: Asunder

CHAPTER 16: Master

[residesatshamecentral]

Masks and mirrors

I don’t do fanfiction, yet here I am. I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.

.....

1. Grey skies

Everything was grey.

The country was depressed. The eyes of the houses were empty and grey. The children in the streets, before the war, had been relatively clean, chasing each other and throwing stones after school, or buying sweets at the corner shops. Now, many of them wore clothes so patched that they would once have been used for rags ages ago, and no-one had money to spare for the sweet shop any more.

Archer felt nothing.

He observed the world as though from deep underwater. Sometimes he would wonder - watching a woman with Jewish blood being arrested or a dissenter gunned down - if he really counted as a human being any more. Human beings would respond to all this wouldn't they? Mostly though, he got on with his work.

Until Huth happened to him.

 2. Stirrings

Fear – and the occasional twinge of disgust – were the only real emotions that filtered down to the chilly underwater world Archer seemed to inhabit now. So fear was not an unfamiliar reaction, or unexpected.

The little verbal blows were new though. Something broken and raw twisted in Archer when the SS officer mentioned his wife in passing. He kept his face as blank as possible with Huth watching him, and tried to read his expression. They were passing through one of the poorer areas. Stretches of dark road, unlit except by the light from windows gave way to intermittently lit main roads. The light from the street lamps passed over the new officer's face and away again, leaving Archer none the wiser.

Huth's eyes were very pale. They were, Archer thought distantly, the colour of dirty ice, and the light in them was icy too. Horribly intelligent eyes. They seemed to see too far into you, and left you feeling disturbed and slightly sickened, as though you had just undergone an examination where no limits of privacy were respected.

When he finally got home, away from the new officer, he found space to breathe for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. He got into bed gratefully, aching with tiredness.

Detectives are plagued with the disease of all intelligent introverts, introspection, and worse, they are trained to look deeper than most people. In the foggy void that hangs between sleep and waking, Archer found himself trying to analyse the disturbed emotional state Huth had left him in. he was not the same, he knew. With this frightening man around - probably for the long term – he was in for something long-drawn-out and already he was feeling the marks. Not a good sign.

Was it, he thought sleepily, that the man was too honest? Or too malicious? Or too lacking in pity? Or all three? Was he just too demanding a personality to be around comfortably? Five minutes in his presence was like standing next to a furnace. Sooner or later the heat would get to you.

  3. Ragings

He punched the officer in the face.

He punched him in the face. Terror, hatred, pride, all the emotions he had though buried and calcified went into that punch, there, in the cellar of his blasted home, where the body of his informant hung like a parody or a scarecrow.

Then he waited for death.

A strange calm filled him as his tormentor stood straight. He was a man, here, now. They could do what they like to him but he would die a man. He met Huth's eyes steadily.

For the fist time in four years, he felt whole.

And Huth...laughed.

  4. Dreamings

Archer rarely dreamed, but when he did, he tended to forget them. The night after the assassin attacked him, he woke sweating, heart hammering, tasting salt. Barbara was in the kitchen, her space on the bed cold beside him.

He had dreamed he was dead. Deep, deep underwater, on the slimy seabed, so deep that the light no longer penetrated, among black, stony caverns where the only sea life is the stuff of nightmares. And he was very dead.

Help he tried to scream, but corpses cannot talk and who could have heard him anyway? He was alone, trapped in a body that would not move because no blood beat through it, feeling the slimy seaweed twine around him, the only sound the distant heartbeat of an ocean.

He had no idea how long he floated there, in silent panic. But at last a calm came over him. So he was alone. No news there. We all have to fight the world alone. He must simply make himself move.

With effort, with great patience and effort, he forced his dead body to obey him. First his fingers, them his hands clenched. His sluggish arms moved, then pushed his dead torso up from the seabed. Alone, dead, or un-dead, or half-dead, he stood alone, in the dark, and then began to swim upwards, seeking the light.

There no time in that place, or all times were eternity, but the darkness began to thin. The light-less void became a green void. Diaphanous shapes in the distance that might have been jellyfish surrounded him, passing by. He was back among the living. Above him the sun glimmered and he strove toward it, half-sure now that he could feel his fingers again.

A huge shape of pure darkness blocked the light above him. I knew you had it in you, Archer whispered  Huth.

And he was falling, far beyond the dark he had known as death, beyond the caves at the bottom of the sea, falling in terror because this was final, there was no way up, and the eyes of the world were on him as he fell.

Awake in the small hours, Archer ran himself a bath. Cold sweat still clung to him. He knew he was not ready to brave sleep again, yet. He sat on the edge of the bath and considered recounting the dream to Barbara. The horror he had felt was too real to him. It had not vanished with the dream  but stayed, lurking, like the clammy sense we feel on having touched something dead. Perhaps, he thought, recounting the dream would help him make sense of it. He closed his eyes, soothed by the sound of running water, and saw the dark shape above him, indecipherable, blocking the light. Heard the whisper in his inner ear. What a horrible sense of intimacy it had carried.

He turned off the tap and got into the bath, sinking in past his ears. He would not tell Barbara, he decided. If she failed to understand the dream, she would be no help, and if she did understand, well, he had had more than enough of other people reading his soul lately.

  5. Offerings

Huth was drunk, and Archer would have barely believed it. The Huth he knew, the leather-trenchcoat-clad, steely-eyed, iron-souled force of nature was incapable of being drunk, just as he was incapable of being vulnerable or bitter. The man slumped into his chair was all three.

Archer was an analyst of human beings, though not, he admitted to himself, the best analyst. He was better at understanding evidence than people. He never kidded himself that he was even close to having the measure of Huth, but he had built up an image of the man. He sipped his drink – he had orders to take one after all – and tried to reassess his enigmatic superior.

What forces shape us into people like this, he wondered? Huth seemed almost to be talking into the void, talking like man dictating a diary, or the memoirs of his private sins. Archer thought of the caverns at the bottom of the sea, and the cold touch of the seaweed, and the silence. He repressed a shudder. Life was worse for Huth than that, he thought. There was no immobility about Huth's life, but worse, there were no escape routes. You could see despair in his posture, languid and long-term.

Huth was the most driven man he had ever met, but there was nowhere for him to run to, nothing to strive for, because he believed in nothing. Apart from himself, there was no firm ground. His prison had no escape route, so he was alone without hope.

Now Archer saw a mourning, rather broken human being, and he was not sure he wanted to.

Now where did that thought come from, he wondered? Odd that he should dislike seeing Huth like this. It was not the embarrassment of seeing private grief. Not exactly.

“Would you like to stay with me, Archer?”

The chilly eyes had something new in them. “On my personal staff?” The touch to his cheek, roughly affectionate, could have been mistaken for patronising fondness. The hand dragged down his chest could not. Huth leaned back in his chair. The statement was made. An odd, joyless grin settled over his face. There was a direction-less hate in his eyes, mixed with something else. Not hope. Perhaps anticipation of hope. 

Some analyst of human beings he had proved to be, thought Archer. Why not just admit to himself that he had never properly understood Huth at all, or even tried to? He had been too wrapped up in himself to see the person. Until grief had made him crumple like this Huth had been a force of nature to him, wearing away the grey bubble of Archer's depression. Moron. You do not look at someone and see no further than the Nazi uniform.

This was Huth holding his hand out through the bars of a prison.

He wanted company. It was as simple as that. Painful, to think that the man who had dragged him out of solitude was more alone than he had ever been. And painful, to think that taking his hand was not an option. Because that was the way to Hell. It really was. Archer had met people like Huth before. Any pact with a man like this might as well be signed in blood. He would always be a sadist out for himself. You cold tell from the ice in his smile.

And yet.

And yet.

Years later, Archer would think back to that time, and think of Huth in the office that night. He would always picture him lost in himself, talking at Archer from the depths of his solitude, or reaching out, gripping Archers arm, drunkenly looking for contact. And he would wonder.

There are people who say, everything that can happen, does happen. Every relationship ends well somewhere. Every relationship ends in blood, somewhere. Somewhere close, a universe away, they broke the walls of solitude, or failed to, and Huth shot him one night on the steps of a police station with his pockets full of stolen information, and somewhere they are in bitter shared retirement with the closeness of long-term inmates, and somewhere Huth has achieved his ambitions and Archer is at his side, straight-backed in his immaculate uniform and his only regret is the look in his sons eyes every day, which scar him more deeply every time and make him wonder how much is left of his soul.

Everything happens somewhere. Archer thinks of that, and wonders where Huth was buried.

[markmceachran]

The Four Prisoners

Clip recognized the sound of the whipping blades. Without his vision he was struggling to walk in the sand and tripped up frequently. Hands on his upper arms kept him upright and moving forward, but other than that there was no courtesy in the assistance. Often times he felt dragged when his feet couldn’t quite keep up with their intentions. Wheezing through his nose and pushing air around the gag was as close as he could come to breathing which was already made difficult by the thin air.

This air had a little bit of moisture in it, not like the rest of the desert, more like the cell, or whatever prision he was being kept in. The windows had been replaced by thick boards. He remembered it not being up very high when they put him in there because the elevator wasn’t moving for very long, but the garbled announcement from the little box didn’t offer him any more clues. Moist air wasn’t an immediate benefit, it was a few weeks before things started to change.

First it was the air, it changed from one day to the next, desert dry for weeks, and then one morning it was damp like it was in the garden before he burned it. Then water in wasteful amounts. It was another four weeks or so, Clip struggled to keep track of the days of their imprisonment so he couldn’t be sure. It came out of the faucet, like when he was a child, and went down the drain as if they didn’t need the rest. Someone had to show them how to use the toilet, which was even more wasteful. Why would you put your shit and piss in a bowl of water? Clip thought at the time. They aren’t thirsty.

Threats from the woman were needed to get them to use the toilet instead of their bucket. Their keepers grew tired of dumping the bucket, he imagined. He told them they could simply let him go outside to do his business and they wouldn’t have any bucket issues, but they, rightfully, didn’t trust him. Clip wouldn’t have trusted himself either. He would have made a run for it at his first opportunity.

Into the little pond then for his poop and pee, and the others as well, flushing after every poop so they don’t clog the toilet. With this much water, water to waste on such things as feces, these people must be the richest in the world. They could buy anything with it, anything that was left anyway. This old Bob must be swimming in it, and all the riches it comes with.

Clip made sure that the others, Badger, Weed and Zeb, didn’t get drunk on water. They were weak minded and could be seduced by it. Not like Clip, he was strong because he had to be, because he was now the leader of the team. He didn’t like it, he wished Jacko was still around. What has his tenure in the role been like? Jacko is killed fighting with that girl, and then Clip is suddenly in charge. Right away he and his men are taken prisoner, and there they were day after day, just prisoners. How much leading can a man do from prison? he thought.

“Don’t get drunk on water,” he would say. “Only take what you need. Stay thirsty. Thirst makes us strong.”

They were fed once a day. At first it was just enough to keep them alive, but then the meals became more elaborate, more varied. By the end of their tenure they would have been able to feast, if Clip had let them. “Just enough,” he said. “No more than you need to sustain yourself.”

He was a true soldier of The Dragon. Now he was being shuttled off somewhere with the rest of his team. They said “released,” as if he were in some sort of prison from the before-world. He continued to trip in the sand. The canvas hood over his head blocked out the view, only letting the light in through tiny pinholes. In the darkness of the hood the light was blinding when his eyes caught it. At least the hood kept the sand out of his face as it was blown up from the downdraft of the helicopter. He was right up on it, so the sound told him. The engine noise grew distinct from the whipping blades and, sure enough, he heard a door open.

The helping hands that gripped him now pulled his head down and pushed his body up into the flying machine. He had never been up in a flying machine before. As he sat, as his legs were being bound and his body bound to the chair, he wondered what it would feel like to be up in the air. Without seeing it, would he know if he was up or not? He hoped they would take off his hood, but they didn’t. They bound him to the chair and then moved on to the next man. All four of them were bound. Clip could hear his commrades grumble as they were being shoved up into the machine and strapped in. Had they ever been up in the air in one of these machines, or a plane, or anything that flew?

The noise made all other sounds like whispers in the wind. He could hear that there were people talking in front of him, perhaps in the piloting area of the machine, but he couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying. He imagined it was talk of where they were going, how fast to go there, how high to fly. He had fooled them, he thought. They were going to set he and his men free. They thought they’d broken them, or convinced them to keep their mouths shut in exchange for their lives, and their freedom.

It was around the seventh or eigth week of captivity that they started asking Clip what should be done with he and his men. He remembered the doctor woman asking first. She was so gullible. Clip told Badger, Weed and Zeb to agree with them, to agree to keep their mouths shut and never go back east to tell the rest of The Dragon about any of it. Sure enough, the doctor lady brought up others to talk to Clip and his men. They all stuck to the same story, they all agreed to never tell anyone about the city, the building, the water, the women, none of it.

Eventually things got formal. They, the survivors, set up a new room on the floor with a row of chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other. Clip was escorted in by the dangerous lady, the one who killed Jacko. He wanted to hurt her so bad, and he sensed that she wanted to do the same to him. She was rough with him. She didn’t need to be, he wasn’t putting up any fight, but she seemed to need to be mean to him. Nothing was said as they moved into the makeshift parole board. She simply pushed him down in the little chair opposite the panel of people.

“What’s your name?” the old man asked. He was at the center of the panel, along with the doctor lady.

The rest of the panel was all women, of whome Clip recognized two or three, one he had bedded, at least from his perspective that’s what happened. There were twelve of them up there. Absenst was the fierce fighter and the pilot.

He gave his name, and answered all their questions truthfully. It didn’t matter to him that he was giving up the details of The Dragon, where they are, where they might be going, which he didn’t know. His goal was to convince them that he wasn’t a threat, that he would be just fine if they let him out along with his team. If it’s just one lie among many truthes he thought they might buy it.

Clip might have believed his lie, even made it a truth had he be given other options. He couldn’t grasp such a thing. It would have required him to have been given an opportunity to be a part of some other type of community, a group not bent on the completion of Nature’s mission, some survivors, perhaps. Such a scenario couldn’t have occured to him, he simply had no experience that he could recall that wasn’t something like The Dragon, some group that shit on the little guy in order to raise itself up. Even with Tynon’s seemingly altruistic mission, it still put The Dragon above others, above all those who are trying to survive. They were worthless bags of water and meat. Clip’s only experience with survivors who were just trying to live turned them into prey. He couldn’t and wouldn’t want that for himself. To him, even the panel of 11 women and the old man still looked as though they should be hunted.

Burying those feelings was all he had to do, and convince them otherwise. “I’d like a chance to start over, somewhere else, somewhere where they don’t know me, where I can blend in and just live out a normal life,” he said. His words hung in the air between his lonely chair and the 12 judges. Dripping with filth, each letter of it, he could hardly read the whole phrase without choking on it.

They tucked him in a little room afterward. He was joined, one by one, by each of his men. Then they were finally shuffled back to their original prison with the running water in the sink and the toilet that bathed their poop before wasting a gallon of water to send it to the wherever.

His words, their words worked because now they were being loaded into the helicopter to be whooshed away to a new home, at least until they’re out of view. Then they’ll burn it to the ground, kill everyone in sight, and work their way back to Toronto.

It was a week after their grilling that the doctor lady came to tell them the good news. “You’ll be sent to an outpost far away. It’s a place Angel visits on his trading routes. They have enough supplies to keep you fed. You’ll have to work, and work out what else you can do for them. Eventually you’ll be able to head out on your own if you like. We don’t have any formal agreement with them. We just know they need some help.”

Clip and his men all nodded eagerly, but not too eagerly. The plan was working perfectly. These dopes bought the lies.

She went on with some of the details and why they might have to wait. The helicopter was not quite ready, they hadn’t contacted the outpost yet and so on. But it wouldn’t be too long, just a few weeks, she said.

* * *

Up, up went the flying machine, shoving Clip’s heart into his stomach and pinching his throat. For a brief moment he felt like he had to pee. It was very smooth, and not windy. Even with the doors closed Clip thought it would be a little windy, but the air inside was just air, like that on the ground.

He closed his eyes, feeling the motion of the machine floating through the air. Clip wasn’t nervous at all, even though he had seen the machine, or one just like it, crash out of the sky. He was flying, it was amazing. And he and his team were about to be free again. After all they did, they were still going to be free.

Justice wasn’t going to find him, not that he knew what justice was. It was just another word from the before world. It meant nothing to him.

He could hear the pilots chattering again, but still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Soon the machine went forward instead of up. He could tell because he got light for a second, and then heavy toward his back, and the sound of the blades changed and the whole machine tilted forward.

I wonder what the ground looks like from up here, he thought. Everything must be so tiny, I could probably crush it beneath my foot. He smiled under his hood, but no one could see it. He decided to close his eyes and let his other senses feel the motion of the machin through the air. Little pockets would bump into the blades and give the machine a slight jostle, or lift it up briefly on one side, or drop it altogether by a few inches. It was so smooth in recovering, he had never felt anything like it, or at least that he can remember.

This is what babies feel, he thought. Their mothers carry them around and they are blind to the world, just like me. Then one day they emerge, and open their eyes, and they’re free, just like I will be.

They flew for hours. Clip didn’t know how fast helicopters could fly, but he imagined they must be more than a hundred miles away from old Bob’s outpost. He didn’t care how long it took. He was loving the feeling of floating through the air. It was calming in a way that nothing else was. He even dozed off a coupld of times, abruptly awakened by a jostle and dip.

Finally he felt the machine dropping from the sky. His stomach climbed into his throat to let him know. More chatter came from the front as the machine finally landed on solid ground. The jostling, the bumps and dips and all the other air feelings stopped. Engine sounds started to taper and someone opened the door. A dragging sound, like a pair of feet on metal, slipped behind his seat. He rightfully guess that one of his men was being taken out of the machine. Then the door closed again and he could hear nothing but his own breathing through the gag.

Excitement overwhelmed him, his freedom was at hand. He started to plot his way back to Toronto, how he’d be careful to avoid Chicago, giving it a wide berth. They would train and practice fighting each day before they set off toward their city. They’d find outposts and not even ask them any questions before killing them. They’d eat more than just the people, they’d find any kinds of fruits or canned food as well, like the stuff they got in prison.

The door opened again, interupting his dream. Another man was scuffled off and the door closed. He wondered why they were being taken one at a time. Maybe they have to untie us carefully, he thought. They don’t want us showing up looking like prisoners, or dangerous people. The Bob at the outpost might not like that we’re being dropped off. That’s probably it. Oh, Bob, you don’t know what’s about to hit you. You poor wasted bastard, I can’t wait to kill you.

The door opened again, another man off. I’m next, he thought. In a few moments I’m going to be free and we’ll go back to Toronto and we’ll tell Tynon about Chicago and old Bob and the crazy girl and the doctor and the flying man. He’ll send us back with the whole army and we’ll take Bob’s output and blow up the garden again and break the toilets and the sinks and the train and the helicopter again. We’ll tear it all down so that no one can use it again. Not even old Bob could rebuild it, especially because he’ll be dead.

The door opened one last time and hands untied Clip from the helicopter seat. His hands and feet were still bound and his hood and gag were left strapped to his head. The hands dragged him off. The engine had shut down completely and the only sounds he could hear were his dragging feet in the sand and the footsteps that accompanied them. The wind was still, and the sun instantly warmed the moist air within the hood. Clip was sweating an excited sweat. He was about to be free.

His two captors stood him upright on his monopoded feet, making sure that he could balance on his own before they let go of him. One of them pulled the hood up in the back, just enough to untie the gag and pull it away from his head. Then all at one the hood was removed.

The sun blined him for a few seconds, it was so bright. He had to squint and everything was blurry. Looking around, at first he could only see a person in front of him and one behind him. He blinked the tears out of his eye and they started to adjust to the brightness. The big machine was nearby, not making a sound or a move. Around him on the ground were piles of clothes, no men in clothes. Mostly men, anyway, some of them didn’t look human, more like burned wood. He looked carefully at the few that were nearby. It was Badger, Weed, Zeb and Jacko, all of them dead or dying.

“We were supposed to be free,” he said.

Hands behind him grabbed his head and held it tight. He couldn’t turn around to see who it was, but he knew it was the pilot, the man they called Angel. His hands were strong, they gripped the controls of the machine that could fly, they should be strong.

Clip wondered if he should scream. There was no one worth screaming too in this place. He recognized it, this was their first stop. This was where they killed Bob and Janice and Kevin. He really liked that day. This was Buffalo. There was no one in Buffalo worth screaming to. The outpost keeper, Bob, wouldn’t help them anyway, even if he was alive.

“You are free to die,” she said.

It was her, the crazy killer woman who killed Jacko. Before he could consider what was about to happen to him, it happened. The hands on his head force him to look down at his belly and it was already bleeding. She had punched it full of holes with a knife. Once his eyes were fully locked on the horror she cut a slice across it, letting the guts spill out toward his feet.

Still standing, still breathing, he looked at her, a fellow killer, and the hands on his head let him nod to her. He accepted his fate and he wanted her to know it, and she did. She ended him quickly afterward with a slice across his throat. As his brain lost its life sustaining bloodflow his mind wandered back to the helicopter, back to the peace of the flight, back to the womb.

* * *

Angel and Hope finished dragging Clip’s body into place before heading back to the helicopter to wash their hands. Such wasteful exhuberance with water wouldn’t have been possible before, and they’d have been left to fly home covererd with drying blood and sand. No one wanted to see them come home like that. They were heroes who got rid of the prisoners, they needed to look the part.

After they got into the air they circled the area. It had taken days to collect all the bodies and get them to Buffalo without anyone really asking questions. All that slow, plodding work had finally paid off in what they were looking at from above.

Like the skywriters of old, Hope asked Angel to send a message to The Dragon, should they ever venture down to Buffalo again. She didn’t want to make it a threat, anymore than 21 dead bodies is a threat. It was more of a request written in the fallen soldiers they sent out to find her, like a truce or peace accord. She wasn’t even sure they’d be able to read it from the ground very well. Propping the bodies up didn’t seem practical as they’d probably fall over in the course of time, so on the ground would have to do.

They considered leaving one of them alive to give the warning. It wasn’t practical either as the survivor would have full knowledge of where they were and all manner of tactical details about the building, and the train, and the helicopter and all the things that were keeping them alive, and all the other people that would be put at risk. These men all had to die.

A simple message in the sand would have to suffice, a request. Something that said, nicely, to please not send any killers after us anymore. Leave us be, and we’ll leave you be. Hope didn’t really embrace that last part, but the message was simple enough that it didn’t make any promises like that.

Circling above Buffalo they felt a little pride in their creation, on the ground written in 21 dead and dying men were the words, “NO MORE.” They were oriented south to north so that The Dragon would be able to read it from their approach from the north.

Angel and Hope didn’t know if they’d ever actually get the message. Maybe they’d just give up on their vengence and stay in Toronto, or move on to New York or some eastern city. Even if they did venture south again, the sand might just as well have the bodies all covered up by the time they arrive. Or worse, just the first word would be covered and the message’s intention would be completely misrepresented.

It didn’t matter, really, if they got the message. Hope and Angel both knew that they would do what they wanted to do. They’d spread, and conquer, and kill and try to bring an end to it all. That’s what The Dragon do.

The message was, perhaps, more for them, the two in the helicopter and those back at the bar. They weren’t going to be bullied by The Dragon, or anyone else. They were done being conquered. They were learning to fight back. The next band of evil that makes it way into their presence will meet the same fate as the 21 corpses on the ground. They’d be wise to steer clear of Jim’s bar, and of Angel’s helicopter and especially of Hope.

The post The Four Prisoners appeared first on Mark McEachran.

https://j.mp/3d36JmJ November 30, 2017 at 08:30AM

[markmceachran]

The Four Prisoners

Clip recognized the sound of the whipping blades. Without his vision he was struggling to walk in the sand and tripped up frequently. Hands on his upper arms kept him upright and moving forward, but other than that there was no courtesy in the assistance. Often times he felt dragged when his feet couldn’t quite keep up with their intentions. Wheezing through his nose and pushing air around the gag was as close as he could come to breathing which was already made difficult by the thin air.

This air had a little bit of moisture in it, not like the rest of the desert, more like the cell, or whatever prision he was being kept in. The windows had been replaced by thick boards. He remembered it not being up very high when they put him in there because the elevator wasn’t moving for very long, but the garbled announcement from the little box didn’t offer him any more clues. Moist air wasn’t an immediate benefit, it was a few weeks before things started to change.

First it was the air, it changed from one day to the next, desert dry for weeks, and then one morning it was damp like it was in the garden before he burned it. Then water in wasteful amounts. It was another four weeks or so, Clip struggled to keep track of the days of their imprisonment so he couldn’t be sure. It came out of the faucet, like when he was a child, and went down the drain as if they didn’t need the rest. Someone had to show them how to use the toilet, which was even more wasteful. Why would you put your shit and piss in a bowl of water? Clip thought at the time. They aren’t thirsty.

Threats from the woman were needed to get them to use the toilet instead of their bucket. Their keepers grew tired of dumping the bucket, he imagined. He told them they could simply let him go outside to do his business and they wouldn’t have any bucket issues, but they, rightfully, didn’t trust him. Clip wouldn’t have trusted himself either. He would have made a run for it at his first opportunity.

Into the little pond then for his poop and pee, and the others as well, flushing after every poop so they don’t clog the toilet. With this much water, water to waste on such things as feces, these people must be the richest in the world. They could buy anything with it, anything that was left anyway. This old Bob must be swimming in it, and all the riches it comes with.

Clip made sure that the others, Badger, Weed and Zeb, didn’t get drunk on water. They were weak minded and could be seduced by it. Not like Clip, he was strong because he had to be, because he was now the leader of the team. He didn’t like it, he wished Jacko was still around. What has his tenure in the role been like? Jacko is killed fighting with that girl, and then Clip is suddenly in charge. Right away he and his men are taken prisoner, and there they were day after day, just prisoners. How much leading can a man do from prison? he thought.

“Don’t get drunk on water,” he would say. “Only take what you need. Stay thirsty. Thirst makes us strong.”

They were fed once a day. At first it was just enough to keep them alive, but then the meals became more elaborate, more varied. By the end of their tenure they would have been able to feast, if Clip had let them. “Just enough,” he said. “No more than you need to sustain yourself.”

He was a true soldier of The Dragon. Now he was being shuttled off somewhere with the rest of his team. They said “released,” as if he were in some sort of prison from the before-world. He continued to trip in the sand. The canvas hood over his head blocked out the view, only letting the light in through tiny pinholes. In the darkness of the hood the light was blinding when his eyes caught it. At least the hood kept the sand out of his face as it was blown up from the downdraft of the helicopter. He was right up on it, so the sound told him. The engine noise grew distinct from the whipping blades and, sure enough, he heard a door open.

The helping hands that gripped him now pulled his head down and pushed his body up into the flying machine. He had never been up in a flying machine before. As he sat, as his legs were being bound and his body bound to the chair, he wondered what it would feel like to be up in the air. Without seeing it, would he know if he was up or not? He hoped they would take off his hood, but they didn’t. They bound him to the chair and then moved on to the next man. All four of them were bound. Clip could hear his commrades grumble as they were being shoved up into the machine and strapped in. Had they ever been up in the air in one of these machines, or a plane, or anything that flew?

The noise made all other sounds like whispers in the wind. He could hear that there were people talking in front of him, perhaps in the piloting area of the machine, but he couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying. He imagined it was talk of where they were going, how fast to go there, how high to fly. He had fooled them, he thought. They were going to set he and his men free. They thought they’d broken them, or convinced them to keep their mouths shut in exchange for their lives, and their freedom.

It was around the seventh or eigth week of captivity that they started asking Clip what should be done with he and his men. He remembered the doctor woman asking first. She was so gullible. Clip told Badger, Weed and Zeb to agree with them, to agree to keep their mouths shut and never go back east to tell the rest of The Dragon about any of it. Sure enough, the doctor lady brought up others to talk to Clip and his men. They all stuck to the same story, they all agreed to never tell anyone about the city, the building, the water, the women, none of it.

Eventually things got formal. They, the survivors, set up a new room on the floor with a row of chairs on one side, and a single chair on the other. Clip was escorted in by the dangerous lady, the one who killed Jacko. He wanted to hurt her so bad, and he sensed that she wanted to do the same to him. She was rough with him. She didn’t need to be, he wasn’t putting up any fight, but she seemed to need to be mean to him. Nothing was said as they moved into the makeshift parole board. She simply pushed him down in the little chair opposite the panel of people.

“What’s your name?” the old man asked. He was at the center of the panel, along with the doctor lady.

The rest of the panel was all women, of whome Clip recognized two or three, one he had bedded, at least from his perspective that’s what happened. There were twelve of them up there. Absenst was the fierce fighter and the pilot.

He gave his name, and answered all their questions truthfully. It didn’t matter to him that he was giving up the details of The Dragon, where they are, where they might be going, which he didn’t know. His goal was to convince them that he wasn’t a threat, that he would be just fine if they let him out along with his team. If it’s just one lie among many truthes he thought they might buy it.

Clip might have believed his lie, even made it a truth had he be given other options. He couldn’t grasp such a thing. It would have required him to have been given an opportunity to be a part of some other type of community, a group not bent on the completion of Nature’s mission, some survivors, perhaps. Such a scenario couldn’t have occured to him, he simply had no experience that he could recall that wasn’t something like The Dragon, some group that shit on the little guy in order to raise itself up. Even with Tynon’s seemingly altruistic mission, it still put The Dragon above others, above all those who are trying to survive. They were worthless bags of water and meat. Clip’s only experience with survivors who were just trying to live turned them into prey. He couldn’t and wouldn’t want that for himself. To him, even the panel of 11 women and the old man still looked as though they should be hunted.

Burying those feelings was all he had to do, and convince them otherwise. “I’d like a chance to start over, somewhere else, somewhere where they don’t know me, where I can blend in and just live out a normal life,” he said. His words hung in the air between his lonely chair and the 12 judges. Dripping with filth, each letter of it, he could hardly read the whole phrase without choking on it.

They tucked him in a little room afterward. He was joined, one by one, by each of his men. Then they were finally shuffled back to their original prison with the running water in the sink and the toilet that bathed their poop before wasting a gallon of water to send it to the wherever.

His words, their words worked because now they were being loaded into the helicopter to be whooshed away to a new home, at least until they’re out of view. Then they’ll burn it to the ground, kill everyone in sight, and work their way back to Toronto.

It was a week after their grilling that the doctor lady came to tell them the good news. “You’ll be sent to an outpost far away. It’s a place Angel visits on his trading routes. They have enough supplies to keep you fed. You’ll have to work, and work out what else you can do for them. Eventually you’ll be able to head out on your own if you like. We don’t have any formal agreement with them. We just know they need some help.”

Clip and his men all nodded eagerly, but not too eagerly. The plan was working perfectly. These dopes bought the lies.

She went on with some of the details and why they might have to wait. The helicopter was not quite ready, they hadn’t contacted the outpost yet and so on. But it wouldn’t be too long, just a few weeks, she said.

* * *

Up, up went the flying machine, shoving Clip’s heart into his stomach and pinching his throat. For a brief moment he felt like he had to pee. It was very smooth, and not windy. Even with the doors closed Clip thought it would be a little windy, but the air inside was just air, like that on the ground.

He closed his eyes, feeling the motion of the machine floating through the air. Clip wasn’t nervous at all, even though he had seen the machine, or one just like it, crash out of the sky. He was flying, it was amazing. And he and his team were about to be free again. After all they did, they were still going to be free.

Justice wasn’t going to find him, not that he knew what justice was. It was just another word from the before world. It meant nothing to him.

He could hear the pilots chattering again, but still couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Soon the machine went forward instead of up. He could tell because he got light for a second, and then heavy toward his back, and the sound of the blades changed and the whole machine tilted forward.

I wonder what the ground looks like from up here, he thought. Everything must be so tiny, I could probably crush it beneath my foot. He smiled under his hood, but no one could see it. He decided to close his eyes and let his other senses feel the motion of the machin through the air. Little pockets would bump into the blades and give the machine a slight jostle, or lift it up briefly on one side, or drop it altogether by a few inches. It was so smooth in recovering, he had never felt anything like it, or at least that he can remember.

This is what babies feel, he thought. Their mothers carry them around and they are blind to the world, just like me. Then one day they emerge, and open their eyes, and they’re free, just like I will be.

They flew for hours. Clip didn’t know how fast helicopters could fly, but he imagined they must be more than a hundred miles away from old Bob’s outpost. He didn’t care how long it took. He was loving the feeling of floating through the air. It was calming in a way that nothing else was. He even dozed off a coupld of times, abruptly awakened by a jostle and dip.

Finally he felt the machine dropping from the sky. His stomach climbed into his throat to let him know. More chatter came from the front as the machine finally landed on solid ground. The jostling, the bumps and dips and all the other air feelings stopped. Engine sounds started to taper and someone opened the door. A dragging sound, like a pair of feet on metal, slipped behind his seat. He rightfully guess that one of his men was being taken out of the machine. Then the door closed again and he could hear nothing but his own breathing through the gag.

Excitement overwhelmed him, his freedom was at hand. He started to plot his way back to Toronto, how he’d be careful to avoid Chicago, giving it a wide berth. They would train and practice fighting each day before they set off toward their city. They’d find outposts and not even ask them any questions before killing them. They’d eat more than just the people, they’d find any kinds of fruits or canned food as well, like the stuff they got in prison.

The door opened again, interupting his dream. Another man was scuffled off and the door closed. He wondered why they were being taken one at a time. Maybe they have to untie us carefully, he thought. They don’t want us showing up looking like prisoners, or dangerous people. The Bob at the outpost might not like that we’re being dropped off. That’s probably it. Oh, Bob, you don’t know what’s about to hit you. You poor wasted bastard, I can’t wait to kill you.

The door opened again, another man off. I’m next, he thought. In a few moments I’m going to be free and we’ll go back to Toronto and we’ll tell Tynon about Chicago and old Bob and the crazy girl and the doctor and the flying man. He’ll send us back with the whole army and we’ll take Bob’s output and blow up the garden again and break the toilets and the sinks and the train and the helicopter again. We’ll tear it all down so that no one can use it again. Not even old Bob could rebuild it, especially because he’ll be dead.

The door opened one last time and hands untied Clip from the helicopter seat. His hands and feet were still bound and his hood and gag were left strapped to his head. The hands dragged him off. The engine had shut down completely and the only sounds he could hear were his dragging feet in the sand and the footsteps that accompanied them. The wind was still, and the sun instantly warmed the moist air within the hood. Clip was sweating an excited sweat. He was about to be free.

His two captors stood him upright on his monopoded feet, making sure that he could balance on his own before they let go of him. One of them pulled the hood up in the back, just enough to untie the gag and pull it away from his head. Then all at one the hood was removed.

The sun blined him for a few seconds, it was so bright. He had to squint and everything was blurry. Looking around, at first he could only see a person in front of him and one behind him. He blinked the tears out of his eye and they started to adjust to the brightness. The big machine was nearby, not making a sound or a move. Around him on the ground were piles of clothes, no men in clothes. Mostly men, anyway, some of them didn’t look human, more like burned wood. He looked carefully at the few that were nearby. It was Badger, Weed, Zeb and Jacko, all of them dead or dying.

“We were supposed to be free,” he said.

Hands behind him grabbed his head and held it tight. He couldn’t turn around to see who it was, but he knew it was the pilot, the man they called Angel. His hands were strong, they gripped the controls of the machine that could fly, they should be strong.

Clip wondered if he should scream. There was no one worth screaming too in this place. He recognized it, this was their first stop. This was where they killed Bob and Janice and Kevin. He really liked that day. This was Buffalo. There was no one in Buffalo worth screaming to. The outpost keeper, Bob, wouldn’t help them anyway, even if he was alive.

“You are free to die,” she said.

It was her, the crazy killer woman who killed Jacko. Before he could consider what was about to happen to him, it happened. The hands on his head force him to look down at his belly and it was already bleeding. She had punched it full of holes with a knife. Once his eyes were fully locked on the horror she cut a slice across it, letting the guts spill out toward his feet.

Still standing, still breathing, he looked at her, a fellow killer, and the hands on his head let him nod to her. He accepted his fate and he wanted her to know it, and she did. She ended him quickly afterward with a slice across his throat. As his brain lost its life sustaining bloodflow his mind wandered back to the helicopter, back to the peace of the flight, back to the womb.

* * *

Angel and Hope finished dragging Clip’s body into place before heading back to the helicopter to wash their hands. Such wasteful exhuberance with water wouldn’t have been possible before, and they’d have been left to fly home covererd with drying blood and sand. No one wanted to see them come home like that. They were heroes who got rid of the prisoners, they needed to look the part.

After they got into the air they circled the area. It had taken days to collect all the bodies and get them to Buffalo without anyone really asking questions. All that slow, plodding work had finally paid off in what they were looking at from above.

Like the skywriters of old, Hope asked Angel to send a message to The Dragon, should they ever venture down to Buffalo again. She didn’t want to make it a threat, anymore than 21 dead bodies is a threat. It was more of a request written in the fallen soldiers they sent out to find her, like a truce or peace accord. She wasn’t even sure they’d be able to read it from the ground very well. Propping the bodies up didn’t seem practical as they’d probably fall over in the course of time, so on the ground would have to do.

They considered leaving one of them alive to give the warning. It wasn’t practical either as the survivor would have full knowledge of where they were and all manner of tactical details about the building, and the train, and the helicopter and all the things that were keeping them alive, and all the other people that would be put at risk. These men all had to die.

A simple message in the sand would have to suffice, a request. Something that said, nicely, to please not send any killers after us anymore. Leave us be, and we’ll leave you be. Hope didn’t really embrace that last part, but the message was simple enough that it didn’t make any promises like that.

Circling above Buffalo they felt a little pride in their creation, on the ground written in 21 dead and dying men were the words, “NO MORE.” They were oriented south to north so that The Dragon would be able to read it from their approach from the north.

Angel and Hope didn’t know if they’d ever actually get the message. Maybe they’d just give up on their vengence and stay in Toronto, or move on to New York or some eastern city. Even if they did venture south again, the sand might just as well have the bodies all covered up by the time they arrive. Or worse, just the first word would be covered and the message’s intention would be completely misrepresented.

It didn’t matter, really, if they got the message. Hope and Angel both knew that they would do what they wanted to do. They’d spread, and conquer, and kill and try to bring an end to it all. That’s what The Dragon do.

The message was, perhaps, more for them, the two in the helicopter and those back at the bar. They weren’t going to be bullied by The Dragon, or anyone else. They were done being conquered. They were learning to fight back. The next band of evil that makes it way into their presence will meet the same fate as the 21 corpses on the ground. They’d be wise to steer clear of Jim’s bar, and of Angel’s helicopter and especially of Hope.

The post The Four Prisoners appeared first on Mark McEachran.

http://j.mp/2iuzWjP November 30, 2017 at 08:30AM