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snow-system-wol · 1 month ago

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Reaper Menphina AU, born from us leveling Reaper while in a glam for Menphina (~2.6k)

(Warning: Snowverse typical vague references to abuse, mentions of blood and violence)

(While this is a different canon than snowverse, any implications about S'ria's 13th shard made here are canon)

Slipping out of the city was the easy part.

The walls were a clear landmark, the troops marching through hid a small figure heading the opposite way. Menphina's heart pounded as she snuck past clanking armor and machinery, and then she was out. She wasn't afraid of being spotted – wrapped in a pale coat as she was, under the cover of night and with the storm slowly kicking up around her.

No, it was the storm that scared her, and the horror of emptiness. Menphina could no longer see far in front of her, but it was all… so big. She'd never been in a room larger than the manor’s lounge in a decade. Stepping out onto the ice plains may as well have been an infinite void, with an impossible number of directions to travel.

The very first one she chose was away, opposite the gate she'd exited – angled off from the main road she'd seen the soldiers enter from. As she walked, the storm worsened, visibility dropped further, and her damp coat seemed to do less and less to cut the chill. She was trying to tuck her hands away as much as possible to protect them, but the blood left on her skin had frozen within minutes of getting outside. The snow she stumbled through was at knee height, snow regularly falling into her oversized stolen boots.

It was too cold, wind too sharp. The next time she had a clear view of her surroundings, she turned towards the sheer cliffs and mountains. If nothing else, maybe she could find somewhere to huddle that would block the wind. She did not want S'ria to die now that they could finally have a chance to live.

Menphina had hoped for a small niche to shove herself in. She had not thought to find a cave – and expected even less to find one that was so clearly furnished. (Though, luckily, long abandoned).

Being out of the storm already helped, but it also made her feel more keenly how cold and damp she still was. As she explored the cave, eyes quickly adjusting to the lack of light, she found sectioned off living quarters, stocked with bedrolls and blankets. They were dusty and far from clean, and not too pleasant a texture, but the subzero temperatures must have kept the pests and vermin from destroying them.

Menphina also found a nearby heater – her gratitude quickly faded at it being nothing like the ones she knew. There was fuel inside, if not ceruleum then oil at the least, but no way to light it. There were no switches, nor did any manual firestarter kits seem to be placed nearby. She had to resist the urge to kick it in a rare fit of frustration.

Plan B it was.

Convincing herself to remove her coat to hang it up for drying was possibly the hardest part of the night thus far. What few pieces of clothing she had managed to dress herself in while in a raw panic, ill-fitting things, at least remained mostly dry – and the same could be said for the supplies left behind here. Laid out across several bedrolls, curled up in as many blankets as she could find, Menphina slept for the first time as a free person.

It was fitful sleep, constantly waking in confusion and then quickly following fear. She half expected someone to show up to drag her back for her crimes – though she doubted she was worth the trouble of this weather. She dreamed of confused jumbles of moments, of ungentle touch, of the metallic taste of blood, of the give of flesh under teeth, the paradoxical dissociative thrill of falling prey to raw instinct and cathartic violence, the warmth of blood on bare skin – and the most disorienting part to waking up from dreams of tearing one horrid man's throat out was that she awoke hungry.

Any search for food was far less successful. Menphina carefully searched the caverns, still wrapped in blankets, and found little of value. The few things that looked as though they were meant to be shelf stable seemed like they too had overstayed their welcome.

There was little to be done for that. Now, it was only resting while the storm raged and looking for anything helpful, trying to stay warm all the while. Eventually, Menphina curled back up on the bedrolls with several books that looked to be in decent condition still.

It was not as though she could read them, but there were at least illustrations to peruse. There were even maps, though she could not say where she was located on them.

Flipping through one tome in particular, one that had somehow been damaged the least compared to all the others, Menphina found herself drawn to the illustrations and diagrams with sudden interest. For all their vagueness, they made a strange amount of sense to her. It stirred distant memories of forbidden pacts made for power, whispered things during childhood.

Menphina did not wish for power. She only wished for survival – was that different enough to avoid punishment or trickery? They would never be owned by anyone ever again, human or not, she promised that much.

She laid back down to think it over. The winds of the storm were still audible this deep into the cave, she felt hungry and weak, and her body ached from walking as much as she'd likely done in the last decade combined.

If it came down to it, Menphina would rather they die free. Oh, but hells take her, she wanted S'ria to live – to at least have a chance.

And all present knew she'd not get far as things currently were.

The cave was prepared for this, at least. The structure of the summoning circle was permanently etched into the ground, leaving Menphina to only worry about the sigils and symbols.

She violently shivered for the whole process, only wearing a single blanket so as to not smudge her work with loose drapery. Menphina had made some guesses, based on the book and the objects near the rite circle, and could only hope that she was correct. The nearby box held sticks of chalk and charcoal, and a few narrow knives. The symbols in the book were marked with white, black, and red inks.

Surely there was an obvious assumption to be made there?

Hopefully there was no issue if the blood was not 100% her own, but she must confess to a certain amount of… strange satisfaction at the idea of inevitable traces of his blood on her skin helping her flee Garlemald.

Once nearly everything was inscribed, Menphina spared another moment to think through whether it was truly a good idea.

Well… ‘twas not, but what other choices were left?

She could not read to know whether there was any incantation she need say, but it seemed unnecessary – the moment she wrote the final symbol and sat back on her heels, it happened.

There was a brief moment where a hollow void opened before Menphina, and then the room went utterly dark.

Unnaturally so. There was precious little light within the cave at all, but her eyes could adjust well to low light, even in the dead of night. But that was… complete blackness, no matter where her eyes flicked, she could see nothing.

She could feel the new presence in the room, though. The sensation was an odd one. ‘Twas as though the temperature of the room had both raised and dropped at the same moment – chills spread against her skin, somehow new despite the prior subzero temperatures. There, in that darkness, something circled the inside of the summoning sigil and settled in front of Menphina.

She wished she could see it – though perhaps it was not something that was meant to be seen.

What do you wish for? I have heard many tales of your kind.

The voice was smooth in an inhuman way, as though formed without the imperfections of having a throat.

Power? Wealth? Love? Admiration? Men have asked us for all that and more.

“I– I'm not…” Menphina stopped and shook her head. There were moments where protesting that she was not a man may be sensible, but right then did not feel like one of them. “I do not want all that.”

No, little one, you are… different than them. Young for your kind, yes?

Something nearly soft caught on the lilt of the voice.

What have you called me for? And what have you to give in return?

A bolt of fear struck Menphina. “Wait, my sight, have you –?”

Laughter rang out and echoed off the cave walls. Oh, no, I just prefer it this way. What would blinding you do to benefit me? Cruelty is not a useful bargaining chip to me – personally, I would not even be entertained.

The air in the room seemed to shudder.

But to discuss the price, you must tell me what you want.

Menphina paused, trying to find the words – words that hopefully would not lay a trap for her. “I want to be able to protect ourself, to make it out of this forsaken tundra without dying. I want to never again be weak enough to be kept as a plaything. This body belongs to no one else.”

The last words are said in a pointed tone, that the body is not meant for the demon to use either.

The darkness hummed around her. Oh, poor thing – something terrible has happened to you.

It sounded… more genuine than sarcastic.

’Tis power you want after all, yes, but… only just enough, no more than that. What you ask for is within my ability to give.

Menphina bit her lip, staring at where the ground would be. “What is your name? I would like to know who I am making this deal with. I shall tell you mine first, as a gesture of goodwill – Menphina.”

She had half-expected this entity to question her at some point, as to her gender and name, but it occurred to her that such a thing may not matter or even be understood by what was in the room with her.

An equal trade – very well. You may call me Luna.

Menphina nearly laughed, trying to stifle it. Was this a joke? Had this demon thought calling herself Menphina was a cute lie and responded with something fitting in turn? Perhaps it did not know the connotations of the goddess Menphina's domain, perhaps it was merely a coincidence – but that Luna.

Menphina knew this word – luna, lunae, she had heard nearly the same in the multiple Garlean dialects spoken around the manor.

No, it would be presumptive to think a being from another realm would be familiar with their gods – it was surely just a strange twist of Fate.

Now, Menphina – what have you to offer?

“I – what is needed? I have little of value, I have no money –”

Your currency serves no use in the Thirteenth. I am expecting something a touch less… concrete, rather something more abstract, in a sense.

“Less… oh!” Why had she thought this demon could be plied in the same way those around her before could? The logic was all wrong. “I cannot offer you much knowledge or influence in my world. I do not… what appeals to you, Luna? My blood, my companionship, my lifespan – or something more abstract still?”

It(?) They(?) laughed, but it was a more hesitant thing this time.

Siphoning off your lifeforce is an option, enough not to kill you – but you offer… your companionship? What is that meant to be, what value given?

Menphina leaned towards the voice, desperation entering her tone. “You cannot stay in this world alone, can you not? If you've come when summoned, surely you want to be here? There are – there are lands somewhere far from here, where the sun is warm and the breeze is gentle. I remember them, I can take you there, if I survive.”

There was a silence, an odd sense of stillness in the room – and yet a sudden feeling of an intangible tether. Had that frantic offer been… somehow acceptable?

Luna began to speak again, somewhere, but Menphina no longer heard her in that moment – the hunger and cold caught up with her again all at once and she curled up, violently shivering.

Immediately, the void shadowing the room receded to its normal darkness.

Menphina – leave the circle, I can assist you. If you can make it to that heater over yonder…

Menphina stood and stumbled out of the circle, a strange feeling of dread prickling at her skin as she passed the threshold. She paused for a moment, suddenly entirely certain that leaving the runes meant leaving her safety behind – that Luna would be easily able to attack her.

But while she felt a presence settle behind her, her own shadow feeling oddly heavy, no more than that occurred.

Menphina's voice was a quiet mutter. “Luna, the heater doesn't work, I already tried.”

You tried alone. Now try again. Reach inside – just so.

There was a flicker of shadows moving from Menphina's arm to her fingertips and sudden blue sparks. She jerked her hand back as the oil erupted into flame, settling from blue to a more familiar red.

Oh, the warmth. She leaned into it and finally relaxed as the small area began to heat up. She curled up in blankets again, as close to the heater as she dared, and found sleep calling to her once again.

Menphina – may I leave your side and seek sustenance for your body?

Blind to any considerations of whether drastically lengthening Luna's leash may be ill-advised or easily abused, Menphina simply nodded with a tired hum. As she fell asleep, that weight to her shadow vanished.

—-------

Luna gazed down at the miqo'te before them. Menphina was a frail thing, small even completely wrapped in blankets. Despite that, her soul shone full and warm. It was tantalizing, really.

It wasn't as though Menphina had been careful, especially leaving the circle while the deal was not yet mutually set. Her insistence on ownership of her body was a good call, it left possession out, but the rest of the terms spoken… technically they could drain Menphina within an ilm of her life and that would be permissible. And now, they were not even purely bound.

Luna considered their options as they left the cave. It would have been easy to abandon Menphina, having fulfilled some terms of the half-pact already – then simply roam the aether-rich world as they saw fit.

Instead, they found themself stalking down some sort of antlered and hooved creature. It would serve as an acceptable meal for themself, and Luna was fairly sure that bringing the carcass back to Menphina would feed her as well.

Probably. They weren't sure what mortals ate, but meat sounded right.

----------

Drusilla pinched the bridge of her nose, regarding the young miqo'te in front of her with an expression that was indiscernible aside from sheer incredulity.

“Do I understand correctly? You made an open-ended pact with a voidsent, with vague terms on both your parts, and then permitted your avatar to freely roam quite far from your side?”

Menphina cringed. “I take it that is far worse than I realized at that time?”

“It's a bleedin’ miracle you haven't left a trail of bodies behind you, is what it is – and that you are still alive and in control. What were you thinkin’, doing something so idiotic?”

Menphina went through many reactions, each for only a moment. Long-ingrained fear from being snapped at, shame, anger – there was a moment where she wanted to lash out and explain that Drusilla had no idea what S'ria had been through, how dare she judge –

That impulse passed as quickly as it came, and Menphina simply lifted her head to meet Drusilla's eyes. “I was not ready to give up on living yet. If nothing else, I wanted to die somewhere warm.”

Drusilla crossed her arms and leaned against her desk. “Well, it's plenty warm here. You still tryin’ to live? If you are, you can't keep goin' on like this – but you don't have to, if you'll hear me out.”

#snow-system #Menphina moments #snowverse au #reaper au #writings

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weirwoodking · 4 years ago

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I have a small headcanon that Sansa has already skinchanged into a bird without her knowledge once before. This passage about Marillion in the sky cells in particular:

“When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest.”

What do you think?

Oh, absolutely. I do think that she’s experienced her powers in some way, she just hasn’t thought about them.

George does leave these little subtle hints in the text that point to the Stark kids abilities, the earliest being in chapter one:

Halfway across the bridge, Jon pulled up suddenly.

“What is it, Jon?” their lord father asked.

“Can’t you hear it?”

Bran could hear the wind in the trees, the clatter of their hooves on the ironwood planks, the whimpering of his hungry pup, but Jon was listening to something else.

“There,” Jon said. He swung his horse around and galloped back across the bridge. They watched him dismount where the direwolf lay dead in the snow, watched him kneel. A moment later he was riding back to them, smiling.

“He must have crawled away from the others,” Jon said. (Bran I, AGOT)

While on horseback, and halfway across the bridge, already far away from where a mute direwolf puppy was, Jon was able to “hear” him. Obviously, he didn’t hear Ghost, he sensed him. Already, he was bonded with Ghost, even though this was about a year and half before Jon had his first “true” wolf dream. And furthermore, it takes a while before he’s able to clearly remember these dreams:

The wolf dreams had been growing stronger, and he found himself remembering them even when awake. (Jon I, ADWD)

So, yes, I definitely think that Sansa could already be having skinchanging dreams with a bird/birds. She just might not remember it. Also, she doesn’t have to have been having direct dreams, but moments of using the bird’s senses. Not fully in the animal, just sharing it’s space for a moment.

Unlike the sh*w, where skinchanging is an on/off switch (you’re either inside the animal or not inside the animal), skinchanging in the books is more nuanced. Jon is able to brush his hand up against Ghost and tap into the wolf’s senses, without fully warging him. He can even taste blood in his mouth after Ghost kills, and he can feel the wolf’s hunger. The most notable instance of this “one mind in two bodies simultaneously” thing is with Arya and the Braavos street cat:

That night she dreamed she was a wolf again, but it was different from the other dreams. In this dream she had no pack. She prowled alone, bounding over rooftops and padding silently beside the banks of a canal, stalking shadows through the fog. (Cat of the Canals, AFFC)

The tavern was near empty, and she was able to claim a quiet corner not far from the fire. No sooner had she settled there and crossed her legs than something brushed up against her thigh. "You again?" said the blind girl. She scratched his head behind one ear, and the cat jumped up into her lap and began to purr. Braavos was full of cats, and no place more than Pynto's. The old pirate believed they brought good luck and kept his tavern free of vermin. "You know me, don't you?" she whispered. Cats were not fooled by a mummer's moles. They remembered Cat of the Canals.

[...]

The Lyseni took the table nearest to the fire and spoke quietly over cups of black tar rum, keeping their voices low so no one could overhear. But she was no one and she heard most every word. And for a time it seemed that she could see them too, through the slitted yellow eyes of the tomcat purring in her lap. One was old and one was young and one had lost an ear, but all three had the white-blond hair and smooth fair skin of Lys, where the blood of the old Freehold still ran strong. (The Blind Girl, ADWD)

"It is good to know. This is two. Is there a third?"

"Yes. I know that you're the one who has been hitting me." Her stick flashed out, and cracked against his fingers, sending his own stick clattering to the floor.

The priest winced and snatched his hand back. "And how could a blind girl know that?"

I saw you. "I gave you three. I don't need to give you four." Maybe on the morrow she would tell him about the cat that had followed her home last night from Pynto's, the cat that was hiding in the rafters, looking down on them. Or maybe not. If he could have secrets, so could she. (The Blind Girl, ADWD)

While Arya is not fully outside of her body and in the body of the cat, she’s able to use the cat’s eyes as her own. And she isn’t even aware that she’s doing it, it’s just occurring naturally. I do believe that the same cat she dreams as in AFFC is the tomcat that she sees through in ADWD.

So, yes, I do believe that Sansa could be looking through the eyes of a bird. She’s just not aware of it.

It does seem like the Stark kids are much more powerful than the average skinchangers/wargs, immediately bonding to the wolves without realizing it, and already connecting with other animals. Arya is able to warg Nymeria from an entirely separate continent, which probably isn’t standard behavior, especially not for someone who doesn’t even know what they’re doing and has no training. Even Varamyr, a man who has mastered the control of five animals, recognizes Jon’s power:

The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it. (Prologue, ADWD)

So, the Starks seem to be pretty powerful. And that includes Sansa, as GRRM has confirmed that she is still a skinchanger, meaning that he’s definitely going to have a bond with an animal at some point. It would make sense for him to have already been leaving little hints about it.

A very important component to Sansa’s character, which could be affecting her skinchanging powers, is her memory. The way that Sansa’s mind has coped with her trauma is by suppressing and rewriting certain distressing, scarring, and confusing memories. This is something that all the Stark kids do, in different levels. For example, Bran believes that Rickon intentionally suppresses the memory of Ned being dead:

"Tell Robb I want him to come home," said Rickon. "He can bring his wolf home too, and Mother and Father." Though he knew Lord Eddard was dead, sometimes Rickon forgot... willfully, Bran suspected. (Bran V, ACOK)

Bran himself does this as well:

The dream he'd had... the dream Summer had had... No, I mustn't think about that dream. He had not even told the Reeds, though Meera at least seemed to sense that something was wrong. If he never talked of it maybe he could forget he ever dreamed it, and then it wouldn't have happened and Robb and Grey Wind would still be... (Bran IV, ASOS)

Sansa does this the most out of her siblings, it’s her primary coping mechanism. One example is how remembers (or tries not to remember) Jeyne Poole:

Sansa did not know what had happened to Jeyne, who had disappeared from her rooms afterward, never to be mentioned again. She tried not to think of them too often, yet sometimes the memories came unbidden, and then it was hard to hold back the tears. (Sansa II, ACOK)

She tries to not to think of her, because it’s too traumatic for her to do so.

Another example is how she’s trying to process the situations she’s in at the Eyrie.

I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though. If not for Petyr Baelish it would have been Sansa who went spinning through a cold blue sky to stony death six hundred feet below, instead of Lysa Arryn. He is so bold. Sansa wished she had his courage. She wanted to crawl back into bed and hide beneath her blanket, to sleep and sleep. She had not slept a whole night through since Lysa Arryn's death. (Sansa I, AFFC)

He is serving me lies as well, Sansa realized. They were comforting lies, though, and she thought them kindly meant. A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant. If only she believed them...

The things her aunt had said just before she fell still troubled Sansa greatly. "Ravings," Petyr called them. "My wife was mad, you saw that for yourself." And so she had. All I did was build a snow castle, and she meant to push me out the Moon Door. Petyr saved me. He loved my mother well, and...

And her? How could she doubt it? He had saved her.

He saved Alayne, his daughter, a voice within her whispered. But she was Sansa too... and sometimes it seemed to her that the Lord Protector was two people as well. He was Petyr, her protector, warm and funny and gentle... but he was also Littlefinger, the lord she'd known at King's Landing, smiling slyly and stroking his beard as he whispered in Queen Cersei's ear. And Littlefinger was no friend of hers. When Joff had her beaten, the Imp defended her, not Littlefinger. When the mob sought to rape her, the Hound carried her to safety, not Littlefinger. When the Lannisters wed her to Tyrion against her will, Ser Garlan the Gallant gave her comfort, not Littlefinger. Littlefinger never lifted so much as his little finger for her.

Except to get me out. He did that for me. I thought it was Ser Dontos, my poor old drunken Florian, but it was Petyr all the while. Littlefinger was only a mask he had to wear. Only sometimes Sansa found it hard to tell where the man ended and the mask began. Littlefinger and Lord Petyr looked so very much alike. She would have fled them both, perhaps, but there was nowhere for her to go. Winterfell was burned and desolate, Bran and Rickon dead and cold. Robb had been betrayed and murdered at the Twins, along with their lady mother. Tyrion had been put to death for killing Joffrey, and if she ever returned to King's Landing the queen would have her head as well. The aunt she'd hoped would keep her safe had tried to murder her instead. Her uncle Edmure was a captive of the Freys, while her great-uncle the Blackfish was under siege at Riverrun. I have no place but here, Sansa thought miserably, and no true friend but Petyr. (Sansa I, AFFC)

Sansa knows deep down (not even that deep, just down) that Petyr is untrustworthy. She knows he’s fed her lies, but she wants to believe them. She wants to be able to trust him. She wants to feel like she can be safe with him. She wants to be safe. It bothers me a lot whenever people say Sansa is “stupid” for trusting Petyr, or “uncaring” for not thinking often of Jeyne. She isn’t stupid or uncaring, she’s a traumatized thirteen year old whose brain is trying to cope with what she’s gone through and what she’s currently going through.

So, she has built a wall. And behind that wall are the memories of Lysa’s death, the truth about Jon Arryn’s murder, and Jeyne Poole. I think it would make sense if skinchanging, something that involves the mind, is also something that she’s subconsciously repressing. I talked about this sometime a while ago, but I believe that a big moment for Sansa in TWOW is going to be her confronting her memories. And most significantly, confronting Baelish about what happened to Jeyne Poole and exposing the truth of Jon Arryn and Lysa’s deaths. Thus, defeating Littlefinger, the mockingbird.

It would make sense if this coincided with her skinchanging abilities truly awakening. As her mind opens, her powers become stronger. I’m pretty deadset on Sansa’s bird being a falcon, not just for the House Arryn connection and because she’s gone hawking with a falcon before, but also because of the symbolism. Falcons symbolize “vision, freedom, and victory. Hence, it also connotes salvation to those who are in bondage whether moral, emotional, or spiritual”. I think that Sansa bonding with a falcon and “flying free” would be perfect for the conclusion of her caged bird arc.

Sorry, this got really long, it just kind of turned into all my thoughts about how skinchanger-Sansa might come to be in TWOW. I think it’s going to be an important part of her story, as you don’t just give four of your POV characters the ability to control animals with their minds and not have that matter. (And, it’s already an important part of Jon, Arya, and Bran’s stories, so it most likely will be for Sansa, too.)

#asoiaf #asoiaf meta #sansa stark #twow #the winds of winter #twow speculation #asoiaf speculation #long post #ask #jeynearrynofthevale

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emperorsfoot · 5 years ago

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In which the Princess Alliance realizes maybe they probably should have sent out a memo about Horde Prime.

...

“What in the ever loving high holy heck does Adora think she’s doing now!?” Lonnie demanded of the open sky.

She, Kyle, and Rogelio were inspecting construction of the new supply storage bunkers when the sky suddenly and inexplicably cracked open with a light so bright it cut though the perpetual smog layer that blanketed the Fright Zone. Lonnie glared at it, the shape slightly distorted by the haze. But it looked like a cut across the sky. A cut like with a magic sword. So, of course, it had to be Adora and her new friends. After all, what else could it be?

“We do have a way of communicating with Brightmoon, right?” She asked of her companions. “That wasn’t destroyed when Catra and Hordak decided it was a fun idea to blow-up central command, right?”

Both human and reptilian only shrugged. They honestly had no idea. After the portal fiasco when all of the Horde’s upper leadership disappeared, the trio’s focus had been on damage control and reestablishing some kind of infrastructure. Lonnie –whom took over the vacant position as Leader of the Horde- was more concerned with maintaining supply lines that brought grain and rice into the Fright Zone, the things their ration bars were made from. Their food. The stuff they needed to survive. None of them really gave much thought to the equipment that would allow them to put in a call to their enemies.

“I, uh, I can check.” Kyle volunteered.

He rushed off to do exactly what he said he could do.

Rogelio growled something that Lonnie didn’t quite understand. But when the reptilian dashed off after Kyle, she assumed he said that he was going to make sure Kyle didn’t hurt himself in the –still destroyed- Sanctum.

Though neither man could see the action, Lonnie nodded. Kyle was well-meaning and always eager to help. But he was also clumsy and not very mindful. Rogelio would keep him from carelessly injuring himself. Which was good. One less injury meant fewer medical supplies that had to be used. And now that she found herself in command, Lonnie was all about cutting down on needless supply usage and waste.

She turned her attention back to the bunkers she was inspecting.

“Well, show me the new vacuum seals that are supposed to keep vermin out of the food stores.” She commanded the soldier that had been showing her and the other two around the newly constructed bunkers. “We can’t just drop everything we’re doing every time there’s a big light in the sky, or a rainbow knocks over a tank, or a Princess seduces your boss’ boss, or the central command blows up.” She reminded them. “We all still have jobs to do!”

Making their way through the Fright Zone, back to the central command building, Kyle was still getting used to people stopping and saluting him.

Just a few months ago, he, Rogelio, and Lonnie were all still just ‘cadets’. But, dang!, did a lot happen in those few months! Catra set off a portal in Hordak’s Sanctum, then disappeared along with Lord Hordak himself, there was a short disagreement between the remaining Force Captains and Lonnie about who should fill the newly vacated leadership position, and –somehow- Lonnie ended up on top. The Commander of the Horde. And as her best friends and teammates since forever, Kyle and Rogelio became her lieutenants.

Where Kyle used to have to be the one to stand to the side and salute if another soldier was walking in the opposite direction than him, now it was the other soldiers that would move out of his way. Flattening themselves against a wall, standing at attention, offering a well-practiced salute. Sometimes even going so far as to say ‘Morning, Lieutenant.’

This had been going on for months now and Kyle still wasn’t used to it. He didn’t know if he’d ever really get used to it. He spent so much of his life so far as metaphorical dirt. He was used to being walked on. He didn’t know if he could ever be the one doing the walking.

Rogelio took his hand and Kyle’s heart jumped for an entirely different reason.

But all the reptilian was doing was bringing to the other man’s attention that they passed the entrance to Hordak’s Sanctum. Kyle was so caught up in reflecting on his new elevation in the Horde, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going and passed their destination.

“Right. Sorry.” He demurred. He had to remind himself that he might be a Lieutenant working directly under the new leader of the Horde now, but he was still just the same old Kyle. Absentminded and probably useless. Lonnie only made him a Lieutenant because they were friends.

Inside the Sanctum was mostly bare.

After the initial explosion, the lab and surrounding chambers had been searched for bodies. But the actual clean-up of the Sanctum hadn’t happened until much later. Cleaning up Hordak’s mess wasn’t really a priority. But Lonnie was also practical and not in the habit of leaving usable resources to collect dust just to spite the guy they used to belong to. The Sanctum was cleared out and cleaned up. Anything that wasn’t bolted down got taken out, sorted and repurposed. Scrap metal was melted down, tech that still worked and served a function was repaired and placed back into circulation, tech that was beyond repair and unusable was taken apart and its pieces cannibalized for other machines. The floor was swept and the area was closed off.

Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio were the only three in the Fright Zone who knew the new passcodes to get in.

Anything that wasn’t bolted down was cleared out, but there were still a lot of things bolted down. Chief among them, the main monitor display and corresponding computer terminal. If anything had a feature that could get a call through to Brightmoon, it would be this computer array.

Kyle switched it on.

There was a loud humming sound as it booted up, and an uncomfortable scraping sound that implied the inner workers of the computer might not be in as good condition as the exterior would imply.

Kyle chanced a glance at Rogelio to see if the other man might somehow blame him if the device failed.

But reptilian only shrugged his shoulders. Who knew how well any of the crap in Hordak’s Sanctum ever worked in the first place? The guy never really let anyone else in here except his pet Princess, and look how that turned out.

Once the computer was finally booted up and the homescreen appeared –with a few lines going through it to indicate the screen was damaged- Kyle found the communications application easily enough. There was a short delay as the computer dialed Brightmoon. The tech the Rebellion used was not from the same origin as Horde tech and the two were not perfectly compatible. It took a moment for the devices to connect to one another.

The image of Bow appeared on the screen. The device they connected with must have been his Tracker Pad which scanned for incoming signals anyone. He was talking to someone off screen, his head turned so that Kyle and Rogelio only saw him in profile.

“…hang on, my Tracker Pad is picking something up.” He was saying. Then turned to actually look at the screen, and saw that it was just Kyle and Rogelio from the Horde. “Oh! It’s you guys. Now’s not really a good time. Can we put off any new declarations of war for a while?”

Rogelio growled something that nobody understood but Kyle got the distinct impression that the reptilian was commenting on the other man’s assumption that this was a war declaration.

“No-no, it’s nothing like that!” Kyle assured him. “Lonnie just wanted us to call and see what it was Adora was doing this time. Ya see, this bright light just appeared in the sky, and it looks kinda like a cut, like with a magic sword. And Adora’s the only one we know of with a magic sword so… you see where I’m going with this?”

Why did Kyle feel so awkward? Was it because had hadn’t been in a command position long and didn’t know how to talk to people and command respect? Or was it because he was unfit for a command position at all? At least when he was a grunt cadet, he knew his place and where he stood –with enemies as well as allies. Now, as a Lieutenant with responsibilities, he felt so out of place he wasn’t sure he even had a place anymore. He certainly had no idea how he was supposed to talk to the Rebellion’s Tech Master.

“Don’t worry about that.” Bow tried to assure them, sounding much more like he was trying to assure himself. “We’ve got it handled.”

His tone implied that they did not have it –whatever ‘it’ was- handled.

Bow ended the call.

Kyle and Rogelio looked at each other. Just as confused now as they were when the cut of light first appeared in the sky. Bow hadn’t actually given them an explanation as to what it was or what was really going on. That was all Lonnie wanted to know.

“Should we call them back and ask to speak to Adora this time?” He asked.

Rogelio only shrugged. He was also a little unsure as to what to do in his new leadership role.

…

Everyone in Brightmoon was in one stage or another of freaking out.

They all knew this was coming. They all knew Horde Prime was coming.

Entrapta had warned them. Catra had taunted them. Heck! Even Light Hope kinda alluded to this coming, no in so many words, but more in that cryptic and open to interpretation way she did. The fact of the matter was, no one should have been surprised.

Except that no one really believed it would happen this fast. This soon. It took Hordak years –decades, actually- to build a working portal. What reason did they have to assume that Horde Prime could get one working, open, and stable in just a few short months?

It was lucky that Entrapta already finished the weapons she promised. But she had only just finished the ones for Brightmoon. Salineas, Plumeria, and the Queendom of Snows were still unprotected. No to mention all the other territories and Queendoms on the planet.

Micah had met people from Fallen Star Mountain, the territory ruled by the Star Sisters and invited them to join the Alliance. They said that with Hordak defeated there wasn’t a reason to anymore. They were unprotected and unprepared. Sweet Bee and Peekablue sent their reply in the same message, one piece of paper bearing both their seals –apparently, the two Queens were together at the time- it was written in Peekablue’s handwriting and simply said ‘the timing isn’t right yet’. Well, was the timing right now? Now that the other Horde from outer space had ripped open their sky and was poised to drop down on them at any moment!

Needless to say, things in Brightmoon were a little anxious.

Perfuma was the first to show up at the palace. Plumeria sharing a border with Brightmoon on the opposite side from the mountains of Dryl, her’s was the closest Queendom to Brightmoon. She appeared, flower crown askew, pink dress rumpled, without her teal green shrug over her shoulders. As if she’d left in a rush.

“Is it the Horde?” She demanded. “I mean, of course it’s the Horde. But, like, the other Horde. The bigger one. The one we’ve been trying to prepare for.” She took a deep breath, attempting to force herself to calm down. “I mean, we’ve been prepared for this, so everything will be okay. We have the She-Ra on our side. I’m sure everything will come to a harmonious conclusion. There’s no need to give into negative energy.”

She said this. But Perfuma was definitely giving off negative energy. The negative energy of fear, anxiety, and doubt. She was giving off negative energy in buckets.

Speaking of buckets, not long after Perfuma arrived, a giant wave crashed through the Brightmoon harbor, nearly capsizing Sea Hawk’s ship. He was already bailing buckets of the excess water off the deck when the wave receded, revealing Mermista. She was holding her trident, and look more impatient and annoyed than fearful and concerned.

“Ugh… the Geek Princess hasn’t even been by to build my weapons yet.” She groaned at no one in particular, brushing an errant lock of hair out of her face. “Can’t the evil space emperor wait, like, six more month before coming to try and kill us all. So stupid.” Then she noticed the Dragon’s Daughter Five listing in the bay. “Oh. Hey, Sea Hawk.”

Sea Hawk gave a non-committal grunt in reply. They hadn’t exactly spoken socially since their breakup was official. He honestly didn’t know how to talk to her anymore. Certainly, he couldn’t talk to her like he used to.

Frosta was the farthest away and the last to arrive.

Everyone was already in the War Room when the youngest member of the Princess Alliance arrived.

Micah was arguing with Shadow Weavers. Adora was shouting warnings over the table. Spinnerella was holding Nettossa’s hand to try and calm the other woman. Bow was fiddling with his Tracker Pad trying to see if the device could analyze the sky rift. Perfuma was trying to perform a calming chant. Memista was groaning at how chaotic this was. And Sea Hawk was ringing saltwater out of his socks. Glimmer had no control over her War Room, or the meeting.

Then Frosta barged in. Doors banging open with a sound loud enough to make everyone pause. Stopping their squabbles or shouts to look across the room at the child-Princess.

“Alright! So, what’s the plan for kicking these bat-faced jerks butts!?”

The room exploded back into noise and chaos again. Everyone talking at once. Giving opinions of things they were not informed enough to give opinions on.

Bow’s Tracker Pad beeped with an alert just as someone asked him a question. Thinking the device had found some information for him about the rift, he turned his attention to it. “…hang on, my Tracker Pad is picking something up.”

Those seated closes to him quieted down to also see what the Tracker Pad had found.

But all that appeared on the screen were the faces of two Horde soldiers. The Etherian Horde. A human, Kyle, and a reptilian, Rogelio. People they knew. Not the new Horde from outer space. There were not bat-faced monsters that looked like Hordak giving them a call.

“Oh! It’s you guys. Now’s not really a good time. Can we put off any new declarations of war for a while?” Bow asked, assuming that even under new leadership the Etherian Horde would want to continue the generations old feud.

Oh. Had no one read-in the new Horde leadership about what was coming? Did they honestly not know? Bow never even considered that! In a room full of chaos was not the time to debrief someone new. Especially not someone that Bow wasn’t sure which side they would choose. He didn’t want to be helping and clueing in a new enemy. While he did generally try to give people the benefit of the doubt and see the best in people, now was not the time to be the better man. Sometimes, the practical man had to be a bit rude.

“Don’t worry about that.” Bow tried to assure them, sounding much more like he was trying to assure himself. “We’ve got it handled.”

He ended the call.

“Who was that?” Asked Sea Hawk. He hung his still wet socks over the back of his seat and sat down next to Bow.

“That was… the Horde…” Bow answered truthfully. Then, when everyone looked horror stuck, he quickly rushed to explain. “I mean, our Horde. The Etherian Horde! The guys in the Fright Zone. Kyle, and Rogelio, I think are their names. Nobody ever told them what was going on, so they have no idea what’s coming. They saw the portal in the sky and freaked out.”

“Oh.” Said Glimmer.

There was a beat.

Then Perfuma suggested, “Should we… invite them to join us?” Even as she asked this, she did not seem very secure in the idea. “I mean, do you think they’d be willing to help? They live on Etheria too…”

“We have no reason to assume they won’t join Horde Prime the moment they learn of him.” Shadow Weaver informed the room. “Inviting them into the Alliance would be like inviting a wolf to your back.”

“I’m sure that was true when Hordak was in charge.” Micah argued. It was hard to tell if he was arguing for the Horde because he honestly and truly felt the Etherian Horde could be helpful, or just to take an opposing opinion from Shadow Weaver. “But Hordak has been removed from power and is under house arrest in Dryl. Command of the Etherian Horde is now in the hands of Etherians. As Princess Perfuma said, they live here too, why wouldn’t they want to defend the Home Ground?”

“Because they were raised by Hordak and Hordak does not teach altruism.” Shadow Weaver reminded everyone. Never mind the fact that Hordak didn’t raise any of the Fright Zone orphans, and that job was actually delegated to Shadow Weaver herself. A fact Adora could confirm for them all.

Adora might even have done so and called Shadow Weaver out on her misplacement of responsibility, had she not be lost in thought at that moment. Really considering the possibility of the Etherian Horde as allies. She grew up with them. She, better than anyone in the room, understood them. In a deeper and more intimate way than Shadow Weaver did.

“Lonnie’s in charge now.” She began, still considering and weighing outcomes as she spoke. “She’s very practical… If we can convince her that working with us is the better choice over siding with Horde Prime…”

She did not get to finish that thought, however, as Bow’s tracker pad beeped again with another message. This time, when he answered it, it wasn’t the nervous and unsure faces of Kyle and Rogelio. It was the exasperated and angry face of none other than Lonnie, Commander of the Horde, herself.

“Put. Adora. On. The. Line.” She commanded before any pleasantries could be exchanged.

Adora took the Tracker Pad from Bow. “Hey, Lonnie, we were just talking about-“

“What in the ever loving high holy heck are you doing this time!?” Lonnie cut the other woman off. “Haven’t you had enough of meddling with forces beyond mortal understanding and breaking the universe!? I am still trying to rebuild what Hordak and Catra ran into the ground and you’re cutting up the sky for fun! Now I have a panic to deal with on top of construction delays and lost supply shipments! I thought all you shimmering Princesses wanted was ‘peace’! Can’t I have a moment’s peace to work on my own territory!”

She paused for breath.

Adora looked back at the rest of the Princess Alliance to make sure they heard the Commander of the Etherian Horde’s rant. She wanted peace, and she wanted to repair the damage to the Fright Zone, the damage to ‘her Territory’. Lonnie might be ‘Commander of the Horde’, but she was thinking like a Princess.

“I’m sending Kyle over there to see what you’re all really up to!” Lonnie continued before anyone else could speak. “I’m sending Kyle because he is the least threatening person I know and hopefully that will keep you sparkleheads from shooting glitter at him on sight. Think of him as a sort of ‘emissary’. I don’t want to have to fight you guys again if I don’t have to! But, I swear, if you keep making things difficult for me, I will! So, let’s try and get along.”

She ended the call.

Adora passed the Tracker Pad back to Bow. “So… I guess that answers the question of which side she’ll be on if it comes to it.”

“How?” Frosta jumped up, standing on her seat to be better seen. “She said she didn’t wanna fight us because she’s still licking her wounds in the Fright Zone. We don’t know that the moment Prime shows up she won’t go running to him the moment she realizes he’s got bigger guns and more resources to share with her.”

“That’s assuming Horde Prime is the type to share.” Mermista countered. “There is another angle to this. Regardless of what Lonnie things of the bigger Horde, the bigger Horde might not think much of Lonnie and just sweep her away. They might get rid of her for us and then the question of what to do about the Etherian Horde becomes a non-issue.”

“That’s terrible!” Perfuma was horrified. “Sure, they’ve been our enemies for as long as I can remember. But they’re still people, and living things. All life is precious.”

“They’re still the ones who ruined Princess Prom!” Frosta shouted.

Everyone assumed she was trying to make a point about respecting truces, cease-fires, and safe spaces –all of which Princess Prom was supposed to be- and that if they couldn’t do that, what reason did they have to trust them in a truce now. But all it sounded like was that she was saying parties were just as important as leaving beings. For fear of derailing the conversation into an unnecessary ethical debate, everyone collectively agreed to ignore that comment.

“There’s no point debating this until the Horde’s emissary gets here.” Glimmer announced, taking control of the meeting. She was Queen, but most of the time she still felt like an inexperienced and frustrated rebel child.

“I know Kyle.” Adora added. “He won’t make trouble while he’s here.” A pause. “On purpose. He won’t make trouble on purpose.”

But ‘trouble’ did have a propensity to just happen around him. It wasn’t that Kyle was particularly clumsy, forgetful, or rude. No more than any other child soldier raised in the Horde. He just seemed… out of place no matter where he went. Almost like… almost like he wasn’t meant to be on Etheria. Of course, Etheria being trapped in an isolated shadow dimension, she couldn’t image where else he could belong. But then, she’d seen weirder things than just an out-of-place and accident-prone soldier.

The debate might have gone on longer, but a page entered the War Room, unannounced, and passed a letter to Glimmer. “Message from Fallen Star Mountain, my Queen.”

Taking the envelope, Glimmer ripped it open to read the contents. Then she sighed. “It’s from the Star Sisters. They also wanna know what the light in the sky is.”

No sooner had she read that, than another page came in with more messages from Elberon, Seaworthy, Erelandia… Heck! They even got a crumpled and dirty piece of paper from the Valley of the Lost in the Crimson Waste. Apparently, the whole planet saw the rift in the sky and wanted to know what the Princess Alliance was up to now…

Glimmer slumped in her seat, putting a hand to her head where she felt an on-coming stress headache. Who knew the worst part of Horde Prime’s attack would be the confusion before the storm?

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missblissy · 6 years ago

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Title: Homeless at Home Fandom: Red Dead Redemption Genre: fanfiction, chapters, angst, reader insert Characters: Young!Arthur Morgan, Dutch Van Der Linde, Hosea Mathews, Arthur Morgan/ Reader, Female reader, Chapter: One || Two

Follow me on AO3!! Read it there too!

(Helloooo~! Here is the next chapter!! Now that we know a little more about Arthur, we can start getting to the good stuff. And that's you!! Only two more chapters till MC/Reader is introduced! Stay tuned for more!!)

Description:

“Well?” Dutch’s voice brought him back to the table, “What do you say, Mr. Morgan? Will you join us?”

Everything still felt a little weird… but not bad. Just new and different. Strange but good. When he looked around the table, he found himself no longer around strangers but friendly folk who wanted to offer nothing but kindness to him.

He nodded his head, looking at every one of them, “Alright,” He said, “I’m in.”

________________________________________________________________

Arthur woke up that morning in a cold sweat that morning. His stomach was in horrible pain. It felt like there was a small creature in there eating him alive. He sat up, groggy and nauseous. He barely remembered the events of last night, but he did remember Dutch and his snooty friend Hosea. Arthur decided to lay there in his little hay bed for a few moments, trying to soak in the daylight.

What am I going to do? He asked himself. I don’t got any money… no food… His stomach roared out at the thought of food. Maybe he should find Dutch. No! No! I won’t do it! He was torn between his need to eat and his pride. Arthur got up and swung his satchel around his neck. The photo of his parents and his mother’s book sat snug inside. He decided the first thing he was going to do was to find some food.

He left the stables unseen and wandered into the back ends of Appleton. There had to be some fruit lying around. This was a wine and orchard town. It was almost winter though, so nothing was rip and if there was anything left it wasn’t good. Arthur found himself behind the general store rummaging through the trash. He found some old bread and a few strips of meat. He couldn’t complain. It was awful and it made him feel even sicker. While he was busy trying not to puke all over the place, he thought about how desperately he needed a horse.

Arthur looked around town, walking up and down the little muddy streets. There wasn’t a horse in sight that he could take. Each one was either too big for him or well-watched within the eyes of the law. With a huff, he grabbed into the belt of his satchel and gave up.

It was time to leave Appleton. Head south. Escape the winter in warmer lands and then hope that somehow he makes a name for himself.

As he walked himself out of town, he saw a train rolling in at the station. He got an idea. Maybe he could sneak on the train? He’d done it before. But that’s how he ended up here so far north. He didn’t want to run that chance again. Sneaking on a train means you don’t know where you're going. He at least wanted a little bit of control in his life of chaos right now and sneaking on a train wouldn’t help him with that.

So it was settled. He stuck to walking himself out of town and into the woods. If he stuck to the road, maybe he could find a house to rob? He knew he couldn’t rob any house in town, but one well in the woods and good ride away from the law? Well… that was a piece of cake.

About after an hour of heading in the direction he hoped was south, Arthur had finally found a little house off the beat path. Score!! He couldn’t see inside because it was still daylight out so he got closer to the windows to peek in. Standing on his tiptoes, Arthur peered into the cabin.

He couldn’t see much. A table, some cabinets, a dead fireplace, and two rooms he couldn’t see in. It looked quite dead in there, but the chance of him finding some food or money pushed him to break into the cabin. He found a window unlocked and jammed it open. Arthur crawled inside and tripped on his way in, smacking his face hard on the ground. He cried out, nearly forgetting that he was breaking an entering and he didn’t know if someone was in here or not. When no one came rushing in to kill him, he got up and rubbed his sore face.

There was more to find in here than he thought. He just had to look really hard. He must have hit the jackpot. No one was home, the place was well stocked, and he even found a bed he could sleep in. His brain told him he couldn’t stay here long, he had to grab what he could and go. But a sick twisted part of his heart told him to stay, and just kill the owner when they got home. He choose the latter option, doing so would buy him at least another week of living, despite staying within the reaches of Appleton.

Arthur downed a few cans of beans, enjoyed his warmth, then sat himself down outside the front window that watched the road. About two hours went by until someone finally showed up. Arthur was ready to kill an ugly old man, but the owner of the house appeared to be a plump young woman.

She was dressed in all black, with a coat the dragged down in the dirt. Her hair was just as black as her clothes and she had a mean face for a young lady. Arthur found himself struggling to kill a woman and a woman who appeared to be a widow. There wasn’t a back door to run out and the window he came in was in view of the road. He was stuck. Panicking, he ran into one of the rooms and hid his awkward lanky body under the master bed.

What am I going to do? Dammit! Arthur could hear the woman come in. Her heels clicked along the floorboards. She walked around, stopped, walked around some more, then stopped again. It was hard to admit, but he was scared. I should have just fucking left. I should just… I should just kill her!

However, unknown to Arthur… he was already caught. The woman had noticed footsteps by her unlocked window that was closed. She saw some cans of food left out. She wasn’t stupid. She followed the wet footprints into her room. Arthur froze under the bed. Watching her shoes walk around the room. He tried not to worry, he kept telling himself, I’m fine. I’m fine. I have a gun and she doesn’t.

But he was wrong again. He heard the pump of a shotgun, “Get up,” her voice was high and snippy, “I know you’re under there you ugly little vermin! Get up now before I ruin my bed to kill you,”

He was found out. Arthur grumbled and fought with himself in his head. He had never done a break in so sloppy. The lack of food and warmth was finally getting to him, making his mind weak and frantic.

“I’m coming out!” Arthur’s voice cracked a little, making him sound like a scared kid, “D-don’t shoot. I’m… I’m getting up,” He crawled out from under the bed

coming face to face with the woman. She looked a little older now that he got a closer look. Her furrowed brows and narrow eyes gave her a powerful face. Arthur could feel his luck fading.

The woman shoved the barrel of her shotgun right into Arthur’s chest, “Should I even let you go?” She asked, “You think I should listen to a little rotten boy who broke into my house?”

Was she really asking him that? Arthur wasn’t sure what to say, he was more worried about the gun on him, “I-I…I was just. It’s cold outside… I’m not from around here,”

“That’s for sure,” She kept the gun on him, “What’s your name?”

“I don’t have a name, ma’am,” That got him a jab of the gun. It hurt when she shoved it further into his chest. It was a warning. Arthur shot his hands up and nearly shivered at the sound of his own weak voice, “It’s A-Arthur!”

She suddenly started pulling the gun away, but kept it pointed at him, “Arthur Morgan?”

What? Arthur’s eyes shot wide, “How do you know my name?”

The woman finally lowered her gun and started to unbutton her coat. She had very nice clothes on, though still all in black. She was quite busty and looked like she had birthed many children, “I’m Susan,” she said. Arthur followed her out of the room and into the open part of the cabin, “Susan Grimshaw. I am one of Dutch van der Linde’s mistresses,”

No… way… Arthur’s mind began to boggle. Did he really just break into Dutch’s cabin that was offered to him just the other night? There was no way, yet here he was. How did this happen? He asked himself, feeling embarrassed and confused, Arthur stood in place and watch Susan clean up the very obvious mess he left. How did he become so sloppy? This was an all new low for him.

“So…” Arthur quietly started, “Dutch lives here?”

“Not really,” Susan looked back at him. Her dark eyes bore right into his soul. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze, “We killed the man who did live here though. We’ve been here since,”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Arthur blurted out. He was wondering why he wasn’t dead yet and if he could get there anytime soon.

Susan opened her mouth, then closed it. She turned around and went to a little iron fireplace and open the door. She threw in a couple logs and started a fire, heating up the stove’s top so she could put a teapot there. When she gestured for Arthur to take a seat, he hesitated before sitting across from her at the table.

“Dutch told me something about… Uh-Uh… A young boy who looked like he was wishing the devil would smite him down on his spot. Said his name was Arthur Morgan. Said you might show up too.”

A spark of rage flashed in Arthur’s chest. Dutch was expecting him to show up? Was he as arrogant as he looked, “He doesn’t know me,” Arthur crossed his arms.

“No,” Susan clicked her tongue, “But it doesn’t take a second glance to see you are a suffering young man,”

“You don’t know me either,” He snapped.

“No,” She said again, her voice changed and Arthur felt himself being put in his place, “I don’t know you. But I do know when I see an unruly child with no manors. I know when I see someone who doesn’t know right from wrong. I see some kid who can barely hold a gun, with a temper to big for his body, and story he doesn’t want to share.”

Snow had started to fall outside, making the sky grow dark. Susan got up and lit some lanterns and made herself some tea. She even offered Arthur a mug, to which he took and held tightly in both his hands.

He didn’t know what to say. He felt like she was picking apart his life, and she was right about most of it. This was the first time since his father was arrested had anyone really put him in his place. It felt weird, not wrong or bad. But… It felt different. It felt like being a kid almost. He wasn’t sure how to even be a kid, let alone feel like one.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur stared down at the brown tea in the mug, “I’m sorry I broke into your house,” He really felt like a little kid. When was the last time he even apologized for anything?

Even Susan looked a little surprised mid-sip of her tea. She set down her mug and offered a smile, “I’m sorry for threatening to kill you,” She then cackled a bit like a witch, her laugh was crooked and carried some weird wisdom with it, “I wasn’t gonna shoot a kid anyways, I’m no monster,” Yet somehow Arthur thought she was hiding something worse than a monster behind that charming smile.

The front door had slowly swung open cause both Susan and Arthur to look that way. Holding a lantern up by his face, Arthur could see Dutch walking in. The man of many words and not enough explanations.

Upon seeing Susan and of all people, Arthur, in his hideaway cabin, Dutch did something Arthur never saw coming.

He smiled. He smiled wide and laughed, “Hoho! Oh my lord! Hosea will you look at this!” He was… happy? Why was Dutch van der Linde happy to see the orphan boy he tried to rob?

Arthur was so confused. He felt hot shame bubble in his gut though. It was so weird, and different. He’d never in his life had someone…. Happy…. To see him.

Hosea walked in and closed the door behind him, thus shutting away the growing winter weather. He too smiled when he saw Arthur. They both looked elated, and more than happy to see him in their makeshift home.

“Why it is so good to see you,” Dutch took off his heavy winter coat and threw it onto the back of a chair, “How are you, Arthur? What has brought you out to see us?”

There it was again, embarrassment. Arthur lowered his gaze and fingered his mug of cold tea. What was this feeling? It was so unfamiliar to him. He felt like he just got caught doing something he shouldn’t have but he was being greeted with open arms.

Since he didn’t speak up, Susan stepped in, “The little bastard was robbing us. Didn’t have a clue we were even here,”

“Really?” Hosea lifted a brow. Both him and Dutch pulled up a seat at the table. Everyone had their own side. Susan across from Arthur and Hosea across from Dutch, “Now I’d call that pure luck,”

The adults laughed. Arthur becomes hyper-aware that he was, in fact, a child at a table full of adults. He may have been 15, and welled considered his own person, but he felt something odd he’d never felt before. Safety. He had no idea why, or even how but he felt safe at this table. All of them chit chatted about Arthur like he wasn’t there though. It didn’t bother him, they weren’t saying anything mean. Just how lucky and funny the situation was. Arthur thought it was just plain bizarre.

“Well,” Dutch’s voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts, “Now that you are here, Arthur. Would you consider my offer a second time?”

Confused, Arthur asked, “And what’s that?” This time he was sober. Maybe with a sober mind, Arthur could rationally think without his pride and stubbornness getting in the way.

He didn’t look, but he could hear the kindness and smile in Dutch’s voice as he spoke, “Would you like to stay with us for a while? You really seem like you could use a bed to sleep in, some meals to eat,”

It just didn’t make sense. Why did Dutch want to help him? Why on earth would anyone ever want to help an orphan boy who was too old to be taken care of anymore?

This world demanded that people grow up and that they grow up fast. Yet here Dutch was, offering him some peace and a break from the world.

“Why?” He still had to ask. One part of Arthur -the tired broken part- wanted so badly to believe in and trust Dutch. But the paranoid, stubborn part told him to be hesitant. He’s not stupid, this world is full of bad people. He just didn’t know which one Dutch was yet. Good? Bad? Ugly? He didn’t know.

“Like I said, son, I wish I had someone to help me when I was your age,” The answer was far more simple and less complex than Arthur expected. He was about to ask again but Dutch just went on talking, “I remember living like an animal. I’m sure you are. You don’t look like you’ve had a bath in days,” It’s actually been years,

Arthur said in his head, “You look like a stick. You look like you’ve seen things you shouldn’t have seen. I don’t pity you, Arthur, this isn’t pity telling me to offer you some help. It’s just the right thing to do,”

The right thing to do. He had never heard that before. It struck a chord in him. It broke his heart and put it back together. He was stunned in his place as his heart warmed inside his chest. This was the real deal, wasn’t it? It really was? No games? No fooling?

The right thing to do. It kept ringing in his head. To help him was the right thing to do. He could understand that. It wasn’t complex, it a bargain or blackmail or some trick.

It was honest. Nobody has ever been honest with him. Arthur felt himself get far more emotional than he expected. He wanted to cry. He felt a part of himself finally let go and breathe for the first time in what seemed like years. He could finally just be. He could stop surviving and perhaps start living.

“Well?” Dutch’s voice brought him back to the table, “What do you say, Mr. Morgan? Will you join us?”

He nodded his head, looking at every one of them, “Alright,” He said, “I’m in.”

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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5 Another force to contend with. Another power player who has decided to use me as a piece in her games, although things never seem to go according to plan. First there were the Gamemakers, making me their star and then scrambling to recover from that handful of poisonous berries. Then President Snow, trying to use me to put out the flames of rebellion, only to have my every move become inflammatory. Next, the rebels ensnaring me in the metal claw that lifted me from the arena, designating me to be their Mockingjay, and then having to recover from the shock that I might not want the wings. And now Coin, with her fistful of precious nukes and her well-oiled machine of a district, finding it's even harder to groom a Mockingjay than to catch one. But she has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat. I run my fingers through the thick layer of bubbles in my tub. Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty andthen damage, burn, and scar me in a more attractive way. "Remake her to Beauty Base Zero," Fulvia ordered first thing this morning. "We'll work from there." Beauty Base Zero turns out to be what a person would look like if they stepped out of bed looking flawless but natural. It means my nails are perfectly shaped but not polished. My hair soft and shiny but not styled. My skin smooth and clear but not painted. Wax the body hair and erase the dark circles, but don't make any noticeable enhancements. I suppose Cinna gave the same instructions the first day I arrived as a tribute in the Capitol. Only that was different, since I was a contestant. As a rebel, I thought I'd get to look more like myself. But it seems a televised rebel has her own standards to live up to. After I rinse the lather from my body, I turn to find Octavia waiting with a towel. She is so altered from the woman I knew in the Capitol, stripped of the gaudy clothing, the heavy makeup, the dyes and jewelry and knickknacks she adorned her hair with. I remember how one day she showed up with bright pink tresses studded with blinking colored lights shaped like mice. She told me she had several mice at home as pets. The thought repulsed me at the time, since we consider mice vermin, unless cooked. But perhaps Octavia liked them because they were small, soft, and squeaky. Like her. As she pats me dry, I try to become acquainted with the District 13 Octavia. Her real hair turns out to be a nice auburn. Her face is ordinary but has an undeniable sweetness. She's younger than I thought. Maybe early twenties. Devoid of the three-inch decorative nails, her fingers appear almost stubby, and they can't stop trembling. I want to tell her it's okay, that I'll see that Coin never hurts her again. But the multicolored bruises flowering under her green skin only remind me how impotent I am. Flavius, too, appears washed out without his purple lipstick and bright clothes. He's managed to get his orange ringlets back in some sort of order, though. It's Venia who's the least changed. Her aqua hair lies flat instead of in spikes and you can see the roots growing in gray. However, the tattoos were always her most striking characteristic, and they're as golden and shocking as ever. She comes and takes the towel from Octavia's hands. "Katniss is not going to hurt us," she says quietly but firmly to Octavia. "Katniss did not even know we were here. Things will be better now." Octavia gives a slight nod but doesn't dare look me in the eye. It's no simple job getting me back to Beauty Base Zero, even with the elaborate arsenal of products, tools, and gadgets Plutarch had the foresight to bring from the Capitol. My preps do pretty well until they try to address the spot on my arm where Johanna dug out the tracker. None of the medical team was focusing on looks when they patched up the gaping hole. Now I have a lumpy, jagged scar that ripples out over a space the size of an apple. Usually, my sleeve covers it, but the way Cinna's Mockingjay costume is designed, the sleeves stop just above the elbow. It's such a concern that Fulvia and Plutarch are called in to discuss it. I swear, the sight of it triggers Fulvia's gag reflex. For someone who works with a Gamemaker, she's awfully sensitive. But I guess she's used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen. "Everyone knows I have a scar here," I say sullenly. "Knowing it and seeing it are two different things," says Fulvia. "It's positively repulsive. Plutarch and I will think of something during lunch." "It'll be fine," says Plutarch with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Maybe an armband or something." Disgusted, I get dressed so I can head to the dining hall. My prep team huddles in a little group by the door. "Are they bringing your food here?" I ask. "No," says Venia. "We're supposed to go to a dining hall." I sigh inwardly as I imagine walking into the dining hall, trailed by these three. But people always stare at me anyway. This will be more of the same. "I'll show you where it is," I say. "Come on." The covert glances and quiet murmurs I usually evoke are nothing compared to the reaction brought on by the sight of my bizarre-looking prep team. The gaping mouths, the finger pointing, the exclamations. "Just ignore them," I tell my prep team. Eyes downcast, with mechanical movements, they follow me through the line, accepting bowls of grayish fish and okra stew and cups of water. We take seats at my table, beside a group from the Seam. They show a little more restraint than the people from 13 do, although it may just be from embarrassment. Leevy, who was my neighbor back in 12, gives a cautious hello to the preps, and Gale's mother, Hazelle, who must know about their imprisonment, holds up a spoonful of the stew. "Don't worry," she says. "Tastes better than it looks." But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. "You're green. Are you sick?" "It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick," I say. "It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes. Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color." The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you." "If you really want to impress Posy, you'll have to dye yourself bright pink," says Gale, thumping his tray down beside me. "That's her favorite color." Posy giggles and slides back down to her mother. Gale nods at Flavius's bowl. "I wouldn't let that get cold. It doesn't improve the consistency." Everyone gets down to eating. The stew doesn't taste bad, but there's a certain sliminess that's hard to get around. Like you have to swallow every bite three times before it really goes down. Gale, who's not usually much of a talker during meals, makes an effort to keep the conversation going, asking about the makeover. I know it's his attempt at smoothing things over. We argued last night after he suggested I'd left Coin no choice but to counter my demand for the victors' safety with one of her own. "Katniss, she's running this district. She can't do it if it seems like she's caving in to your will." "You mean she can't stand any dissent, even if it's fair," I'd countered. "I mean you put her in a bad position. Making her give Peeta and the others immunity when we don't even know what sort of damage they might cause," Gale had said. "So I should've just gone with the program and let the other tributes take their chances? Not that it matters, because that's what we're all doing anyway!" That was when I'd slammed the door in his face. I hadn't sat with him at breakfast, and when Plutarch had sent him down to training this morning, I'd let him go without a word. I know he only spoke out of concern for me, but I really need him to be on my side, not Coin's. How can he not know that? After lunch, Gale and I are scheduled to go down to Special Defense to meet Beetee. As we ride the elevator, Gale finally says, "You're still angry." "And you're still not sorry," I reply. "I still stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?" he asks. "No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion," I tell him. But this just makes him laugh. I have to let it go. There's no point in trying to dictate what Gale thinks. Which, if I'm honest, is one reason I trust him. The Special Defense level is situated almost as far down as the dungeons where we found the prep team. It's a beehive of rooms full of computers, labs, research equipment, and testing ranges. When we ask for Beetee, we're directed through the maze until we reach an enormous plate-glass window. Inside is the first beautiful thing I've seen in the District 13 compound: a replication of a meadow, filled with real trees and flowering plants, and alive with hummingbirds. Beetee sits motionless in a wheelchair at the center of the meadow, watching a spring-green bird hover in midair as it sips nectar from a large orange blossom. His eyes follow the bird as it darts away, and he catches sight of us. He gives a friendly wave for us to join him inside. The air's cool and breathable, not humid and muggy as I'd expected. From all sides comes the whir of tiny wings, which I used to confuse with the sound of insects in our woods at home. I have to wonder what sort of fluke allowed such a pleasing place to be built here. Beetee still has the pallor of someone in convalescence, but behind those ill-fitting glasses, his eyes are alight with excitement. "Aren't they magnificent? Thirteen has been studying their aerodynamics here for years. Forward and backward flight, and speeds up to sixty miles per hour. If only I could build you wings like these, Katniss!" "Doubt I could manage them, Beetee," I laugh. "Here one second, gone the next. Can you bring a hummingbird down with an arrow?" he asks. "I've never tried. Not much meat on them," I answer. "No. And you're not one to kill for sport," he says. "I bet they'd be hard to shoot, though." "You could snare them maybe," Gale says. His face takes on that distant look it wears when he's working something out. "Take a net with a very fine mesh. Enclose an area and leave a mouth of a couple square feet. Bait the inside with nectar flowers. While they're feeding, snap the mouth shut. They'd fly away from the noise but only encounter the far side of the net." "Would that work?" asks Beetee. "I don't know. Just an idea," says Gale. "They might outsmart it." "They might. But you're playing on their natural instincts to flee danger. Thinking like your prey...that's where you find their vulnerabilities," says Beetee. I remember something I don't like to think about. In preparation for the Quell, I saw a tape where Beetee, who was still a boy, connected two wires that electrocuted a pack of kids who were hunting him. The convulsing bodies, the grotesque expressions. Beetee, in the moments that led up to his victory in those long-ago Hunger Games, watched the others die. Not his fault. Only self-defense. We were all acting only in self-defense.... Suddenly, I want to leave the hummingbird room before somebody starts setting up a snare. "Beetee, Plutarch said you had something for me." "Right. I do. Your new bow." He presses a hand control on the arm of the chair and wheels out of the room. As we follow him through the twists and turns of Special Defense, he explains about the chair. "I can walk a little now. It's just that I tire so quickly. It's easier for me to get around this way. How's Finnick doing?" "He's...he's having concentration problems," I answer. I don't want to say he had a complete mental meltdown. "Concentration problems, eh?" Beetee smiles grimly. "If you knew what Finnick's been through the last few years, you'd know how remarkable it is he's still with us at all. Tell him I've been working on a new trident for him, though, will you? Something to distract him a little." Distraction seems to be the last thing Finnick needs, but I promise to pass on the message. Four soldiers guard the entrance to the hall marked Special Weaponry. Checking the schedules printed on our forearms is just a preliminary step. We also have fingerprint, retinal, and DNA scans, and have to step through special metal detectors. Beetee has to leave his wheelchair outside, although they provide him with another once we're through security. I find the whole thing bizarre because I can't imagine anyone raised in District 13 being a threat the government would have to guard against. Have these precautions been put in place because of the recent influx of immigrants? At the door of the armory, we encounter a second round of identification checks - as if my DNA might have changed in the time it took to walk twenty yards down the hallway - and are finally allowed to enter the weapons collection. I have to admit the arsenal takes my breath away. Row upon row of firearms, launchers, explosives, armored vehicles. "Of course, the Airborne Division is housed separately," Beetee tells us. "Of course," I say, as if this would be self-evident. I don't know where a simple bow and arrow could possibly find a place in all this high-tech equipment, but then we come upon a wall of deadly archery weapons. I've played with a lot of the Capitol's weapons in training, but none designed for military combat. I focus my attention on a lethal-looking bow so loaded down with scopes and gadgetry, I'm certain I can't even lift it, let alone shoot it. "Gale, maybe you'd like to try out a few of these," says Beetee. "Seriously?" Gale asks. "You'll be issued a gun eventually for battle, of course. But if you appear as part of Katniss's team in the propos, one of these would look a little showier. I thought you might like to find one that suits you," says Beetee. "Yeah, I would." Gale's hands close around the very bow that caught my attention a moment ago, and he hefts it onto his shoulder. He points it around the room, peering through the scope. "That doesn't seem very fair to the deer," I say. "Wouldn't be using it on deer, would I?" he answers. "I'll be right back," says Beetee. He presses a code into a panel, and a small doorway opens. I watch until he's disappeared and the door's shut. "So, it'd be easy for you? Using that on people?" I ask. "I didn't say that." Gale drops the bow to his side. "But if I'd had a weapon that could've stopped what I saw happen in Twelve...if I'd had a weapon that could have kept you out of the arena...I'd have used it." "Me, too," I admit. But I don't know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you. Beetee wheels back in with a tall, black rectangular case awkwardly positioned between his footrest and his shoulder. He comes to a halt and tilts it toward me. "For you." I set the case flat on the floor and undo the latches along one side. The top opens on silent hinges. Inside the case, on a bed of crushed maroon velvet, lies a stunning black bow. "Oh," I whisper in admiration. I lift it carefully into the air to admire the exquisite balance, the elegant design, and the curve of the limbs that somehow suggests the wings of a bird extended in flight. There's something else. I have to hold very still to make sure I'm not imagining it. No, the bow is alive in my hands. I press it against my cheek and feel the slight hum travel through the bones of my face. "What's it doing?" I ask. "Saying hello," explains Beetee with a grin. "It heard your voice." "It recognizes my voice?" I ask. "Onlyyour voice," he tells me. "You see, they wanted me to design a bow based purely on looks. As part of your costume, you know? But I kept thinking,What a waste. I mean, what if you do need it sometime? As more than a fashion accessory? So I left the outside simple, and left the inside to my imagination. Best explained in practice, though. Want to try those out?" We do. A target range has already been prepared for us. The arrows that Beetee designed are no less remarkable than the bow. Between the two, I can shoot with accuracy over one hundred yards. The variety of arrows - razor sharp, incendiary, explosive - turn the bow into a multipurpose weapon. Each one is recognizable by a distinctive colored shaft. I have the option of voice override at any time, but have no idea why I would use it. To deactivate the bow's special properties, I need only tell it "Good night." Then it goes to sleep until the sound of my voice wakes it again. I'm in good spirits by the time I get back to the prep team, leaving Beetee and Gale behind. I sit patiently through the rest of the paint job and don my costume, which now includes a bloody bandage over the scar on my arm to indicate I've been in recent combat. Venia affixes my mockingjay pin over my heart. I take up my bow and the sheath of normal arrows that Beetee made, knowing they would never let me walk around with the loaded ones. Then we're out on the soundstage, where I seem to stand for hours while they adjust makeup and lighting and smoke levels. Eventually, the commands coming via intercom from the invisible people in the mysterious glassed-in booth become fewer and fewer. Fulvia and Plutarch spend more time studying and less time adjusting me. Finally, there's quiet on the set. For a full five minutes I am simply considered. Then Plutarch says, "I think that does it." I'm beckoned over to a monitor. They play back the last few minutes of taping and I watch the woman on the screen. Her body seems larger in stature, more imposing than mine. Her face smudged but sexy. Her brows black and drawn in an angle of defiance. Wisps of smoke - suggesting she has either just been extinguished or is about to burst into flames - rise from her clothes. I do not know who this person is. Finnick, who's been wandering around the set for a few hours, comes up behind me and says with a hint of his old humor, "They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you." Everyone's so excited, so pleased with their work. It's nearly time to break for dinner, but they insist we continue. Tomorrow we'll focus on speeches and interviews and have me pretend to be in rebel battles. Today they want just one slogan, just one line that they can work into a short propo to show to Coin. "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" That's the line. I can tell by the way they present it that they've spent months, maybe years, working it out and are really proud of it. It seems like a mouthful to me, though. And stiff. I can't imagine actually saying it in real life - unless I was using a Capitol accent and making fun of it. Like when Gale and I used to imitate Effie Trinket's "May the odds beever in your favor!" But Fulvia's right in my face, describing a battle I've just been in, and how my comrades-in-arms are all lying dead around me, and how, to rally the living, I must turn to the camera and shout out the line! I'm hustled back to my place, and the smoke machine kicks in. Someone calls for quiet, the cameras start rolling, and I hear "Action!" So I hold my bow over my head and yell with all the anger I can muster, "People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!" There's dead silence on the set. It goes on. And on. Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch's acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, "And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies."

#Mockingjay

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