#tw critical injury

[icantlose]

"Said O'Donnell, since I see that you are someone who really likes music and we are in this month, is there any song or more that disturbs you a lot?" [ @thebastardmeteocrusherpilot 💀]

"Actually yeah, there is."

Clawed thumb finds the butt of his cigarette and he flicks the end of it, shedding the spent ash collecting at the smoldering tip of his cherry.

"It's a song that's haunted me since I was a kid. It's called D.O.A., by a band called Bloodrock. The emergency sirens and the droning dirge of that electric guitar and the bass is chilling, but it's the lyrics that have always fucked with me the most. It's a song about a pilot who has suffered a horrible plane crash. He does his best to come to, to regain control of his body, but something keeps him from being able to move. He can feel the warmth of his own blood as it trickles out of him and he is in excruciating pain. He can see the body of someone he knows lying next to him and it's the distant stare in her eyes that tells him she's dead. He can see the horrified expression of the flight attendant, who he can hear whispering about how the pilot has no chance. A sheet is placed over the pilot and he can only helplessly lay there, staining the cloth with his blood as he reflects on what has happened to cause this horrible situation in the first place. He hasn't caught up with himself and realized he has died."

The glow of the cigarette's hot end brightens once he brings it to his mouth. A nervous drag of his vice to ease his nerves as his mind brings back memories of a song that has unnerved him for as long as he can remember.

"It's a really visceral song for me, the two organ notes that scale up and down in a way that imitates a siren, it's the description of his pain and experiences as he's actively dying, it's the way he does his best to reflect on just what happened to begin with... It's always made me fuckin' sick."

A bitter huff.

"Real good song for an at-risk pilot to listen to, huh? I've always known how to pick 'em."

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee hasn’t realized they’ve been rescued. They fight the hands trying to stop the bleeding, wich resulted in them also having to hold them down.

Then there’s a voice. A familiar voice that could never be mistaken. Caretaker speaks just loud enough over the shouts saying “Eyes on me, nothing else matters, don’t look at them. Eyes on me.”

They would never see the blood; or how gruesome and horrific their wound actually was. They never saw the faces of the strangers who had no other goal other than keeping them alive. 

They only saw caretaker.  

[gildedoak]

SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER

But only for part of this. The other is a theory.

Essentially, I thought too long about the "what if Orym multi-classed into a barbarian and got to release all that pent-up rage?" idea. And he asked Morrigan to make him "more capable." HOW DOES THAT MANIFEST??

YA'LL. You know if something remotely like this happens, we'll be able to hear Travis scream with delight through the fabric of space-time.

(Image description below the cut!)

[Image Description: a sketchy comic about Orym's deal with Nana Morri.

Panel 1: (Wide shot of Orym struggling to get up, using his sword to push himself up. He's bleeding from multiple wounds, and the sky above is red, Exandria a small blue dot in the sky.) Badguy (offscreen): You are just a lone, little man in a big fight. What can YOU do?

Panel 2: Fearne: ORYM! (She reaches for him)

Panel 3: Nana Morri (her voice in Orym's mind): Get up. Orym: N-Nana Morri? (his silhouette hacks up a mouthful of blood) Nana: Get up, little Ashari.

Panel 4: Orym: I... (Close up of his left eye, where a yellow-green light has started to shine. Blood trickles down his face, over his eye)

Panel 5: Orym: would like... (Close up of his right hand, clenching the sword)

Panel 6: (A ghostly red silhouette of Nana Morri hovers in the air over Orym, her fanged smile and clawed hands filling the space. Orym is standing, but a little crookedly. Yellow-green light continues to waft like smoke from his left eye.) Nana: You aren't done yet. Orym: ...to rage.

End Image Description]

[pipinpali]

This will have a name eventually,,

—--

1/?? — Screwed Up

TW!: blood, injury, mentions of death, language, violence

Word count ~ 1000 words

—--

Randall crawled out from beneath heap of metal scraps and junk which was supposed to be the entrance of his home; evident by the old carvings on one of the pieces of cardboard from the couple of kids that liked to follow him around.

'These storms are more of a problem than I thought,' the smallfolk bristled. He sighed, deciding to get to fixing it later, and brushing away the feeling.

He was a busy man with deals to make and suckers to cheat. With his self-built confidence, he adjusted his scarf, tugged at his socks, slicked back his hair, and brushed off his coat. Content with his look, he made his way through town.

Unfortunately, travel wasn't the easiest thing in the homey town (which Randall had never learned the name of in all of his 9 years living there), in fact, it was one of the hardest.

Randall dashed towards the exit of the dark alley, stopping abruptly before he was cast in the light of the orangey last hours of sunshine. He peeked around the corners for the beast that made him believe the "man's best friend" title was bullshit. Good thing for him, all he could see was the metal rod in the ground and the thick chains that it was usually tied to. He was relived he didn't have to climb up the old downpipe today.

There was still dangers that Randall had to face, the most important being one of those big people. Despite the charismatic smallfolk's rather impressive height of 12.7 cm, amongst giants; he was thought of like a rat.

With that in mind, Randall carefully, cautiously, stayed near the towering apartment buildings, making sure he wasn't close to the middle of the sidewalk where all the foot traffic of a couple of people here and there was. Over the half hour or two he was scampering along, there were a few close calls of almost being spotted, but he prevailed and made it to his destination.

Readying himself, Randall jumped and caught his hands on the grooves of the decorated stone which acted somewhat like a ladder for the folks that visited. He climbed -- ableit with a bit of struggle -- up the massive building, one that was home to the Bright Market, the "hot-spot for money making." Heaving himself onto the back of the large, glowing sign that read something along the lines of "Pet-ee's," he was met with familiar sight of the bustling stalls.

Randall knew where he needed to be, as did the fools who accepted his offer. Little did he know, though; that it might be his last.

He walked towards the back of market, nearing the edge of the vast roof-top, where he saw the same brute of a man sitting on a makeshift bench; the one who asked for his services in the first place.

The conman leaned against a post, eyeing the client with his usual confident gaze, the phantom of an amused smile on his face. "So, you got the bits?" He inquired.

"I've heard from a friend that you have quite the reputation, Mr. Franklin," the toned man stated with his deep, gravely voice, his fingers tracing his whiskers.

Randall bristled. He didn't tell the man his last name. Things sudden felt a lot less safe. From the corner of his eye, he could spot a handful of others nearing where they were conversing. "...I see you have," he responded, attempting to keep up his charismatic demeanor, though; the change in tone made it known that he had a good idea as to what was going on.

"...They said they wanted the money back," the man said, finally making eye contact with Randall. He sat up at an intimidating height, slowly walking up to meet Randall at just a couple inches of distance. Something was definitely wrong.

The he dared to try and dart off to the side before things got messy- being gutted in the stomach, now pinned between the wall and the brutish man's arm before he could even get two steps away.

Randall struggled to get free, his legs kicking against the other's, searching for to get back to the floor as his hand scrambling to grab at his side for his dagger which had fallen onto the floor.

His eyes widend as the man drew back his arm; fist tightened.

Shit.

...

...

...

In his blurry vision, he squinted, trying to make sense of the growing lights and the loud growl that sounded louder and louder as a silhouette became more clear--

Randall had figured out it was a car before the very second he was nearly run over. 'Those assholes tossed me on the road while I was unconscious!' he realized. Before he could get too angry about it, adrenaline buzzed in his head. He needed to get somewhere safe before something killed him.

As Randall attempted to stand, a shot of pain in his legs knocked him back to the ground. He reeled, sucking in air before he let out a strangled cry. 'Don't do that again,' he noted to himself.

Pitifully and painfully, he reached out his arms and started pulling himself through the gravely pavement, his body scraping against the rough texture as all nine of his fingers grasping and a few prayers setting him on his way.

After a while, the smallfolk's sensitive ears perked up at another noise — this time not a massive car barreling towards him — but instead, it was the stirrings of rain. It didn't take long for him to pelted with the sudden downpour.

Randall idly thought about giving up, yet the illuminating, towering street light ahead, standing out admists the dark, filled him with an odd and unfamiliar sense of hope.

He was close, he could leave this okay.

With that, the now determined and drenched smallfolk trudged through the ever growing puddles, nearing the sidewalk. He thanked the gods that there weren't any big people out at this hour.

Randall was so determined, in fact, that he didn't pick up the final noise over the rain.

The most important one.

It wasn't until the light had flickered that the little conman's focus had faltered, the instinctual reminder to scan his surroundings only now ringing in his head. His mildly articulated ears perked up at the sound of something distant, almost sounding like scraping thuds...? It was rythmatic, a set pace. And like the car, it neared closer, and became louder.

Randall almost shrieked at the sight of two giant work shoes that appeared far too early and far too close, accompanied by two impossibly long legs, arms, and... -He couldn't run, he realized, nor hide. He was at the mercy of a big person of all things.

He was screwed.

—--

Next part -> coming soon! (Hopefully)

Wowie kazowie lookie here!! Me? Writing?? Impossible!

Im planing on making more of these but this is just here for now incase

their first meeting!! First time writing something like this,,

I made a drawing before right here of the final scene ,

[star--anon]

when they finally rescue Minho, they bring him into their makeshift hospital and-

...and immediately, Newt and Thomas are kicked out.

a whole wealth of 6 months of scars from beatings, brandings, terrifyingly methodical cuts on his back, all framed with hot and red skin, puffed up from infection -- the moment the doctors cut Minho's shirt off (which is plastered to his ruined flesh with blood and pus that dried like cement), Jorge turns and begins shoving the kids out of the room

[good-beanswrites]

If it's okay with you, could you write a drabble about the hypothetical aftermath of Amane getting attacked by Kotoko?

Welp thank you pal for making me absolutely insane with this request 👍 I ran through a few hypotheticals and realized I had to shift some things around since there were so many absolutely tragic outcomes. I worked something out but damn if it didn’t make me emotional to think about how uniquely rough Amane has it. Even making sure she's in a good place at the end, this got pretty serious, so warnings for child abuse and cult references. 

(So in canon, Kotoko goes in order and attacks Fuuta, but Kazui steps in. Then she attacks Mahiru while he’s distracted with his injuries. She’s about to attack Amane, but Mikoto gets in the way (my hc that he did it on purpose survives!). By the time they reach a draw, Kazui is back, and the two of them can prevent Kotoko from any further action against Amane. Sticking to this apparent system of three attacks and one rescue, I’m just shuffling around the injuries for this story. Fuuta’s attack went unnoticed, and he’s in the same state as canon Mahiru. Mikoto steps in before Kotoko can fight Mahiru, so Mappi’s the one who get out physically unscathed. While Mikoto checks on Mahiru, recovers himself, or discovers Fuuta, Kotoko is able to attack Amane next. Kazui comes to help, but not before she leaves Amane looking like canon Fuuta.)

Mahiru could practically feel her heart shatter into a million pieces when Amane finally cried in front of her. She hadn’t shed a single tear yesterday – it was the shock, Shidou said. Mahiru was skeptical. After all, she had been shocked, too, and cried plenty.

Amane woke as she came in with breakfast. She took a moment to survey herself, bandages peeking out from beneath her pajamas and an eyepatch securely over her right eye. As calmly as one might say “good morning,” she started to cry. Mahiru might have missed it, if Amane hadn’t wiped at her good eye with her sleeve.

“Oh, sweetheart…!” Mahiru rushed over to her. “It’s okay, I’m here.” She wanted nothing more than to wrap the girl in a secure embrace, but she remembered the mass of bandages that were around her chest. Shidou had mentioned broken ribs and bruises. It took everything in her not to cry along with Amane, at the thought.

“I can get you another ice pack, if you need. Or more medicine.” Her mind spun with ways to help with pain. Many of the first aid supplies had been used to keep Fuuta from the brink of death, but surely there were extras to spare for Amane. 

The girl just shook her head. 

She muttered, “I can’t… I…I’m going to be punished, I’m going to be punished…”

“No! You’re safe now.” Mahiru placed her hands gently on Amane’s arms. “Kotoko’s not coming back. We’re all watching over you. You’re safe. She’s not going to hurt you anymore.” 

“That’s not…” Amane pulled away. Her voice stayed level, despite hiccups interrupting her. A hand reached up to her eyepatch. “It’s this. It’s all of this. It’s sinful. I took it off last night, but he must have…” She started unwrapping it. “They’re going to punish me...” 

With a careful motion, Mahiru held it in place and took Amane’s hands into her own. She’d been picking up on the signs ever since they arrived here together, and a final wave of understanding washed over her. 

“I can’t let you do that.”

Amane’s expression twisted, though words came out far more frantic than fiery. “Let me go.” 

Mahiru didn’t. “I’m sorry. Amane, you need this treatment.”

“That is not your decision to make. That is not any human’s decision to make.”

Mahiru pressed her lips together. “I know. But I can’t watch as you… I can’t sit by again while someone…” She was careful not to apply any pressure, but she could no longer fight the urge to gather Amane up in her arms. “You don’t need to be afraid of those people, anymore.”

“I’m not afraid.” Amane hiccuped. “They love me, and I love them. I need to be good for them.”

“I love you, and I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“You just pity me because I’m young.”

“Why does your age matter? You are a lovely young woman – you are my friend – and I can’t bear to see you in pain.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Mahiru doubted she would take that as an answer; Amane had refused to call any of the others her friend. At least she didn’t argue. In fact, it seemed she was leaning into the embrace a bit more. She sighed a shaky breath into Mahiru’s uniform.

“Listen, Amane. Can you do me a favor? I’m trying to be a good girl, too. To make up for something awful, I need to make sure you’re alright. Can you help me? Can we be good together?”

A long pause followed. Amane’s voice spoke up, ever so gently.

“I suppose I can consider it.” She added quickly, “for the sake of your redemption. Of course.”

“Of course.”

[ying-doodles]

aftermath of today's post:

three dead (@teh-inggris, @lloydfrontera, @sunflowercider), two critically injuried-

[artsycloudysleepy]

Milk - In Stars And Time Animatic

My first animatic :D

10/02/2024 - 17/02/2024 (closer to 4 days bc i did stuff mon-fri)

'ISAT' is by the amazing @/insertdisc5! 'Milk' is by Jack Stauber! None of the lyrics or characters belong to me, just the art!

(EDIT: @shelf-cat also made a brilliant Milk animatic for Loop!! for clarification, neither animatic was based off the other, i just want to promote her work bc she offered to for mine as well!)

DO NOT REPOST. And please reblog rather than like, ty! I'd like my work to be seen, and likes do nothing.

TWs (all in art, not irl): brief suicide depictions, self-harm scars, violence, eye injury. Spoilers for ALL of ISAT, including the 2hat ending! Play the game first!

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individual frames underneath cut!

:)

[gendiebrainrotreceipts]

An abused disabled woman can show her injuries in a desperate plea for help and she’ll still be treated as if she’s worse than dirt because she shows up red on fucking shinigami eyes

[angelwiththeblue-box]

rating stair related injuries based on how embarrassing they are

falling down the stairs - 2/10 very embarrassing is only caused by you being a clumsy idiot. entirely self inflicted plus you always look dumb

falling up the stairs - 3/10 you tripped. dumb and embarrassing. bonus point because it can be funny for other people to watch

falling through stairs - 7/10 it’s the stairs fault, plus you could get cool scars and possibly discover a new room. loses points for possible rat bites

getting stuck falling through stairs - 5/10 similar situations to above but you get stuck halfway. embarrassing. your legs are dangling and you can’t do anything and risk getting more injured, so you have to wait until someone helps, likely paramedics. embarrassing.

getting pushed over a railing - 9/10 this only happens if you are a henchman in an action movie but it means you get thrown over by a conventionally attractive main character and a cool story. loses a point for possibility of breaking your neck

something gets caught on a railing - -1000/10 literally the worst thing to ever happen ever. this happens in a public space i cease to exist

let me know if i missed any and i will add to this list

[spaceyaceylesbianart]

Under the knife

(click for better quality, reblogs appreciated)

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 17: you're the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest

"Leave me alone."

2809 Words; Rewired AU

TW for mentions of violence and blood, injury, mentions of death

AO3 ver

Morris leaned back with a wince.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. The ballroom was still half-frozen, melting ice spikes covering more than half the space. Slowly growing puddles were beginning to soak into the carpet. Tables and chairs had been overturned, slashed, and smashed—and then there was the detritus from the plates and silverware and glasses that had been used as makeshift ammunition. Broken glass and chunks of ice glittered across the floor.

At least Morris had been able to find his chair, and not the random chair he’d had to grab in the heat of the moment. It didn’t magically fix everything, but he’d switched it to be self-propelled instead of levball-powered, which helped his headache. Marginally.

The sirens weren’t helping, though. The sound had been cut, at some point, but between the still-functioning lights of the ballroom and the red and blue flashing outside, Morris’ headache was not getting better. Add in the EMTs frantically trying to chip through Lizzie’s ice cocoon, all of the other first responders tending to the partygoers, and every other little bit of movement and noise—

Morris liked noise. He hated silence, hated the way it spread out and suffocated a space. The world was meant to be alive and that meant being loud—

Morris rubbed at his temples. Yeah, sure, this was better than the eerie silence of just before—

Gisu going down in a blur of motion, the automaton reclaiming its face and snapping it back on.

Those glowing red eyes staring Morris down like an omen—

But it was not helping his headache. At all. And his headache was making his stomach twist and the room spin—

What a mess.

And tonight had started out so well, too. Rolling around the ballroom, making connections, the mission going off without a hitch—

The sound of shattering glass, a scream cutting across the ballroom—

Morris grimaced. What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. He just wanted it to be over, already, so he could go home to Licorice Whip and Caramel Popcorn and Lolly Pop. Yeah. He’d go home, feed his ferrets, and maybe sleep off all of this awful bullshit that had decided to come crashing in through the skylight. It’d be so nice—much nicer than all of this.

Amidst the general bustle, an EMT made their way over to him. Morris turned to her, ignoring the way the room was spinning.

“Can you tell me your name?” They asked.

“Morris Martinez.” Easy. Like Morris could ever forget his own name.

“Age?”

“...twenty one.” Okay, that one had been a little harder. But it didn’t take that long for Morris to remember that oh, yeah, he’d stopped being twenty in the spring. Just a few moments.

“Favorite color?” They raised a flashlight to Morris’ eyes. 

“Blue.” It’d been his favorite for years—it was the color of the sky, after all.

(And the color of the Dion’s eyes, but that was less important. And not something Morris wanted to think about right now.

He didn’t want to think about anything besides his ferrets, really.)

“Can you hear any ringing in your ears?”

Morris concentrated. “Yeah.” He admitted. “It’s really faint, though.” But it was still there, and probably had been since he woke up next to a wall of ice—he just hadn’t noticed it in the chaos, the faint ringing fading into background noise for him.

“You’re likely concussed.” The EMT said, lowering her flashlight. “But they’ll have to do an MRI to know for sure—you’re holding together well.”

“I kind of figured.” Morris said. Getting hit in the head with the hilt of a sword would do that. At least Gisu was able to take up keeping in contact with Hollis after the automaton left—Morris’ headache was only getting worse as the night progressed.

“Hollis says she’ll meet us at the hospital.” Gisu’s voice floated over to him, and Morris turned to face her. “The one they’re taking Lizzie to.”

Right. Morris glanced back at the ice cocoon—and there she was, being pulled out and loaded onto a stretcher. “She better not die.” He muttered. She probably wouldn’t—Lizzie was tough like that.

“Yeah.” Gisu said. Morris wondered if she was exhausted as he felt, if that was why she was barely talking. There was certainly something, in her eyes, a sort of deep resignation that Morris had long since grown to recognize. She was tired.

Gisu’s hand slipped into his. Easily, like it was always meant to be there, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any moment. It was a familiar gesture in every way, a gesture born of years of knowing each other.

It was a small comfort. But it was still a comfort.

+=+=+=+=+

The waiting room was quiet.

Oh, sure, other people were present, many of them talking in low murmurs that Morris couldn’t really discern, and there was music playing on some small tinny speaker somewhere— 

But compared to the ballroom? Compared to the sirens?

Morris could actually think.

Well, sort of. He was still concussed—he’d gotten the scan results ten minutes ago. But at least the room wasn’t swimming around him. At least there was no internal bleeding. Just a mild concussion to go with the exhaustion.

Now he was just waiting for news on Lizzie’s condition—whatever it might be. There’d been… a lot of blood.

Morris really hoped that she came out okay. The hours had stretched on, the clock in the waiting room reading 11:38. The party had started at 7:00, and when Morris had first looked at the clock in this room it had read 9:52. Hollis had arrived a little over half an hour ago, though she’d been too preoccupied with coordinating with Truman over what details to give to the press to say hello. The vultures had already been at the gala, so it didn’t take long for even more of them to show up looking for a good story. Between that and his MRI, Morris hadn’t had the chance to talk to her yet.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. Morris needed to get out of this suit ASAP. He needed to see his ferrets. He needed to lie down in his bed and not wake up for the next seven years.

Morris needed a lot of things, if he was being honest.

Gisu’s footsteps padded across the waiting room carpet—so much like the ballroom carpet—and Morris looked up at her approach.

“I just talked to Hollis about Lizzie.” Gisu informed him. “They’re going to transfer her to Clay Ridge once she’s stabilized.” Her voice softened, her eyes glimmering with relief. “She’s going to live.”

Morris felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders. “That’s good.” He murmured. If Lizzie died…

Don’t think about that.

“So where are you and I going?” Morris asked. He really hoped the answer would be home. Home, with Lolly and Licorice and Caramel chasing their favorite toys around the room. Home, with his comfy bed. Home, with his radio and his favorite songs.

“You and Agent Nerumen will be coming back to the Motherlobe,” Hollis began from behind Gisu. Morris tensed at the sudden appearance, then immediately relaxed. “Since neither of you are critically injured, the medical wing there will be adequate.” Hollis’ voice remained even, cool and calm even with the worry lining her face. What Morris wouldn’t give to have that kind of suaveness under pressure.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting a full mission report?” Morris asked, even as the idea filled him with dread.

Hollis’ lips quirked. “You’ll get time to rest first, Agent Martinez.” She assured. At once, her demeanor hardened, the steady mentor morphing into the strict Second Head. “Your transport is waiting outside.” She informed them. “Debriefing will happen at 10:00 AM tomorrow.”

Morris nodded, then started to wheel his way towards the door, Gisu walking alongside him. Her mental presence was fuzzy through the haze of the concussion, but it was there, familiar buzzing at the back of Morris’ head. Her hand nudged his arm, and it took Morris a second to realize she was offering it to hold.

Morris took it. Her hand fit in his like it was meant to, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any time. Every scar and callous was familiar, as familiar as the way her pace matched his, as familiar as the ache in Morris’ chest when he thought too hard about why.

It was familiar, and that was a comfort. Morris didn’t need to think any deeper into it.

So he didn’t.

+=+=+=+=+

The ride back was quiet, the only noise the hum of the engine and the tap-tap-tap of Gisu’s finger on the door. Between Morris’ concussion and Gisu’s sprained wrist, Hollis had decided to have another agent handle the drive—Morris wasn’t sure if he didn’t know their name, or if it was just the concussion making them seem unfamiliar. Lizzie had been their ride to the gala, anyway, and she wasn’t in a state to drive at all—though Morris really didn’t want to think about that. He instead took advantage of not being the one driving and sent a text to Clara—how his phone was still intact after everything, he didn’t know, but Morris wasn’t going to question it when he had his ferrets to think about. Clara was his designated ferretsitter, though, so at least they’d be in good hands.

By the time he and Gisu had disembarked and been shuffled over to the Motherlobe’s Medical Wing—by the time they were finally left to their own devices in one of the overnight rooms, Norma bringing over a change of clothes for the both of them before leaving for Clay Ridge—Morris had had enough.

He hated silence. And something about Gisu’s silence just wasn’t sitting right with him.

“Okay, what’s eating you?” Morris broke the silence. “You’ve been acting weird since that thing punched you in the gut.” He knew Gisu, knew her well enough to know that something was up—and not just the awful night. No, this was something else—something almost contemplative, as though Gisu had been handed a new puzzle instead of thrown into an unexpected fight for her life.

Gisu stared at him. “Weird how?” She countered, kicking her legs. There might have been something playful to her remark, some teasing demand for Morris to explain himself just because she wanted him to—but they were both too tired for that. It was just a force of habit, at this point.

“Gisu, we have known each other for too long for me not to notice.” Morris grumbled. “Something’s up, and I can tell because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have asked Pooter to sneak your board in.” Raz hadn’t gotten here yet, but he was on his way—Morris had watched Gisu make the request as they got out of the car. He had been waiting there with Norma—Adam and Sam were on their own mission—and Gisu hadn’t exactly been subtle.

There was only one reason Gisu would ask for her board when she was going to be in a space too small to skate—she needed to think, which meant that she had come across a puzzle.

“Fine, fine, you got me.” Gisu shrugged. “I just…” She breathed in, “It’s about the automaton. Cyborg. Whatever. When I took his mask off…” Gisu trailed off. Her eyebrows knit together as she contemplated her words.

“Wait, his?” Morris already knew he wouldn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah,” Gisu said, “His. When I took his mask off, I saw his face.” It took a moment, for the meaning of her words to register to Morris. Then—

“Wait, are you saying… it’s not a robot?” But it was at least partially mechanical, if the metal arm and altered voice was anything to go off of. No wonder Gisu was acting weird—this was a big revelation. They knew so little about the anti-psychic weapon, so every little bit counted.

Morris started. “If you saw his face, you could get an ID!” The realization took longer than he’d like to admit—Morris was going to blame the concussion.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the issue.” Gisu said. She squeezed the air in front of her, sparks of electricity crackling along her fingers. Morris waited for her to continue—

“It was Dion under the mask.”

.

.

.

Six words. Six words that hit Morris like an uppercut, the room spinning around him.

His concussion must be worse than he thought. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” He managed, even as all the air in his lungs got caught in his throat.

“You heard me.” Gisu scowled, “It was Dion. I pried that mask off and I saw Dion.” Her next words were choked out, her voice starting to wet, “He’s alive.”

Morris couldn’t breathe. His chest was squeezed too tight, his lungs threatening to pop and his heart caught in a vice. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. He was not sitting here, listening to his on-and-off girlfriend of the past six years tell him all about how the thing that just tried to kill them hours prior was their missing ex-boyfriend.

“That’s an awful joke.” Morris said, once he found his voice again.

“It’s not a joke!” Gisu argued. “Dion’s alive and I saw his face!” Her hair was starting to fizz from the static in the air around her.

“And what makes you so sure?” Morris gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “How do you know you weren’t, I don’t know, projecting what you wanted to see?”

Gisu bristled. “You think I wanted to see Dion’s face on the thing that was trying to kill us?”

“I think you want Dion to be alive so badly that you’re ignoring the truth.” Morris shot back.

“What truth?!” Gisu leaned forwards, “I know what I saw!” The air around Morris was starting to feel greasy, now, like lightning could go off at any moment.

What a joke. What an awful joke.

This had to be a dream. Clearly, Morris had never woken up after being suckerpunched by the automaton, and everything that he remembered happening was just some alcohol-induced nightmare where the world was falling apart and threatening to crush him all in one. There was no way this was real, not when Morris had given up on ever seeing Dion again years ago—

“I know what I saw.” Gisu repeated. “You being bitter doesn’t change that.”

“Bitter?” Morris all but screeched. He threw his hands in the air, “Bitter? I’m sorry if I can’t hold onto delusion for six years!” His hands fell to his sides and he clenched them into fists. “Sorry that I don’t have the energy to keep chasing ghosts!”

Everything not bolted down slammed against the wall. Morris flinched—so did Gisu.

Morris’ head pounded. His vision swam.

His chest was heaving, his lungs struggling to draw in air like they’d been squeezed too tight. He forced his gaze off of Gisu and onto the plastic plant that had been thrown to the floor, to the shiny green leaves and fake blue petals.

(Blue, like the sky, like the stripes of the Aquatodome, like the color of Dion’s eyes—)

“Look.” Gisu said, “I know it sucks.” She pushed off of the bed and walked over, stepping over the fake plant. “How do you think I feel, seeing his face again?” Her expression softened, even as lighting continued to crackle over her knuckles. “But whatever happened, however Dion ended up like that—”

“Stop it.” Morris demanded, his voice coming out in a whisper. “Stop talking about Dion.” His voice cracked, his throat tightening no matter how much he tried to calm down—

“Morris,” Gisu growled. She reached out. Morris batted her hand away.

“It’s over.” Morris’ voice came out thicker than he wanted it to. “Dion’s dead.” Dion was gone and no amount of missing him would bring him back. Dion was gone, and there was nothing Morris could do to change that. Dion was gone, and everything that he’d represented to Morris was gone with him. Morris couldn’t continue to hold onto him. He just couldn’t.

Morris turned away. He couldn’t look at Gisu, couldn’t look at the mix of hurt and frustration and pity written on her face. He just couldn’t.

“Morris…” Gisu started. The tinge of sympathy in her voice was like acid down Morris’ back. He glared at the wall, and said nothing.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night.

The vent cover clattered to the floor. Morris turned to watch as none other than Pooter fell out, doing a flip in the air and bowing once he landed. “I got your board.” He announced, holding out Gisu’s levboard. He looked at Morris.

“What’s up with him?”

[jordanstrophe]

CW: Forced medical whump, held down, hurt/comfort

Whumpee snapped awake to a hand on their forehead pinning them down. They heard someone mutter in the background “Okay... 3..2..1..” before searing pain broke through their body. 

They cried and grabbed the wrist holding their head down, their mouth running without them, begging “Stop- please stop, STOP IT-”

Someone shushed them softly, but it didn’t stop. Whumpee gripped two of their fingers and tried to pry them off, -which did succeed in getting them to let go of their forehead, as they instead switched to holding whumpee’s hand and letting them squeeze.

“You’re okay, breathe, in and out. We almost got it.” Caretaker’s voice sounded clear, but far away. 

~Got what?~ Whumpee thought to themselves, unable to speak the words. They felt something get ripped from their body as they let out one last desperate scream. The pain quickly faded along with their consciousness as a single tear escaped down the side of their face. A hand quickly wiped it away and touched their cheek.

The last thing they heard was “We’re not losing you today.”

[cabeswaterdrowned]

ya’ll be like: show Daisy is too much angrier than book Daisy, show Daisy is too weak/dependent compared to book Daisy, I don’t like that show Daisy thinks she’s better than Billy and challenges his decisions with confidence it makes her look too arrogant, show Daisy’s lines are too corny, she’s too much of a manic pixie dream girl, she’s boring compared to book Daisy, her character development is ruined because she said she didn’t regret a good day she had with her terrible spit marriage husband even though he was terrible (like it’s a bad thing to look back on your past actions and forgive yourself/not blame yourself for how things went???), her character development is ruined because Billy saved her after she ODed and I’m going to pretend I’m mad at this because I want her character to have agency and not shipping reasons (but then at the beginning of next ep they gave you the scene where she kicks Nicky out after realizing he left her to die just like in the book so argument completely moot I giggled), she’s too shameless about the emotional affair I could respect her in the book because she fought her feelings but in the show she’s too flirty with the man the story revolves around her having an intense emotional affair with and should be crucified for it, she isn’t doing enough substances or being chaotic enough, while complaining about how her addition is/isn’t portrayed I’m going to actively ignore how her being an addict is a part of her character writing in the show and effects her actions/how she responds to things because I’d rather just make fun of and have no sympathy for her, they made her too mean and messy, they softened her character too much and she’s not chaotic enough, I hate that they focused more on her parental issues and trauma because her character isn’t about that (which could be fair ig but what do You think it should be about instead?), she’s unprofessional, she’s way too good at everything too fast and succeeds too much, also I hate that the show is focused on her so much over other characters when she’s the mc of the story which is named after her, oh and she’s a pick me girl because of a funny little comment she made while she was high and a mess to the point of injuring herself without noticing while really really depressed and heartbroken.

Ya’ll: but the writers are misogynists who didn’t write her as a complex character and that’s the issue!

[epic-and-kitty]

TW injury, scars

So I've been trying to work on Twist's scar on her stomach but I'm having trouble because it just keeps looking like a tattoo, or, as @matronofthevoid says, a sea slug on her belly...

So far I have these down

The pink was a mistake on the first, it's supposed to be a blue. The green is because her original wound had corrosive Sanitized ink preventing it from healing multiple times. The line in the middle are the properly healed stiches and the blue tint around the wound is supposed to show that her skin is much thinner in that area and her internal ink shows through (also the blue parts glow slightly because Twist is mildly bioluminescent as is her natural ink)

I wanna make it look like an actually serious scar but I don't know if that would work in my general art style, and I don't really want to look up scar references because I am very squeamish.

Anyone have any suggestions?

[anannua]

someone get that boy a plaster. maybe 2

sad obito doodle 💔