#tw: reference to abuse

[calitsnow]

{Tired naivety}

*manifesting Hong Lu’s past*

There is no doubt in my mind that behind all this cheerfulness is hidden a horrible backstory.

[teaboot]

Adult ProTip, from a security professional: If a kid tells you, "My parents are gonna kill me / kick my ass / kick me out" for something relatively minor, don't respond with shit like "Really? ;) that sounds a little extreme, don't you think sweetie?" because that shit really does happen.

Instead, respond as though whatever threat they are afraid of is fully valid, and offer whatever you can do to help- ask if they believe they are in danger of being hurt in any way, and work accordingly.

If they're overreacting, they'll usually realize and dial it back, self-correct and begin thinking a bit more rationally.

If they're not overreacting, and the danger is real, then they'll need a level-headed adult in their corner, not another condescending authority figure who doesn't believe them.

[allfortheslay25]

Well Both Be Fine chapter 25, 29, 31, 39 spoilers

Milo and Andrew in the chapters vs how it looked in my heart

[torchflies]

Hi TG Fandom!

I love thinking about an AU where: Pete Mitchell is eight years old and used to being bounced around from foster home to orphanage to group home to foster home. An eight-year-old Pete who is scrappy and world-savvy and angry, just imagine a Maverick before he's Maverick — all that Maverick-ness balled up in this pint-sized Pillsbury biscuit can of whoop-ass. He runs the show wherever he goes with his loud mouth and sense of righteous fury. 

But then there's this new boy at the group home, this chubby nine-year-old blond boy with broken glasses held together with duct-tape and a big sweater with patches that covers his hands and half his face. He doesn't talk and spends most of the day hiding in his bed or reading an old Chemistry textbook that he brought from wherever he came from. Pete doesn't get him, thinks he's weird and the fact that the boy always looks so scared makes his tummy feel squirmy. 

So, he starts to sit next to Blondie, shares his food — basically the only thing of value he has, and starts talking, and talking, and talking and talking if only to fill up all the space that Blondie doesn't with his own words. Eventually, Blondie starts scooting closer to Pete, leans against him and starts to talk in a small whisper that only Pete can hear. 

Blondie’s name is Tommy. 

They grow up together in that group home, they bond to each other in a way they've never bonded to anyone else. They make plans to get out and join the Navy together one day, to fly; and they promise to never be apart or alone again.

Then Tommy gets adopted. 

Pete cries; Tommy screams. They might be teenagers now but it takes three men to get them to pry their hands off of each other. Tommy gets carried down the hallway howling, hands outstretched, yelling louder than Pete’s ever heard him speak before. Suddenly, the world is meaner and colder than it has ever been before and all he has left of his Blondie is that same scuffed up Chemistry textbook and a pair of broken glasses.

Pete runs away that night, glasses in his pocket and that heavy book stuffed into his backpack, but he never finds Tommy again… he finds Nicky Bradshaw instead. 

He starts to move on from the hope of ever seeing Tommy again… until Top Gun and Animal Night at the O Club, when Pete catches sight of the first boy he’s ever loved, hiding with shades on and a vodka glass in his hand, instead of a patchy sweater and a Chemistry textbook. 

Pete’s still a pint-sized Pillsbury biscuit can of whoop-ass and the world has changed them both into new people…

But when Iceman comes at him with bravado and snapping teeth, stinking of the alcohol that used to scare him when he was Tommy, regaling Maverick with tales of a father who loved a bottle more than him…

Pete reaches up to slip a little boy’s pair of broken glasses onto the blond’s face with a gentle, “Hi, Blondie.”

And Iceman crumbles away, leaving a crying Tommy in his place.

“Pete.”

He still says it the same way, like he's saying home.

[cripplecharacters]

hello!! I am making a rewrite of a. Very very bad comic. Now, my MC is a disabled trans woman (knee chronic pain sustained from a pretty mundane highschool track injury, im not one to do tragic disability storylines, seeing as I’m physically disabled and that trope sucks). This ask isn’t about her, though. I’m planning to add a sort of cameo of a main character from the original comic, Shanzay (the comic spelled it Shanzey but no ethnic group actually spells it that way, so… white ass comic writer). Her original disability is caused from. Ableist trope after ableist trope. It’s not gonna come up how she was disabled, since it’s a cameo of my MC helping her and her girlfriend with furniture around their house, basically a plot device for her to tell her about the club the MC and her friends are gonna visit, which causes the main inciting incident of the story. I would, however, like to change how her disability happened, even if it comes up, because it’s REALLY handing itself over to the ablebodied gaze (essentially, perfectly vertical eye scar and cataract caused by abusive father doing unspecified thing to her eye that only her mom is traumatized by, not her apparently). If y’all can come up with either really stupid mundane accidents to cause it or a way to draw the scar so that it’s not stupid and unrealistic lmk 😅 to clarify my physical disability is POTS, and very likely but undiagnosed reproductive disabilities, so I don’t have the experience that people with half blindness or other eye related disabilities might here

Hello!

So the perfectly vertical scar is unrealistic for a couple of reasons. Main one is that very few scars are perfectly pointed in any direction, especially not traumatic ones (surgical ones might be but I'm not familiar with any procedure that leaves a vertical scar through someone's eye). Second, for the eye specifically, it just doesn't make sense anatomically (?) since eyes tend to be set deeper in the skull so that this exact thing doesn't happen - they're sitting in two big holes surrounded by bone. The third is that if someone did actually get slashed in a face with enough force to make the second point irrelevant they'd likely either die or have something much more significant happen to them (behind eye is where the brain is stored, so...). Or at least lose the eye, since the globe just got cut in half.

With this in mind, you have a few options.

A: Leave both the monocular blindness, scar, and backstory in and just make it make more sense. For example, maybe she was hit (can fit the original cause) and had an orbital fracture (can leave a scar or just general asymmetry in the area), it got infected and she started having eye problems (endogenous endophthalmitis). I'm honestly not sure how probable cataracts would be here since it's really mostly a progressive condition, but if she was to receive some sort of trauma to the lens then a cataract could form there. Just keep in mind that other things would probably happen as well, it'd be impressive to hit only one specific eye structure (whilst doing it hard enough to cause a permanent problem).

B: Leave the cataract and scar. Hell, they can be unrelated. Maybe she developed the cataract as she grew older and also had a scar from, IDK, (there really isn't anything that results in that kind of scar so cut me some slack) a laceration from some machinery that she had when she was younger and had to get it stitched up, which left a more-or-less vertical scar. Keep in mind that if she has an eyelid scar, that will affect its functioning - for example, if it sticks out, she might not be able to fully open the eyelid.

C: Leave the cataract and give her a more common kind of scar instead. This is easy since literally any scar will be more common. Some ideas; hit the forehead on the roof of a car while getting in, had a tumor that had to be removed, born with a facial cleft, got a really bad skin infection, had meningitis, boiling water fell from a stove top, needed brain surgery, born with (anterior) encephalocele, minor injury that she kept picking on and it healed poorly, family dog bit her, broken nose from getting accidentally elbowed in the face by someone, car crash where she hit the dashboard with her head, part of skin had to be removed due to skin cancer... The choice is yours. Literally anything would be more realistic and interesting (since the vertical eye scar is just treated as a visual quirk the same way a mole is rather than a Thing caused by Something most of the time and a Thing caused exclusively by swordfighting the rest of the time).

As to drawing it, you probably could make the scar either less extensive with the same severity (e.g., only shows on the brow bone and cheek) or make it more severe with the same extensiveness (it does show up on the eyelids and general eye area, but there is visible asymmetry, skin/bone indentation, ptosis, etc.).

The thing below is something I drew really quickly right now for reference, IDK how helpful it is but just be aware that the way eyes are placed in the face is designed to specifically avoid things getting into them. So if you're bypassing that, the actual structure of the face has probably been changed.

Hope this helps!

mod Sasza

[gbirrd]

6/9 - Jason Todd tarot card designs for Complete Candor by @vexfulfolly as part of the @batfam-big-bang

Read the fic here!

Other cards:

1-Babs 2-Cass 3-Bruce 4-Tim 5-Damian 6-Jason 7-Duke 8-Steph 9-Dick

Image IDs

Image 1:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL". A symbol of a gravestone is visible behind the numeral "XV".

A young Jason Todd in his Robin uniform tugs at a thick chain around his neck that comes down from the top of the frame. Matching shackles are around his wrists and he is buried up to his waist in dirt. His head is tilted up towards the chain. There is blood on his hands, arms, chest, and dripping down the right side of his face as well as from his nose.

Image 2:

A design of "The Devil" tarot card. It has the texture of recycled paper and reads "THE DEVIL" upside-down. A symbol of a flame is visible behind the numeral "XV".

Jason Todd faces forward, filling most of the frame. He is in his Red Hood uniform and has narrowed pupil-less white eyes. He is holding the end of a thick chain in his right fist. Flames fill the background and bathe him in an orange light. The entire card is upside-down.

[williceunleashed]

I've been having major autism on an AU version of Dardanne so I think it's time I share it here !

Basically, the AU is about Ghetsis never finding N and looking for a replacement for years. He ends up setting his sight on a vulnerable but compassionate kid, whom he calls Miséricorde, and makes them the replacement spear head of Plasma. N grows up amongst Pokémon, until he is found by Alder a few years later. N has a happy childhood, and becomes the protagonist of BW1.

AU will be tagged as #miséricorde au ! The AU version of Dardanne, called Miséricorde, will be tagged as #oc: miséricorde !

TW : Abuse, violence, cult stuff (Plasma Classic™), dysphoria

More infos under the cut !

TW : Abuse, violence, Cult stuff, dysphoria, Ghetsis in general

For this summary, Miséricorde is gendered as she/her before BW1, during BW1 and BW2, and is gendered as he/him post BW2, following his own development and experience with gender.

Early life :

Same as Canon Dardanne. She was born in a rather wealthy family. Her father was the Kalos water Gym Leader, but got dismissed after the League learned of his treatment of his Pokémon and family. Their family moved to Unova after that.

Ghetsis sees that as a great opportunity to find a replacement for the "child who talks to Pokémon" he never found. He becomes a family friend by helping the father become Unova's water Gym Leader thanks to his connections. He witnesses the unhealthy dynamics in the family, and quickly concludes that the middle child would be the best option for his plan, being the direct descendant of an excellent battler and having great compassion for Pokémon.

One day, said middle child goes missing. Her parents look for her, worried as she left without even taking a Pokémon or a bag with her. Ghetsis comforts the family.

Ghetsis returns to his home, in which he has taken in the daughter, saving her from her abusive home life. For better or worse.

Plasma Time :

Quickly after Ghetsis rescued the girl (This is literal kidnapping, don't let Ghetsis fool you), he starts to put his plan into motion. He realizes how hard it's going to be for the girl to have a special bond with Pokémon, but he manages to find a solution. He tells the girl that she might be worthy of a great destiny, but they need to test this hypothesis. If the girl lets a previously abused Pokémon attack her without trying to retreat or fight back, she'd prove her special bond to Pokémon and her compassion to them.

Girl passes the test. Ghetsis quickly persuades her of her special bond with Pokémon, and renames her Miséricorde. Her title becomes Martyr, as her bond is based on shared suffering with Pokémon. Ghetsis would never let her be a Queen, because in his opinion she isn't even half of what N is.

In general, Ghetsis has some very sexist biases and educates all his daughters (Miséricorde, Anthea and Concordia) to be nurturing, kind and gentle. He is upset that the spear head of Plasma isn't male.

Miséricorde grows to dislike her body and the way it changes as she grows up. She envies the men around her, but her concerns about her body and gender are quickly shut down.

Miséricorde goes through a lot of academic classes, like N does in canon, under the supervision of the Sages. She considers Ghetsis like her adoptive father and refers to him as "Father".

Several more "tests" happen. Ghetsis calls them "purity tests", and they are meant to ensure that Miséricorde still doesn't fight back or retreat when she gets attacked by Pokémon, showing her "compassion and love for Pokémon". This process ensures that Miséricorde is pure of heart enough to awake and wield Zekrom.

Her scars are hidden by makeup whenever she exits her room.

When Miséricorde is around 16, Ghetsis feels like she has been brainwashed enough to start training her properly in battling so she can take down the League and Alder.

BW1 journey :

At 20, Miséricorde is let back out into the world to gather the badges. Her face scars are hidden by makeup.

In Accumula Town, she finds a now adult N, and challenges him. N wins, and she feels confused at this outcome. She still acts friendly towards him. N hears Miséricorde's Pokémon, and is confused at how weary of humans they are.

She meets N again in Nacrene City. She challenges him, and he wins. She doesn't seem that surprised at the outcome, and congratulates N, saying she can't wait to battle him again and win next time. She leaves without more explanations.

Next encounter is in Nimbasa City. When N runs after the grunts who were bothering the Day Care owner, Miséricorde intercepts him and starts a conversation. At this point, N is worried about Plasma and knows something is off with Miséricorde. He drags her in the ferris wheel and demands answers. Miséricorde is honest and tells him about her being Plasma's Martyr, and that her end goal is to separate Pokémon from mankind with the help of Zekrom, to ensure Pokémon safety and well-being. N is shocked to hear that, having probably never encountered abused Pokémon before. He tries to persuade her to put an end to her plans, but she politely refuses. She battles him to allow the grunts to escape, and N wins.

N meets Miséricorde in Chargestone Cave. They have a short heart to heart conversation, talking about their mutual life goals. They battle, and despite Miséricorde having the upper hand for a good part of the battle, N wins. Miséricorde thinks of N as her best opponent yet, congratulates him, and leaves.

They have another encounter in Mistralton City. Miséricorde meets N when he exits the Gym. She tells him she is sorry that her plans are going to separate him from his team, but that it is for the best of everyone involved. It rains, and the water damages Miséricorde's makeup, allowing some of her face scars to show.

In Dragonspiral Tower, Miséricorde awakes Zekrom and takes control of him. When N arrives, too late, she still gives him the opportunity to challenge her later by sending him to find Reshiram, giving him a chance to battle her fairly one last time.

When N arrives to the league after finding the White Stone, Miséricorde has already beaten Alder. She summons the Castle, which raises out of the ground and boxes in the League.

While the Gym leaders, trainers and Alder fight the grunts, N manages to infiltrate the Castle. He finds Miséricorde in the throne room and challenges her. Miséricorde seems happy to have one last fair fight against N.

N wins, and despite knowing that his victory is shattering all her plans and endangering the liberation of Pokémon, she still congratulates him through her tears.

Ghetsis is enraged. He berates Miséricorde. When he realizes N is the "child who talks to Pokémon", he tries to have him join Plasma to replace Miséricorde. N refuses and battles Ghetsis, winning.

Miséricorde flees with Zekrom and her team. After beating Alder, N leaves Unova in search for her.

BW1/BW2 time gap / BW2 :

Miséricorde heads back to Kalos, where she originally came from. She settles in the Pokémon Village. She sometimes goes to Snowbelle City to retrieve items. Wulfric takes pity on her and often brings her what she needs for free.

N manages to find Miséricorde after years of searching. Despite the bond they created in BW1, she refuses to follow him back to Unova for a long time.

After a few months of debating, Miséricorde accepts to go back to Unova with N. They don't really settle for long, as quickly enough, they both realize they have to stop Ghetsis. They save Nate/Rosa from Kyurem, but Miséricorde's Zekrom is fused to Kyurem. N battles Black Kyurem, then Ghetsis, and wins.

Post BW2 :

With Ghetsis and Plasma defeated for good, Miséricorde is left with no life goals and no identity. She struggles with her gender for a long time, before finally coming out as a trans man.

Miséricorde doesn't want to join the Safe House, feeling uncomfortable with the grunts' devotion to him. He joins Alder and N's household.

Miséricorde attempts to release his Pokémon, but they stay by his side. Zekrom is more of a free spirit and can leave for days, but always comes back home.

N and Miséricorde finally officially get together, despite having what can be considered a romantic relationship beforehand👍

Fun facts :

"Miséricorde" is French for mercy, compassion, forgiveness.

Miséricorde retains almost exactly all of Dardanne's canon personality !

Miséricorde daydreams a lot and rarely gets out of his fantasy world as a coping mechanism to protect himself from the damages done to him in Plasma. It can be hard to grab his attention sometimes.

Miséricorde doesn't nickname his Pokémon, feeling this would be disrespectful to them.

Pokémon Team :

Archeops : Miséricorde's main Pokémon partner. He was given to him as an little Archen when Miséricorde became Plasma's Martyr to keep him company. Archeops as a special signification, being a fossilmon, his existence is possible only due to human interference, just like how Miséricorde was made into the Martyr by Ghetsis.

Zekrom : The legendary dragon of Ideals. Miséricorde has a tendency to cuddle him and pet him a lot, which makes Zekrom feel a bit embarrassed. He secretly enjoys the affection.

Carracosta : Another fossilmon gifted by Ghetsis. He is a quiet and calm Pokémon, but really well trained and a great battle pokémon.

Cincinno : She was also given to Miséricorde as a mincinno by Ghetsis. It's very likely she was abused in the past. She doesn't like humans outside of a very few.

Liepard : One of Miséricorde's first pokémon with Archeops and Galvantula, she was given to him by Ghetsis at the start of his journey in BW1. Liepard is mischievous but good-hearted.

Galvantula : He had been used as little Joltik for one of Miséricorde's purity tests. Miséricorde had insisted to see the Pokémon again, and ended up bonding with him. Joltik seemed to regret having harmed Miséricorde and started trusting him. Ghetsis allowed Joltik to join Miséricorde's team.

[humblefryingpan]

Considering Regina was a teenager when her abusive mother forced her to marry a middle aged man and she had to cast an infertility curse on herself just in case I'm gonna say her hatred of Snow is a little more than "you killed my bf". Like little Snow went "I want her to be my new mom" and then Regina's only chance of freedom (running away with Daniel) got crushed before she got sold to another - possibly worse - prison for years

I will defend this woman with my life. Why does everything bad that can happen happen to her?

[incorrect-percabeth-quotes]

Annabeth: You need me. You can't even tie your shoes without me!

Percy, sarcastically: Oh, yeah totally. For the first 12 years of my life I just went around tripping over my feet and falling into everything.

Annabeth: So that's why you always have bruises in your baby/kid pictures!

Percy:

Grover:

Sally:

Percy: Are you for real?

[seedsplease]

The Runaway

A clerical error, they called it. Someone somewhere had listed him as dead, and now he had a living, breathing daughter out there who he'd never met. Until now. Warnings: Past child abuse mentions. References to canon typical violence. Some implied dark themes. Word Count: 9.1k AO3 Thank you to the amazing @minilev who I was very lucky to commission for this piece of Jacob and Calpurnia. I thoroughly recommend commissioning them if you ever get the chance!! Also I am sure that most of this situation is very unrealistic legally but hey shh don't worry about. Please enjoy! <3

The woman exited the car with a click of her heel on cobbled stone. Holding an almost useless umbrella in one hand and clutching a gleaming briefcase tight in the other, she stood and methodically surveyed the sprawling ranch - despite the weather doing its best to send sprays of rainwater into her eyes.

The cherry-stained wood of the house was welcoming and warm, and the lush grounds of the property would give ample room for an inquisitive and creative mind. She also knew there was a river that was only a stone’s throw away that would be a welcome reprieve from heat in the summertime. There was an airstrip behind the house, and the lovely receptionist at the police station had even told her there were supposed to be tennis courts somewhere on the grounds.

It was, in short, idyllic.

She took a few steps up towards one of the multiple entrances to the house, tilting the umbrella slightly into the oncoming wind to try and make it more effective at keeping her dry - and to avoid the flimsy thing flipping inwards. First impressions were everything, she knew; especially with such sensitive matters, and she would prefer to not turn up as a bearer of heavy news looking like a drowned rat.

Eyes glued to the pavement to watch her step, she focused on rehearsing the usual script that came with her profession. Her manner was important, of course; when delivering the news she was, her demeanor was necessary to smooth over any unpredictable reactions. And, when thinking of the one she was representing - ferreted away back in the hotel room across the river - the woman prayed that there would be nothing but ease in these events.

Before she’d even crossed halfway towards the house, she heard the sound of doors opening. A rush of warm but muted light came out from the entrance - a slight flickering in the background indicative of a lit fire, inviting from the chill of the rain. A man dressed in svelte-blue emerged from the warmth of the home, stepping onto the porch with a slow but confident stride.

He stood there for a second, surveying her quickly but thoroughly, before he gestured for her to join him on the front step. She eagerly rushed to do so, giving a quick huff of relief when she fell under the cover of the roof.

Clutching her briefcase tightly - thankfully it had escaped most of the rain - she hurried to try and calm her frazzled appearance; brushing down her jacket and skirt as though it would do anything to help salvage her put-together demeanor. Clearing her throat, she glanced up at the man once more, finally taking him in as her composure slowly returned.

To his credit, he allowed her that period of grace.  

“Good morning,” the man said with a smile that didn’t entirely reach his eyes. He paused, giving a pointed glance to the near overpowering sound of the rain. A few moments passed before it lulled enough for him to speak. “Or perhaps not.” He gave a wry look before continuing. “How might I help you, my dear?”

She faltered for a moment, taking in the sight of him and repressing a frown; he was certainly not the man she was looking for. Did she have the wrong address? The lovely receptionist at the police office had seemed very certain when she’d inquired about the Seed family living in the vicinity. Upon a second look, however, she noticed there was something in the eyes - piercing blue, and slightly too sharp - that seemed vaguely familiar enough for her to chance to continue with a renewed sense of confidence.

“I’m sorry to intrude this morning. My name is Mary McAllister, I’m with social services.” The man’s eyebrows rose, but he remained silently expectant. She withheld a grimace, but continued nonetheless. “I’m looking for a J. Seed.”

The man barked out a laugh.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, my dear.”

She frowned, and was about to respond before she saw a second man step towards the entryway. He did not leave the house itself, but loomed nearby; eyes trained on her in a way that made her neck prickle like an animal at unease. Camo-decked and broad, with a red-hilted knife strapped to his thigh and arms crossed over his chest, he stared her down with the intent to cow; an expression she was all too familiar with.

Unbeknownst to him, he had utterly given himself away.

“No need,” she replied to the man in blue, while not taking her eyes off the imposing soldier in the doorway. “I believe I’ve found who I’m looking for.”

It had been a rough morning for Rook.

Some idiot had started a fire out the back shed of the goddamn haunted hotel, Miss Mabel was convinced someone had stolen her prized taxidermy fish - she’d forgotten she’d moved it yesterday and decided to call the police before doing the bare minimum of a search - some loser had dropped nails along the Whitetail Road and had punctured her tires, and - to top everything off - the garage at Falls End told her there’d be a few hours wait until someone could come to help. Absolutely brilliant.

The only silver lining was that the Grill Streak was open, and Chad was more than happy to let her plonk herself down in a chair by the window and wait. It could have been worse; she could have been out in the cold, and unfortunately, she was certainly not dressed to be exposed to the elements for hours on end.

As it was, she was content to sit by the window for the slow-trudging passing of the hours, watching little rivulets of rainwater race down the glass as her main form of entertainment, broken up with Chad intermittently coming to the front and checking in on her.

It was about an hour into her dreadful vigil that she saw the girl.

An over-sized flannel was spread out above her head, doing a poor job at keeping the rain away. Her clothes and hair were sodden despite her efforts, even as she tried to shelter underneath a large tree; they weighed her down and were surely uncomfortable to be walking in. Logically, she ought to have rushed towards the diner the second she’d spotted it, yet for some reason, she’d held herself back; trying to stay near the treeline, almost out of sight.

Rook was a deputy in a small barely-a-town in the middle of nowhere; she had enough experience with runaways to clock one at a distance.

She sighed, pushing herself up out of the seat, and called out a quick explanation to Chad out back, before briskly walking towards the glass door. Either the trill of the bell or the sound of the door shutting behind her alerted the young girl to her presence; her head shot up like a deer, furtive eyes latching onto a perceived predator in an instant. Undoubtedly, Rook’s uniform likely gave her no reassurance, and even at a distance, she could hear the clockwork gears ticking in the girl’s head.

Rook slowly raised her hands in the air and lowered her head slightly as she approached, grimacing as she tried to ignore the pinpricks of the harsh rain slamming on the side of her face.

“Hey!” She called out, loud enough to hopefully be heard through the ruckus of the weather. The girl’s head tilted in acknowledgment, but her eyes were narrowed. Rook pretended to be oblivious to the girl’s wariness as she continued. “Hey, the diner’s open! Come wait until the rain goes!”

The girl’s eyes scanned her surroundings furtively, and Rook resisted the urge to groan as she knew that look; that was the look of someone preparing to start running. Fate decided to intervene, it seemed; fate or a very unobservant driver. The truck came careening around the corner onto Whitetail Road with far too much speed to be safe in these conditions, but Rook wasn’t particularly concerned with taking the truck’s details down as the comically large spray of water came down like a burst dam onto her and the girl both.

Rook’s mouth opened in a grimace, no doubt now resembling more a drowned rat than a disgruntled deputy. Across from her, the girl finally lowered her flannel - now at last unable to deny that it was doing little to protect her from the weather. A mixture of frustration and perhaps desperation came across her face, her eyes blinking rapidly as she tried to scan her surroundings for another option.

Despite the pounding rain’s windswept needles against her skin, Rook held out her hand placatingly.

“Hey,” she said soothingly when the rain quietened down enough so as for her to be heard. “I’m not gonna call anyone, I promise. Just come and sit in the diner until the rain goes. That’s it.”

The girl’s eyes were still narrowed, but the chill seeping into her sodden bones was a powerful motivator. She gave one last look around her, before latching back onto Rook’s sincere expression. There was a moment of hesitation, but she eventually gave a short, slow nod.

“Okay,” she mumbled, the sound barely audible.

Moving before the girl could change her mind, the two set off back across the road - finally fortunate as they passed undercover just as the rain came back with a pounding vengeance. Rook gave a look back onto the road, drenched as it was, and wondered whether there’d be some sort of flood warning by evening.

The girl wasn’t focused on the rain, however, but on Rook’s car, pathetically pushed off to the side of the road - poorly shielded from the weather, naturally, but it was likely the punctured tires that caught the eye first.

Rook sighed and shook her head.

“It’s been a rough day,” she said as her only explanation.

In spite of herself, the girl couldn’t help but give a brief snort of a laugh. Privately, Rook celebrated that; perhaps there was hope.

Chad was waiting for them at the counter when they walked into the diner. She turned to the girl and gestured over at him.

“What do you feel like?” She asked, and when she saw the girl withdraw slightly, she rushed to continue. “My treat.”

The girl still looked hesitant.

“The weather isn’t going anywhere soon,” Rook insisted.

“Just…hot cocoa,” the girl mumbled, staring away and out the window. A flush was spreading on her cheeks, but she glanced down as though to hide it. “Please.”

Chad nodded and scurried away, while Rook and the girl moved over to the table where Rook’s bag still rested. They had barely been there a few seconds before Chad re-emerged and looked heaven-sent as he carried two towels in his hands.

“Oh shit, you’re an angel,” Rook gasped out, before snapping her mouth shut and grimacing at her language as she looked over at her young companion. “I mean…oh, fuck.”

Beside her, the girl couldn’t help but give her little huff of a laugh again. Brilliant; Rook was already being a bad influence.

Dejected, her shoulders were lowered as she reached out for one of the towels, while the girl slowly did the same.

“Thanks, Chad,” Rook said, scrunching at her hair to try and remove the worst of the water.

They made themselves comfortable, sitting down by the window once more as the rain pounded against the glass at their side.

Rook tilted her head, and tried not to look too obvious as she peered curiously at the girl, now that they were given a moment of respite. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her nails had been chewed to the quick - little reddish marks by the nailbeds from picking at them.

The girl hesitantly placed her flannel down on the booth beside her - careful to rest it upon the already dampened towel. Her surprisingly dry backpack (perhaps the flannel had protected something, at least) remained seated on the ground, carefully tucked behind her leg.

“So,” Rook began, placing an elbow on the table and leaning down to rest her chin upon her palm. “You must be damned determined to go on a hike today.”

The girl couldn’t help a snort, but refused to meet her eyes.

“Sort of,” she replied, something of a brick wall.

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the eerie whistle of the wind finding a crevice to sing through.

Rook sighed, tossing up which angle she should use.

“You know…there are lots of wild animals around here,” she said, careful to try and avoid spooking her. “Kind of dangerous to go wandering out here on your own. At least without some way to defend yourself.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed red, and she adamantly stared out the window.

“Yeah,” she replied. “I saw a moose.”

Rook’s eyebrows rose, and she felt a flash of panic at the thought of the girl alone by the road with a moose. Perhaps the girl sensed her concern, as she rushed to continue.

“Don’t worry,” she said, shaking her head. “It was really far away.”

Rook wanted to say more, but allowed the matter to drop for now - she doubted it would be particularly useful for her to be too forward with her worry. Instead, they lapsed into a silence again, the girl no doubt waiting for the rain to subside before she could make her dash off into the wilderness with the foolhardiness only a teenager could possess. To what end, she likely hadn’t realistically thought out yet; more like she had a vague destination in mind and only a rough idea (if that) of how to get there.

Rook’s hand dropped to the table and her fingers began to drum a soft pattern against the top.

“So I’m Rook,” she said, and paused for a moment before beginning to wade into the fray. “Look, you don’t have to talk to me if you really don’t want to, but…are you okay?”

“Fine,” the girl replied instantly, flat as a note.

The sound of bricks being laid on a wall was near audible.

“Okay.” Rook nodded slowly, retreating proverbially and choosing another angle to try. “It really is dangerous out there on your own though; is there someone I could call for you?”

“Nope.”

Strike two.

Rook sighed, fingers tapping just a little faster before she made the decision to be firmer.

“Look, I’m not going to try and stop you,” she promised, dropping the animal coaxing voice and falling to a normal register, “but this weather is supposed to last for days, and you’re clearly set on running right out into it again.”  

The girl’s eyes snapped to meet her own, narrowing. Rook didn’t let it deter her.

“So the way I see it is that you go running off and spend the night in that”- she jerked her head towards the window meaningfully - “or you stay here for now and have a chat with someone who genuinely wants to help you.”

The girl paused, and for the first time, a flash of uncertainty came across her face. Perhaps now that the adrenaline of her runaway escapade was wearing off, the reality of the situation was beginning to come crashing down on her.

There was another beat of silence before the girl finally spoke.

“I’m Callie,” she said quietly.

Rook internally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Hi, Callie,” she replied with a warm smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A clerical error, they called it. Someone somewhere had listed him as dead, and now there was a living, breathing, sentient human out there who was alive because of him.

Jacob stood by the fireplace. It merrily lit the room in flickering waves of warm gold, a respite from the howling weather outside the door. Behind him, John was scouring through paperwork. He was good at that sort of thing; he’d been a godsend so far with the social services worker, always getting the right details, asking questions that Jacob wouldn’t have even thought to ask. Now he was reading through everything, leaving no stone unturned; this was far too important a matter for a lack of due diligence.  

A child was involved, after all.

Joseph was handling the worker - probably for the best. John was charming enough in doses, but a little bit too sharp-edged if you paid close attention and Jacob was far too out of his depth to be eloquent enough to handle this situation with the care it needed. Joseph, however, was naturally magnetic, could talk to you in a way that made you feel like you were the most important person in the world.

Given how integral he was to Jacob’s life, Joseph’s charisma would likely be the greatest asset in convincing the worker. A foolish part of him wanted to hiss at the thought of needing to convince someone that the child - his child - should be under his care rather than anyone else’s, but then he thought of his own parents. Biology, he knew, was the furthest indicator of parental fitness.

At the least, the project’s actions in the county were still mostly discreet; with the exception of a few murmurings of discontent, there were yet to be any justified stirrings of suspicion among the locals - at least, none that the police had taken seriously. That would come in time, Jacob knew, but by then, he would make sure the flock was ready. As such, their official record was sure to look - for the most part - squeaky clean. And if this worker had really been scouring for blood relatives, then he suspected she might be eager to settle for a good-looking option and wouldn’t dig too deeply regardless.

A child.

He remembered the woman who’d sat next to him at the single visit he'd made to a local bar back in Georgia. Going there at all had been a one-time experiment of sorts; the desperate writhing of one seeing the approaching end of his funds as an inevitable death knell. Others he knew found solace in strange vices, and a drowning man could not shirk any hand held before him. But the woman had been pleasant, chattering away at him about ancient history of all things - her profession, he remembered her saying - and taking his brick wall answers in stride.

It had been one of the most mundane human interactions he’d had in a long time. He wasn’t oblivious though; he’d seen the looks she was giving him, hints to the real motive in her approach. When the ball had dropped, he’d found himself surprisingly approving of her bluntness.

“My now ex-fiance fucked his coworker a few days ago,” she’d said, before her mouth had turned downwards. “Been with him since high school.”

Ah.

“Sorry,” he’d replied, the compulsion of social niceties that he’d yet to tamper down.

She’d scoffed.

“Yeah, me too.” Her nose had crinkled into a frown. “Anyway, I want to fuck someone else now.” She’d taken a sip of her drink and given a contemplative hum, pointing a finger at him from over the rim of the glass. “And you’re just my type.”

Soldiers attracted some sort of attention, he’d found out in the past, but disheveled and marked as he was, he hadn’t particularly anticipated that attitude carrying over. But even then, there had seemed to be something more to the woman’s approach.

“Look like him, do I?” He’d asked, raising an eyebrow.

She’d snorted.

“The opposite,” she’d replied.

Part of him was glad he’d said yes; it was enough of a distraction that he hadn’t burnt through what funds remained to him on an impulsive and desperate experiment. She’d been firm that it would be a one-time thing, and he’d had no qualms about that either. It was another type of experiment, he’d thought, and it served its purpose pleasantly enough.

Doing the math now, by the time the kid had been born, Jacob would likely have been in the shelter. Or potentially, he would have recently reunited with his brothers. If the social services worker was right, the woman had probably tried to reach out to find him.

And a single clerical error meant he was only hearing about this kid now.

“Callie.” The social services worker had revealed the girl’s name. “Calpurnia… technically.” She’d given a small laugh. “You can see why she prefers Callie.”

John had smiled indulgently, all too eager - perhaps more than the girl’s father himself - for any information about his niece.

“It’s Roman,” Jacob had spoken up, already standing vigil by the fireplace. All eyes turned to him, but he didn’t elaborate further.

Joseph and John had taken control, moving smoothly through an unprecedented situation. Jacob might have been frustrated at own his inaction, had he the mental capacity to focus on anything else but the reeling of his head.

What did this mean?

He was a weapon; he lived to carve a bloody path for his brothers and their flock to walk safely when the inevitable Collapse of society arrived. He lived to die; to butcher until he too gave a final whimper and broke like the used husk of a weapon he was. He lived to make sacrifices; to do what others could not.

How the fuck did a child fit into that?

His brothers’ eagerness could barely be contained; he knew they already saw some divine ordainment in this, a lost child of their blood being brought into their fold just before the world would collapse. How could that not be a gift from God? But he knew there was more to it; they loved him for all he did to protect them, but they also worried for him.

“You are our protector,” Joseph had told him once, grasping him by the shoulders and bringing his head close enough to his own to see his earnest expression, “but you are my brother.” He’d shaken his head gently, something like sorrow crossing his eyes. “I want to see you live.”

Jacob knew John felt the same. They meant well, but they didn’t understand. That was okay; he made the sacrifices he did so that they wouldn’t have to understand. But he knew they saw this girl as more than just family; she was an opportunity.

Joseph had taken the social services worker through the house, showing where the girl would live. It would be short work to convince the woman, Jacob thought - he’d seen the cross on her necklace, how she’d warmed up when Joseph had introduced himself as a church leader.

Before sitting down to begin poring over the paperwork, John had approached Jacob by the fireplace, leaning against the warm stone and looking towards the front door absentmindedly.

“You know,” John had begun softly, eyes slowly flicking over to Jacob, “our newest dear sister can never be alone with the girl.”

Jacob had immediately understood his brother’s warning.

“Dear Faith will have such thoughts running through her mind,” John had continued, voice light despite his ominous subject. “So desperate to please the Father… however will she take a strange new interloper joining our family?”

Jacob’s mouth had twitched.

“Not as much an interloper as she is,” he’d replied, surprisingly irked at the thought.

“Yes, and that’s precisely what she’ll fear; a blood daughter making the role of a sister irrelevant.” He then sighed, peering over to the table. “And who knows what she might do in such fear?”

John had pushed himself off the wall, reaching out to clasp his elder brother on the shoulder and leaning in to softly speak.

“Little Callie is going to need a protector,” he’d said, before he’d turned to go and begin the arduous labour of paperwork.

Manipulative little shit.

Jacob sighed, looking down into the fire as a nail dug itself insistently into his head. Knowing that he was being manipulated was surprisingly ineffective at preventing it.

“Everything looks to be in order.” John’s voice now cut through the soft silence, a final page flipping back into place.

From the entryway to the kitchen, Joseph and the social services worker peered over at them. Joseph had been taking the woman on an impromptu tour through the house and judging by the woman’s pleased expression, John’s ranch had passed with flying colours.

They congregated by the table; John smoothing down the files with a self-assured smile. The social services worker rushed to confirm the details - the time passing like a blur in Jacob’s eyes, almost seeing himself from a distance standing as a scarecrow off to the side. It was only when the woman spoke that Jacob was wrenched back into reality.

“I’ll make the call,” she said with a gentle smile, nodding at them as she wandered off towards the front porch for a moment of privacy.

Jacob blinked a few times, scolding himself internally for not paying more attention. What was the call for? To meet the girl? To have her brought here? His rational mind was telling him to steel himself; he needed to be strong. He needed to be better than him.

This was family. And he protects the family.

Joseph’s hand came down on his shoulder, making him take a sharp breath and glancing over to meet his brother’s eyes. Underneath the familiar golden glasses, Joseph’s face was solemn but gentle nonetheless.

“This is a gift,” he murmured. “She has been brought to us now, when we can protect her from the Collapse. I know this is what God wanted.” His eyes sharpened slightly, intense but no less intimate. “You know this too.”  

Jacob had never quite figured out the difference between believing his brother or wanting to believe him. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

He nodded, because even without Joseph - even without John - he would have come to the same conclusion himself. His purpose remained unchanged; he would cull the herd, so that his family might live. What did it matter that his family had an extra addition now?

The sound of hurried footsteps made them all turn to see the worker rushing back towards them, phone in hand and looking more frazzled than they’d seen her all day. His eyes narrowed, the foreboding evoking only a cold apathy in him - the best way to steel himself for taking action.

“It’s…the girl,” the worker began, voice reedy and broken as she snapped her head to and fro between all three brothers in a panic. “She’s supposed to be in the hotel. But she's...run away.”

There was a strange sort of thrill, a smugness in his chest that was ill-suited for the concerning situation, something he could never utter aloud. Something proud; something strangely reminiscent of the headstrong and foolish boy he’d once been. Of course she’d run away.

It seemed she was his daughter, after all.  

"I’m sorry for your loss,” Rook said.

The girl nodded, finger thumbing along the edge of her flannel, which still sat damp beside her. Rook could see she was tracing along the shape of two sewn letters, S.F. The thread was faded, but the flannel itself was well-worn.

“How long…” Rook trailed off, eyes carefully scanning the girl in front of her to try and figure whether saying the words out loud would be detrimental.

“Since she died?” Callie finished for her, eyebrows twitching in what might have been annoyance. “A few months.”

Bluntness was preferred, it seemed. Perhaps Rook should have figured that; it had taken her removing the kid gloves to get the girl to even start opening up at all.

"So you’ve got family here?” Rook asked, playing for a bit more nonchalance as she took a sip from her coffee. “People who’ll take you in?”

The girl shrugged, staring down at her own drink.

“I guess.” She lapsed into silence, letting the steam from the mug rise to brush against her face. Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold, but the time inside the diner had helped soothe her somewhat, both physically and mentally. At the very least, she was no longer staring a little too hard at the front door.

“Well, that’s…good?” Rook spoke the words like a question, hesitant and lame.

Callie’s nose crinkled, brows pinching together.

“I had family back home,” she said, the words close to a whine. “Why can’t I just stay with them?” She sniffled quickly, and raised a hand to rub at her nose. Her cheeks were flushing again, and Rook suspected it was also from embarrassment. “This is so stupid.”

Rook nodded, but moreso to think rather than to placate. She knew by now that placating would only be met with derision at best and withdrawal at worst. Presumably, there was a good reason that the girl had been brought here rather than where she’d previously lived.

“What family do you have here?” She asked, voice light to try and distract the girl from her thoughts.

She shrugged.

“A dad,” Callie replied, the word spoken with surprising - or perhaps forced - apathy.

Rook raised her eyebrows.

“You haven’t met him before?” She asked, then winced and hoped she hadn’t come off as judgemental.

Callie shook her head, face turning fully sideways to stare out of the window at the ceaseless rain. Her fingers tugged at the collar of her drying flannel next to her, but Rook couldn’t see her expression.

“Mom said he was dead,” she said, her voice successfully staying even. “They were looking for any family on my dad’s side, and saw he wasn’t.” Rook assumed ‘they’ meant social services. The girl continued, voice turning back into a huff as she busied at her metaphorical and angry, open wound again. “I could’ve just stayed with my aunt; this is so stupid.”

Eager to interrupt that train of thought once more, Rook leaned forward slightly over the table, her fingers toying with the handle of her pleasantly warm coffee mug.

“Do you…not want to meet him, then?” Rook asked, voice as neutral as possible.

The girl shrugged, but stubbornly said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t know the answer herself.

Rook didn’t quite know what to say; she did not want to try and influence the girl’s thoughts - that wouldn’t be fair when she didn’t know her circumstances intimately. She also understood, however, that the alternative was for this girl to go running off into the wilderness or else be forced to stay with her hitherto unknown father and - if she had any grasp on Callie’s personality - potentially sour the relationship entirely.

"Do you know anything about him?” She asked instead; she might be new to the county, but it wasn’t impossible for her to answer.

“They said he was a soldier or something,” Callie replied, shrugging again. “Last name’s Seed.” She rolled her eyes while staring down at her flannel, and muttered to herself: “Stupid name.”

Rook bit back a smile - even she knew better than to encourage that attitude in a teenager - and raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe don’t tell him that.”

The girl huffed a laugh.

Rook thought for a moment, trying to recall anything about a Seed; it was certainly an unusual name and not one she was likely to forget. It took a few seconds, but it eventually came to her; she’d vaguely heard the name mentioned in relation to the relatively new church out by the river somewhere. She wasn’t too familiar with it herself, but the talkative receptionist at the police station, Nancy, spoke highly of them. They’d apparently been quite proactive in the community - setting up a few initiatives and taking over the youth camp near the Henbane River when it had been threatened with bankruptcy.

“Don’t know if it’s the same one, but I’ve heard a little about some Seed family around here,” Rook told her, frowning thoughtfully. The girl was poorly hiding her flash of curiosity as Rook continued. “I think they head up a local church; they run a few things in the area.”

Callie nodded slowly, not looking at her but clearly taking in the information with at least a little bit of interest. Rook wondered whether the girl - or her late mother - was religious; if they were, it could help smooth over some of the introduction, give her and her father something to bond over. Or perhaps she was just being desperately optimistic.

A too-eager churchgoer for the girl’s father left Rook feeling a sense of worry in her stomach. She’d spent only a small amount of time with her, but given the state this girl was in after her mother’s death - the way she seemed to have been dealing with it in a prickly, anger-prone nature - Rook worried whether an exuberant or overly pushy figure in her life might lead the girl to reject him entirely. And that, she knew, would no doubt lead to another runaway attempt - one that might prove more successful than the current one, if the weather was willing.

She began to tap a small rhythm on her coffee mug again thoughtfully.

“Are you…not even a little curious?” Rook asked gently, tilting her head. The girl’s eyes flickered over to her, brow creasing as Rook continued. “What he’s like?” She hesitated a second and her voice lowered as she pressed on with caution. “Do you…really not want to even meet him?”

The girl didn’t answer, but a flash of hesitation came over her. Rook frowned, but didn’t want to press her further as the girl’s eyes fell down to the flannel at her side. Her face twisted into something like anguish, as her brow creased and her eyes welled up in frustration; hand rising only to clench into a fist and fall back on her leg too forcefully to be accidental.

It hit Rook in an instant. The hesitation, the acting out, the runaway; the girl felt guilty. She probably was curious about the stranger who was now her father, she probably did want to see him. But in doing so - in even wanting to do so - did she feel like it was a betrayal? Like she was conceding something; saying that her mother was somehow replaceable.

In playing such a pantomime; the self-sacrificial martyr could see her mother at the end of her days and proudly proclaim that she had never betrayed her. Yet, Rook knew that the sort of person who could inspire such love was unlikely to be pleased with their daughter deliberately isolating herself from a misplaced sense of loyalty.

It was a foolish thought. Yet grief was rarely anything else.

“You’re allowed to be curious, you know,” Rook said, quiet but firm - if this girl had created her own moral restrictions, then all Rook could do was provide opposing permissions.

The girl didn’t reply, still not looking up. For a moment, Rook wondered whether she’d even been heard. She pressed on nonetheless.

“You’re allowed to meet him,” Rook continued.

This time, the girl looked up at her, and in her eyes was the expression of every runaway; someone desperate and lost. Someone who wants to go home, even if they don’t yet know what their home might be.

Rook breathed in deeply, before reaching down to her bag. She rummaged around for a few moments - cursing her own lack of organisation - and pulled out a slightly crinkled notepad and pen. Flicking it open, she scribbled down her work number.

“Here,” she said, tearing the page off and passing it over. “Whatever you decide to do, you can take this and give me a call if you need help.”

She hoped that if things didn’t go well, that maybe having a number to call would prevent the girl from wandering off into the wilderness and never being heard from again. But perhaps, if she knew that there was someone who was on her side, she might feel brave enough to move forward.

A flash of headlights interrupted the moment, and Rook glanced out the window to see one of the local mechanics from Falls End pulling into the carpark. Her eyes boggled - it had only been an hour and a half since she’d made the call; this sort of efficiency was highly disturbing in Hope County.

The mechanic stepped out and glanced over to where Rook’s sad little car sat off to the side of the road, deflated tires looking like a wretched, popped balloon. She swore she saw the man laugh.

“That’s me,” she said, picking up her cooled drink and downing the rest in a large gulp. “I’ve gotta go sort this out.”

She was stepping away and about to head to the door when the girl’s voice stopped her.

“I’ll do it,” Callie said, voice soft and reedy. Her brow furrowed and she cleared her throat before speaking again, firmer this time. “I’ll go meet him.” She shrank again, eyes falling back to the table. “Could you… come with me?”

Rook stood still for a moment, processing. It was certainly not lost on her how difficult it must have been for the girl to ask. Rook’s eyes crinkled as she smiled warmly.

“Sure thing, kid.”

One hour and a phone call to a very distressed social services worker later, they pulled into the Seed ranch.

Rook hadn’t been here before, but she remembered hearing Nancy rave about what a lovely place it was and how it could “really put Hope County on the real estate map!” The last comment had resulted in groans from the other deputies; the last thing they wanted was an influx of rich city folk looking for a novel country house to sit empty until it was used at a whim.

While this sprawling ranch looked large, it did not look empty.

Three brothers stood in the driveway as she pulled in. The rain was gentle now; not pinpricks but a pattering, deigning to relent in mercy for the meeting taking place. Two umbrellas stood tall, offering the brothers some comfort as they watched her car amble into the driveway.

Rook and Callie sat for a moment, the girl’s own window facing away from the men, something she was taking full advantage of as she stared out at the trees without really seeing anything.

“Hey,” Rook said softly. “How are you feeling?”

The girl was silent for a moment, before turning her head to look at her - the rustling of the movement sounding as loud as a gunshot inside the car. Her flannel had dried enough for her to wear again, and she pulled it at the sleeves to draw it tight as a blanket around her.

“It’s huge,” Callie replied, pointedly looking through the front windshield. “That’s a fucking airstrip.”

“Language.” Rook sighed - she really hoped that wasn’t her brief influence - then raised an eyebrow. “Hey, if you want to run away again, at least you can do it in style now.”

The girl snorted, before letting her eyes fall down to her backpack between her legs. Her hands were curled tightly around one of its arms.

Rook gave a quick glance towards the men in the driveway, waiting patiently for them. A woman was stumbling out of the house to join them, awkwardly shaking out her own umbrella - Rook assumed that was the social services worker she’d spoken to on the phone.

She turned back to the girl.

“Shall we?”

“Wait,” Callie said sharply, staring somewhat furiously down at her lap.

A few moments passed in silence, before the girl took a large, almost gulp of air.

“Okay,” she said, impulsively wrenching her side door open and stepping out forcefully - as though afraid she’d change her own mind.

They stepped out into the driveway - Rook having pilfered an umbrella out of the car’s backseat - and walked towards the congregation. From a distance, she’d already figured out which of the men in front of her was the girl’s father - camo-decked, tall and face withdrawn in an expression she’d seen far too many times that day to count.

It was to her surprise then, when the man beside him stepped out from underneath the umbrella and walked towards them. His expression was welcoming, magnetic and he was oddly unfazed by the rain seeping into his bone-white shirt.

Behind him, the other two men slowly followed.

“Hello, my child,” the first man said, smiling gently. He knelt down in front of the girl, a strange move that put him well below her height rather than level with her - something that ought to have been awkward, but the man had an indescribable charisma that managed to pull it off.  

Rook’s eyebrows rose.

“You’re her father?” She asked, trying to keep the surprise from her voice even as her eyes unwillingly glanced over to the redhead coming up behind him.

The man looked at her now, peering up through yellow glasses.

“I am not,” he said, giving a sheepish laugh and a shake of his head. “It’s simply a habit.” He turned his eyes back to the girl in front of him. “My name is Joseph. I am your uncle.”

“You’re the… church leader?” Rook asked, trailing off as she wasn’t certain what denomination she was dealing with.

The man smiled indulgently.

“I am the Father, yes,” he replied.

Catholic, she assumed.

Joseph stood once more and glanced at the tall man behind him.

“And this is my brother, Jacob,” he said softly, smiling down at his niece.

But the girl was not looking at her uncle; her eyes had already latched onto the redhead who had come to stand at his younger brother’s side.

He was staring right back at her.

The two were in a strange sort of deadlock, perhaps not even consciously, yet it seemed to Rook that neither were actually seeing the other. They stared as though seeing someone in a television screen, someone real, someone they could watch without needing to be present - without needing to be perceived themselves. They could see the other, but safely from a distance.

Unlike his brother, Jacob did not kneel to be below the girl’s level. Somehow, Rook knew that Callie preferred it that way.

Joseph gestured to Jacob, even though he surely knew that the two already were well aware of who it was they were looking at.

“Your father,” he said, the words quiet but they could have truly been a whisper for all they still sounded like shattering glass.

The girl seemed to snap out of her strange trance, and whipped her head to the side, face scrunching up into a frown. Her hand reached out to clasp Rook’s, squeezing tightly as a vice with unexpected strength that nearly made Rook wince.

It was a surprising gesture, but perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Rook met the girl’s eyes and gave a reassuring smile. Whether it worked or not was unclear, but at the very least, Callie turned her head back around again.

She did not look at her father, however; her eyes latched onto the frazzled social services worker standing behind the men. Sometime in the past few minutes, the woman’s umbrella had flipped inwards - making her scowl as she was trying to right it. The last of the three men - a man dressed in blue - had been gracious enough to give the woman some coverage with his own umbrella as she worked.

A flash of guilt came across the girl’s face.

“Sorry, Mary,” she mumbled, mouth twisting.

Rook wondered if Callie was aware of how every man in that driveway seemed to hang onto her every word.

Glancing over at the young girl, Mary’s face smoothed out into an exasperated smile.

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” she huffed out. Her umbrella back in place, she stepped away from the other man with a grateful nod, and seemed content to stand a distance away and allow the meeting between the girl and her family to take place with a semblance of privacy.

The man in blue, now free, seemed all too eager to approach the others. Of all the men, he seemed the most cautious, however; he appeared to be aware of how tenuous the situation truly was - that their very presence was not going to inherently make a happy family - and thus he wanted to give her some space even as he came to meet them.

Though he could not hide his eagerness, he at least made an attempt to not stare directly at her and risk her discomfort, even as his eyes shined with poorly-concealed curiosity.

Instead, he turned towards Rook.

“You have my thanks for delivering my niece to us safely.” His smile was too sharp, but Rook simply attributed that to the stress of the situation. “You are a deputy, yes?”

She nodded.

“Deputy Rook,” she introduced herself politely, yet continued to keep an eye on the girl beside her, who was intermittently staring at her father (and looking away again) as Joseph tried to coax her into some sort of conversation. Her father, similarly, did not speak a word.

“Then you have my thanks, Deputy Rook,” John repeated, stressing her name.

Rook smiled back half-heartedly, but she sensed the polite dismissal for what it was.

She knew it was time to go.

She squeezed the girl’s hand to get her attention, and the girl turned to face her - breaking off from one of her many staring contests.

Rook passed the handle of the umbrella over to Callie, who frowned and opened her mouth to protest.

“I’ve got others at home,” Rook said before the girl could speak. “You keep this one.”

Callie’s eyes widened as she realised that Rook was about to leave. She managed to somehow squeeze Rook’s hand even tighter, as though it would keep her there, but she said nothing. Pride, perhaps; a desire to not look like a child at the school gate begging a parent to stay.

But Rook was merely an interloper here, after all.

She smiled reassuringly, and with a small nod over to the men, she and the girl took a few steps off to the side for some semblance of momentary privacy. Behind them, Rook could feel the stares of the brothers like pinpricks against her skin, but she paid them no heed.

“Hey, these guys are real excited to meet you,” Rook murmured, the girl’s eyes owlish but intently focused on her. “They want you here. They want to look after you.”

The girl’s face scrunched into a frown again, but Rook saw the genuine temptation in the expression - the hope - and she knew that everything was going to be okay.

And perhaps she might have left it at that. She might have walked away without a second thought, and left the girl to reunite with her family in a picturesque happy ending.

She might have been content, were it not for a sudden, very illogical pang of unease in her stomach.

There was no reason for it - the three men in the driveway seemed innocuous, and she had heard only good things about them from the station’s receptionist. But as she felt their eyes trained on her as she spoke to the newest member of their family, there was a strange, almost primal prickling at the nape of her neck that made her reach down to her jacket pocket.

Discreetly, she caught the girl’s eye, and glanced meaningfully down at the phone that was just visible to only her.

“Remember,” she reminded the girl, who picked up on her meaning instantly. “Anything you need.”

Callie’s eyes narrowed, the expression oddly mature on her young face, and nodded intently.

Rook straightened back up, smiling again and thoroughly unaware that in only a few months, she would receive a message only hours before the county fell into chaos. That the runaway in front of her would make good on her habit once more and Rook would find out that the girl’s father and uncles would tear the county apart to try and find the girl in their own, incredibly misguided attempt to protect her.

And that she and Callie both would find themselves in Jacob Seed’s bunker come the end of the world.  

Rook shook off her unexplained anxiety, smiling down at the girl reassuringly as she stepped back to face the crowd beside her. She bid a quick farewell, and soon watched the back of a flash of red hair in her rearview mirror as she pulled out of the Seed Ranch’s driveway.

She should be proud, Rook knew. She’d helped reunite a family. She’d helped deliver a runaway to her new - and surprisingly large - home. Things were undoubtedly looking up for the girl she’d only barely been able to convince to not run off into the wilderness.

She’d done a good deed today.

Merrily, she drove towards Falls End, and allowed the resurging storm outside to drown out the soft alarm bells ringing in her head.

She looked like him, Joseph had said.

She looked like him, but not like the old man…and that was surely a mercy.

Her eyes were trained on the table - finding some hidden meaning in the ripples of the wood. A flannel shirt - faintly sodden - clung to her skin, a gentle sort of protection against the weather. It might have given her comfort, Jacob thought, seeing the way her fingers curled around the edges of her sleeves like a blanket she could draw over herself to keep her fears at bay.

To keep him at bay. A father she didn’t know, had never asked for, and didn’t want. The way she’d clung to that deputy’s hand like she was half-tempted to ask them to spirit her away. A lesser man might have let her; might have let themselves take the easy way out, to leap on the first opportunity to let the unforeseen daughter willingly scurry back out of their life and believe it a mercy.

But Jacob would be strong. Jacob would not be a lesser man.

A gentle cough - almost missed - came from the doorway to the kitchen. His eyes flickered over to see John standing by with two plates, still steaming from the stove-top. Casting a quick look back to the girl - satisfied she would not go running off into the storm in his momentary absence - he walked over to take the meals from his brother.

“Not joining us?” He asked softly.

John shook his head, despite giving a glance over to the girl with poorly-concealed curiosity.

“Not yet,” he replied. “I convinced Joseph that she will need some time alone with you first.”

With her father, Jacob thought, filling in the blanks with a startled jolt.

John gave a rueful half-smile. “Joseph wanted to argue, of course.”

Jacob could certainly believe it. He hadn’t entirely been convinced of the resemblance between the girl and himself when he’d first caught sight of her - that would be the mercy; to look more like the bright woman he remembered than he who bore the face of a madman. But then he’d seen Joseph’s expression; the way his eyes had softened the second he’d seen her, lips parting in a soundless, almost reverent gasp, and Jacob had immediately been convinced.

Joseph saw the brat of a boy that Jacob had been. Joseph did not see the face of a mad preacher.

Jacob must have been silent for too long, absently staring over at the little girl who was now his daughter, as John gave a soft contemplative hum.

“She has nothing to compare you to,” he said, almost callously apathetic for what he revealed. His brothers had been busy with the social services worker, it seemed. “You have no… replacement father that she is secretly wishing to return to. This family shall be her first…proper harbor.”

A lifetime ago, the calculated nature of his brother’s words might have alarmed him, but now only a deep-seated part of him was callously glad that he would be her only father. A late father, but the only.

There was an even darker part of him that knew there was spite in his gladness; a final chance of vindictiveness to the mad preacher - that in this, he might meet the old man at the end of his days and relish his success at his father’s disgusting failure.

He nodded to John, giving a soft noise of acknowledgment before he took the plates in hand and returned to the table where his…daughter still sat in silence. The sound of his setting the meal down in front of her felt like cannon fire, down to a harsh reverberation ringing in his chest.

The girl briefly looked up, eyes snapping to him quickly before determinedly falling down to stare at the cooling vegetables and meat. Her brow creased, and something like uncertainty crossed her face.

She cleared her throat and paused a moment before she spoke.

“I…don’t know if I can eat all this,” were the first words his daughter ever said to him.

He was silent, hands leaning on the back of the wooden chair for support as he stared down at the girl who looked like him. A spell had been broken, it seemed; a fugue state shattering now that she had spoken to him for the first time. Now, the present truly hit him. Now, it was real.

He blinked abruptly, raising his head to stare away at the distant window - rain hitting the glass like tiny rubber bullets. With one of his men, Jacob might have been critical; the privilege of denying oneself food was one he viewed with no shortage of disdain. But this was his child, a sudden creature to whom he now had a god-given role as protector and living sword.  

“That’s okay,” he murmured in reply.

They lapsed once more into a silence, but this time it felt more comfortable; something they both initiated but were content to sit in. He took his place beside her, setting to eat his own share. The warmth of the fireplace seeped into their very bones, and he imagined the girl was glad for it - having been out in the rain for most of the day.

He wondered if she would try to run again. He wondered what he would do. It was the project’s way to know - and enforce - what their flock needed better than they did themselves. And yet, the thought of trying to assert his own will over his child left him feeling somewhat disconcerted. Would that not be like him?

He dismissed the thought quickly; he would never raise a hand against her, and anything he did would be for her own benefit. The Collapse was coming, and this girl sitting now beside him, digging through her food with a fork and clutching at the hem of a well-worn flannel, would be kept safe from it.

Jacob would ensure it.

I hope you enjoyed! Calpurnia is technically my New Dawn captain, but in my 'canon' au, she obviously never meets Jacob. I wanted to be a little realistic in the dynamic between them here, in that yes, Jacob obviously wants to look after her and takes his role seriously here, but also he is still doing everything that he does in the cult and that will still affect his mindset. I don't intend her to be facing any physical violence in her future from them, but they will of course be trying to 'keep her safe from the Collapse.' Cult leader exceptionalism is playing a big part here of course, but I view that as pretty true to the game - the brothers all have a lot of cult leader exceptionalism going on, so I'm naturally extending that to Callie here too. She gets to go through the gates because she's a Seed, she doesn't have to do anything like atonement (one because she's a child and it's not shown whether that's expected of children in the cult), especially if Jacob doesn't want her to - if Joseph even suggested it, he'd be blocking it, in my opinion. Anyway, thank you for reading, please let me know if you enjoyed! <3

[itsabouttimex2]

Ok, ok, HEAR ME OUT-

How about lmk Monkeifam and Bullfam with a Y/N who isn't afraid to throw hands —

Like i mean in a response to trauma or manipulation, becouse i fell it isn't explore enough in this situation -

Sure, your loved that you belived was a friend trapped /kidnapped/gaslight you is heartbreaking and of course you are gonna be sad and more incline to behave butttt-

There is always the other way of absolute rage that comes in once you realized you have been trapped/kidnapped /gaslight ecc- like i don't care anymore, i wanna throw hands, those people are death to me.(even thought this isn't the smarter choice considering the strenght of some of the people here) like them breaking Y/N down so they can comfort them to manipulate them, but then unsurprisingly the get the biggest smack/punch of their life . Just- wow the audacity.

Throwing Hands

Bullfam & Monkiefam

“…is this some sort of pathetic attempt at ‘rebellion’, Y/N? I am not impressed.”

Your hands straight bounce. Like punching a bag of wet cement, the Demon Bull King’s skin just shifts around under your fists, never breaking or bruising. You only shatter yourself against it, leaving you worn and looking foolish.

He might not even punish you, given that it’s likely that you break a wrist on impact.

“Now, look what you’ve done to yourself, foolish child. Did you truly think your mortal flesh could stand a demon king’s might? Well, now you know better.”

You lost your temper and struck him. Immediately, you learn better than to do that ever again, and he considers it lesson enough.

Surprisingly merciful, all things considered. (Partially because he finds it somewhat funny.)

I once said in my yandere alphabet that: “Red Son doesn’t want to waste his time doing something like caning or whipping you”. And though I think that viewpoint is usually true…

This changes that. It’s maybe the only situation where he would actively engage in any form of normalized torture “corporal punishment”.

Being physically attacked switches Red from ‘mildly reasonable, if a bit hair-trigger’ to ‘vicious and cruel’. Through brute force alone does he wrestle you into submission, binding your arms behind your back with a pair of metal cuffs.

He tosses you onto the nearest bed and couch before burning the lower half of your clothing off. He then takes up a thin metal rod to utilize in “disciplining” you, sharply lashing it down against your now unprotected skin. He’ll leave puffy, bleeding welts from the top of your rear to the bottom of your thighs, ensuring that you won’t even be able to think about walking for at least a week.

Problem is that not only does it not solve the problem of you being scared and angry, it also just… makes him feel bad afterwards. It breaks him, seeing you weep brokenly over his bed. Blood sluggishly trickles from the skin he’s lashed open, and you scream your lungs out into the sheets as you try to adjust to the pain.

And then he “has to” (wants to, in truth) settle in for some awkward form of aftercare, offering lotion and bandages. When you don’t accept, he forces you to drink a cup of honeyed tea loaded with sedatives because you won’t stop shrieking.

Antiseptic while you’re asleep, a few stitches here and there, then the lotion and bandages he tried earlier. And then a few cautious back rubs, trying to calm your fitful slumber.

“Gods, Y/N… what have I done to you? I… I was just… I was… no, I… I’m sorry.”

An outright dodge. Princess Iron Fan has no time for your nonsense. For trying, she’ll lock you into whatever room has been set aside for you, barring the door with powerful magic.

One shallowly-filled bowl of food every two days, adding just a little bit more to it each day. One ceramic cup of room temperature water every four hours. A change of clothes every three days. Instead of brute force, Iron Fan teaches you through deprivation.

After a month of this, she might see fit you allow you back out of your room, letting you mingle with the family you have been forced to adopt.

After writing her a letter of apology, of course. Two pages. Pray you have the mind to keep your pencil steady.

So very many tears to deal with, probably on both ends. MK knows that he’s doing isn’t all that great, sure… but it’s because he loves you!

Can’t you love him back, please? Ok, he’s been manipulating you! Maybe he’s been driving some friends away! Maybe he’s sent a few clones to tail you around the city! But, please, please- you can’t stop loving him! He just can’t risk having you hurt!

“Please, Y/N! You don’t understand! I’m just trying to keep you safe! You can hit me again, hit me as many times as you want! Just- please, Y/N… I need you. Please…”

His last resort is stuffing you in Shuilian Cave, given that you can’t escape with his or Sun Wukong’s help. Maybe a few ropes to keep you in place. He’ll cry with each knot tied, begging you not to hate him.

Sun Wukong tanks your punch and gives your head a little pat, frowning at the display. “Sorry, bud. Trust me, I know I’m not exactly the good guy here. Go ahead and let it out. I… kinda deserve it, huh?”

The Great Sage knows you have every reason to be upset. Really, you do. All there’s only so much waylaying of emotions to be done, unfortunately. You were going to crack eventually.

He stands firmly in place, one hand rubbing your back while you break your fists against his body, watching you scream and cry. The man is just… unsurprised? He’s starting to realize that he messes up a lot of things.. So just letting you whale on him seems fair, gently trying to shush your angry tears while your skin grinds to bloody pulp against his shredded abdomen.

“How about I make us some tea,” he offers afterwards, surveying your destroyed hands. “And I’ll patch you up. Then… I think you’ve earned yourself an early bedtime for the rest of the week, bud.”

“Oh, kiddo. Do you know what “screwing up” is? After this, they’re gonna put your picture in the dictionary as an example.”

Macaque does not tolerate having hands laid on him. Not by friends, not by enemies. And certainly not by his little student, who is supposed to be wide-eyed and placid, in awe of his every move and strike.

You are supposed to be sweet and respectful. You are supposed to be kind and loving.

And he’s sure that with a little bit of “training”, he’ll get you back to that disposition.

He’ll snap his fingers with an angry snarl, shadows springing all around you like cold wires. You are gagged with a cold ebon muzzle, both your hands locked inside a cuff of swirling black and purple. You want to act like an animal? Macaque will chain you to the wall by your new muzzle and treat you like an animal.

Maybe a few days spent so on a chain so short you can’t lay down will teach you better than to raise a hand against “the only person who even loves you, Y/N!” ever again.

[vxmpyree]

yapping abt ghost who yearns. tw // brief mention of drug abuse

[ 二人分のスペースはありません。- rory in early 20s ]

despite often seeming detached or cold, ghost is not an uncaring man. 

he did not crawl out of a dying home just to throw himself back into the stench of rot for fun. no, he saved his little brother from prodding needles and taut rubber bands. those he cares about and their hardships are tucked in the recesses of his mind. in fact, he wishes he could do more.

he keeps your birthday scrawled across his calendar, and marks it as an important date in his phone just in case he forgets. and he tries to make room for this one day, but price is always telling him about how they need to do this and that. 

if ghost cannot make it home for your birthday, he is devastated, but quietly. when he finally has a gap in his calendar, he catches you off guard by laying himself on you on the couch. he crushes you with the weight of his thick muscle, begging to be reassured that you do not loathe him for his seldom presence without saying it.

oh, how he misses you while he’s deployed. he keeps cheesy photos of you in his wallet, filling up the clear plastic meant for his driver’s license so that he always sees you. but he snaps the leather shut when someone happens to peek over his shoulder. you are his personal slice of heaven. besides, ghost prefers to keep his civilian life thickly separated from his work. you do not know a lick of what he does, other than that he wears a stuffy balaclava for it. 

when he comes home, it is only to drop off his belongings and change into something suitable. his fridge is empty and his television only plays local channels; he isn’t home often, and not just because of work either. 

no, he practically lives with you now, always smothering you with his presence the moment he gets a second of free time. more than half his clothes are at your place, and your mattress has a slight dip now on his side. and all his favorite foods are there too, although he prefers to make yours most of the time. perhaps he’s scared that if he doesn’t go all in, you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. or maybe he really does just like you that much. after all, when he starts to care, he clings. either way, he would never let you know, never give you enough clues.

[who-tf-eats-their-children]

Open Starter - Sins Of Thy Father

Some days, Kronos wondered if it would have just been easier to consume his children. It would have certainly meant less crying, less bumps and bruises, less lectures, less frustration, less parenting. It's not like it would be a surprise, given the fact that he had been 'oh so willing' to cut their father into a thousand pieces and cast them deep into Khaos, and how 'natural' he seemed to look covered in ichor (Primordial Hemera's words, not his), but in those thoughts, he also wonders how he'll be able to look his beloved wife in the eye. If he'd be able to keep up that act, playing the innocent or leaning so far into it he'd lose everything just to give into that darkness his father carved deep into him. "You are a lot like me," he'd say those very few times he'd allow them Above and one of those fewer times he'd let his children into his presence, and even now Kronos can't push down the utter disgust that came from that thought. But... he also can't seem to stand the waiting. The paranoia, jumping at every shadow and twisting and turning each night waiting for his father to get one over on him again. He's the King of the Cosmos now, but it seems like even a King has their own King puppeteering them. What a joke (and oh how easy it would be).

You are roaming--or possibly seeking--when you spot him sitting on a supposedly random mountain in the middle of nowhere (the first and last place Kronos dared speak against his father). There is nothing to his expression or aura, but you feel yourself being tugged his direction anyway. He's sitting on the grass, facing the sunset, looking perhaps... mortal. Manly. Human.

What do you do?

@daonedaonlysk @aura-of-the-winds @least-favorite-hades-kid @littlest-sunbeam-of-hermes @sophia-hunter-of-artemis @xolues-child-of-aelous @unhinged-waterlilly @overlyprotectiveheadcounselor @another-argo @ravensonofdionysus. Once again, the taglist is simply made up of people that seem interested/I've interacted with before, so please feel free to tell me if you want to be added or removed from the taglist :))

[voltaicsnail]

THE POST

This post might get updated in the future.

This post is about my Pokémon related oc’s , and my AUs.

PICTURES NEED UPDATES !

TW : abuse , lgbtphobia , ableism , violence ,SH , death and loss.

MAIN AU

MY OCS

Pedro :

Tags : #oc : pedro CHAOTIC EVIL

Pedro is a 34~ years old (as of post USUM event) trainer who joined Team Plasma at 20 y.o , before the organisation becoming very vocal.

Pedro is born n Dendemille Town , Kalos , from a Kalosian mother and Paldean father , and got to meet his older half-brother of 15 years , Atmet.

Pedro's mother left the household when he was around 10 , due to the violence of his father , and did not come back to take him with her , he grew up with his brother as his parental figure and was finally freed from his father abuse at 12 when Atment left the region illegally with Pedro after saving enough money to move in Unova.

While in Unova , his brother spent half of his time working , and studying to meet their needs , and Pedro quickly felt alone and bored. He knew he wasn't in physical danger no more , but somehow felt an emptiness in his heart that couldn't be filled by anything but violence , toward himself or the other.

Despite all the effort of Atmet to find time to be emotionally avalaible , it didn't worked out and Pedro fell into the promises of Team Plasma.

Here , he would have a roof without the fear of not having to eat for the next 24 hour and he wouldn't feel like a burden. Even more , he would have a purpose , and a good one at that.

He tried to make Atmet follow him , so they could still be together , but his older brother knew it was fishy and tried to force him to get away , but it only made Pedro wanting to leave even more.

At first he enjoyed seeing Atmet struggling to get him back and felt like he was finally valuable , but he slowly started to fell for the brainwashing and to think that his brother was wrong to not fight from the same ideas and basically cut all contact when he was 17.

He was quickly seen as one of the most violent grunt in the Team , but somehow managed to be violent only against the other grunt he thought where "not working hard enough" , avoiding being kicked out by Bronius or Gorm

His pokemon team for the first years only consisted in one singular Joltik that his brother caught for him to keep him company when they moved in Unova. He managed to train him to be a valuable asset for the team , despite his unevolved form.

When years laters , Plasma was getting more and more on the front of the news , Atmet tried to reach out again , only to get his letters back , and to get ignored.

Pedro grew pretty close to Ghetsis and Zinzolin when he was around 26, as he was now working WITH them directly (he never met them before that point and was under the supervision of Bronius and Gorm )

At the fall of Team Plasma , Pedro was already giving his life to Ghetsis and refused to follow Rood.

His goal wasn't liberating pokemon anymore , but just to stay wherever Ghetsis needed him to be , and to do whatever he wanted him to do. And what Ghetsis asked him to do was to spy on the Team Flare. He somehow knew something big might happen but couldn't know what exactly , and Pedro was the perfect person to infiltrate a ginger kalosian group. Pedro stayed for a few month before being kicked out for simping over Ghetsis in front of Lysandre.

During the events of BW2 , he grew very fond of Zinzolin , they finally got together , making Ghetsis pretty happy to not be stalked by a weird ginger kalosian man any time he was out of his office.

When Ghetsis lost his final battle against Nate and left , Pedro felt like his whole world collapsed. Despite Zinzolin trying to get his head out of the water , Pedro couldn't think about anything else than finding Ghetsis again.

He left , travelling across regions , with Zinzolin to find his former Lord , despite all the effort of his partner to stop him.

Facts:

-He can't swim

-He likes to trauma-dump on people just to make them uneasy

-He likes knitting

-He is auDHD and his special interest is moss

-He can't sleep alone and really misses the grunt dorms now that Team Plasma is gone

-He likes to do trendy dances around Ghetsis to piss him off , and forced Ghetsis to learn the apple dance. (Ghetsis accepted after weeks of Pedro whining)

-He has a notebook where he reports all his injuries , and another one where he reports all the weirdest thing he ate

-He make up new stories about how he lost his eyelid everytime someone ask.

-He misses croissant break in Team Flare so bad.

-He calls Ghetsis "Ghetsis le beau gosse" and told him it was a title of nobility in Kalossian. Zinzolin is dying from the inside everytime Ghetsis looks happy to hear his nickname.

Relations :

Natural : While I think N is too kind to feel hatred , Pedro isn't. He hates N solely because Ghetsis does too. N however doesn't really know Pedro as he wasn't one of the grunt asked to follow him around during his mission as the King of Plasma.

Anthea : Anthea does not like Pedro , as she saw him multiple time praising Ghetsis behavior despite his cruelty. She believes in people being able to change , but struggles to think Pedro or any Neo-plasma member can be good one day.

Concordia : She would fist fight Pedro and win at any moment. She hates him because she feels like she has to protect her sister and her brother and that if they don't hate neo-plasma grunt , then she have to hate them even harder to make up for it.

Shadow Triad : As @williceunleashed once said : they are basically seen as furniture in Team plasma , so Pedro didn't get really close to them , but he do like their loyalty to Ghetsis and that's about it.

Zinzolin : They are in love , and their relation is a love-"hate" one. They jokingly bully and tease each other all the time , and they are both toxic so they are meant to be together. Zinzolin is a bit more romantic and concerned about Pedro mental health than the opposite , however Pedro could beat up someone if they dared to harm Zinzolin. (they got together only at the beginning of BW2)

Atmet : Pedro feels very conflicted , part of him is hating him . Hating him because he didn't join Plasma when Pedro asked , and hating him because he tried to "save him from the cult" even years after. But at the same time , another part of him misses his brother and wishes to be reunited , however his ego and his pride are huge and he cannot even think about apologizing yet.

Braxton : They were once friends in the grunt dorm , but slowly Pedro noticed that Braxton actually believed more in the cause than in Ghetsis and when Team Plasma broke in two , Pedro lost all appreciation for his former friend.

Ramzi : Beside Zinzolin and Ghetsis , Ramzi would be Pedro's favorite person. Pedro was actually sad to leave Team flare just because it meant leaving Ramzi behind. They haven't talked or written to each other since Pedro got back into Team Neo-Plasma.

Colress : Pedro hates him solely on the basis that Colress betrayed Ghetsis , and Colress dislikes Pedro for his character and his behavior against his brother.

Ghetsis : Pedro loves Ghetsis , and everyone knows that. He would do anything to just be seen as the best grunt he ever had. They actually are what could be considered friends , but the power imbalance is way too important for them to be "normal friends". Ghetsis actually used Pedro's blind loyalty against him multiple time.

Atmet :

Tags : #oc : atmet CHAOTIC NEUTRAL

Atmet is 49 years old scientist.

He was born in Medali , Paldea , and grew up here for 15 years before leaving with his father to Kalos .

He met his stepmother here and wasn't yet able to communicate with her. He slowly had to learn Kalosian when Pedro was born because his stepmother talked to him solely in Kalosian and his father barely bothered teaching him words.

He was quickly parentified and had to take care of his brother , even more so when his stepmother left when he was 25.

Since his 18 years old , Atmet started to work , to save up money. He almost was kicked out of the house when his father learned about his transidentity , but managed to stay by being the one bringing the money home.

He endured for almost a decade until he had enough saving to leave for Unova , taking his younger brother with him.

He choose Unova not only because of the distance , but because he always wanted to study here , and that he was interested in some pokemon found here. He quickly started working to put food on their plates.

He struggled balancing work , classes and being emotionally available enough for his brother. He brushed off some of the signs that Pedro wasn't doing well and was going to leave , and one day was surprised by Pedro gathering what he could to leave for Team Plasma.

Atmet tried to change his mind , but Pedro was almost an adult , and Atmet was not legally his parent or his caretaker and therefore couldn't ask for help from the justice without exposing himself.

(Despite Pedro agreeing , what Atmet did would be deemed as kidnapping by the justice . Even if it was to save him from violent parental abuse)

Atmet had to leave Unova to avoid jail time after being almost caught for fraud , data theft , stealing documents...

Atmet started his long period of travelling regions to regions , to try to finance his research , to find something that mattered.

He even joigned Team Magma , with the goal of getting his project financed by Maxie , by trying to get him on his side. Maxie didn't appreciated being used and told him to fuck off basically.

He was in Kalos when he heard about Plasma on the news for the first time (BW1 events ) , and he tried to reach out again to Pedro , now that he could finally do it , only to be rejected.

It destroyed him utterly but he kept trying , even hoping that the downfall of Team Plasma would bring back Pedro to reality , only for him to join Neo-Plasma right away.

Atmet tried again to get him back , but Pedro tried to order his Joltik to kill him , sealing the fact that they will never be brothers ever again.

Atmet ultimately left , defeated , and only heard about team plasma again after moving to Alola.

There , he met Colress , and they grew fond of each other , sharing interest.

One of the first pokemon he caught on Alola was a Minior , that ultimately died from being exposed to the world. Struck by grief , Atmet decided that he would create something capable to keep Minior alive, even out of the pokeball.

He bought transparent poke balls , and luxury balls to study their functionement , only to be able to mix them together so he could keep his Minior in a safe space until he found a way to keep them alive freely.

He also associated himself with the Aether Fundation , and like Wicke , wasn't aware of Lusamine plan.

Facts :

-When he is in Kalos , he always makes a little detour to Mt Moon so his clefairy can vibe.

-He choose his name by contracting Atmosphere and Meteor and that's dramatic.

-He ugly cries very easily

-He hates honey more than anything

-Everyone knows he is autistic but him.

-He stills buys alolan magnet in tourist shop despite living here for years

-He really wants to go into an Ultra Wormhole

-He caught a Gothita to study its whole evolutionary line and was flabbergasted to see how bad the legs of Gothitelle looked.

-His glasses are often used as a way to watch the sky , and the stars while being on the beach without getting his eyes assaulted by sand.

-He likes to mock Faba about him being retrograded to an intern by showing him his pass.

-Someone once compared his glasses to Faba's and he got so mad he broke a piece of his teeth by clenching his jaws.

Relations :

NEED UPDATED RELATIONSHIP CHART

Ghetsis : One sided hatred since Ghetsis doesn't know Atmet.

Faba : It's just a basic love-hate relationship , they tend to tease each other and to be mad at each other a lot but somehow still appreciate the other. Appreciate each other in another way than friendship.

Colress : They love to infodump on each other all the time and a serial yappers. They care for each other alot , despite their unconventional morals . They both are chaotic neutral at the end of the day. Colress once gave a shiny Minior to Atmet as a birthday gift , Atmet cried so much he forgot to breath.

Molayne : They don't see each other every day , but Atmet often spends week at the Hokulani Observatory and they like to just discuss about new discoveries or about their thoughts.

Maxie : Maxie is still mad at Atmet , Atmet still feels guilty to have used him for money.

Pedro : Atmet loves his brother , and he misses him a lot , and often thinks about it and still sends him letters without knowing if he get them or not. But at the same time , since the day Pedro ordered Joltik to electroctue him , Atmet is afraid , he fears that his brother might actually want him dead

Sophocles : Atmet finds Sophocles adorable and somehow he reminds him of his brother. He likes to spend time with Sophocles too when he visits Molayne and to show him his sky pictures.

Lusamine : Atmet somehow despises her , after learning what she did to her kids , but haven't told her. They only see each other at random time in the Aether Foundation and Atmet would much rather be able to go the lab than to stir up drama with someone capable to do what Lusamine did.

Wicke : She is a nice person and Atmet appreciate talking to her. She reminds him of the smell of orange juice and buttered bread somehow and he appreciates that.

Braxton :

Tags : #oc : braxton LAWFUL GOOD

Braxton is a 30~ year old worker. He was born in Motostoke , Galar and left to Unova when he was around 18.

He has little contact with his family , out of shame of leaving without listening to their warning and falling for a cult. At the end of the day , it's not his fault but his brain can't comprehend that.

He joined Team Plasma at 17 after falling from terrible height seeing that life wouldn't be as good as he imagined when he left for Unova , he wasn't able to keep a job , to get anything he wanted done and just felt like leaving a new life as his new self was a failure.

After finding a goal in Team plasma , he thought his life would have a meaning , only for his goal to shatter at the end of the BW1 events.

He stayed some time in the safehouse in driftveil city , eaten up by guilt. He was afraid to hurt someone again , to a bad choice , to be mistaken again.

He only got a job in Clay's mine to be able to eat and have a place to live by himself as the safehouse reminded him too much of the failure that was Team Plasma. Rood understood and let him go.

After some month of working , he realized that it wasn't even enough to take his mind off of what happened , that's when Clay told him he needed therapy , like yesterday.

Braxton followed through , and was slowly getting better , despite knowing he will never be back to his old self.

Clay told him to take a year off , to do some gyms , to travel a bit before going back to work and it helped him greatly. It was in this period that he saw in Clay more than his boss , but started to see him as a friend.

That's also when he realized that Clay slowly , subtly helped him getting a social circle by giving him weird "work " mission to do , such as bringing worthless rock to be estimated by Lenora , bringing supplies to Burgh , getting a training session with Brycen so Braxton could help in the Gym...

While he still struggled with guilt , fear and intrusives thought , Braxton managed to find the stability he hoped for.

He spent a lot of time hanging around the gym and got very close to some of them.

Facts :

-His favorite pokemon ever is snom. He wanted to have one but feels guilty about bringing non-native pokemon in Unova. Clay however did not and gifted him one

-He has OCD , his themes being mostly harm OCD and moral/scrupulosity OCD

-He feels so overly guilty about having hurt people in the past by stealing their pokemons.

-He rarely battles

-Despite helping Rood from time to time, he refuses to get to close , fearing that he might be lying like Ghetsis

-He always says Galarian Gym have a better public than Unovian but really love the concept of themed Gym

-He evolved his liepard by letting him train by itself, since he avoids battle when he can. He prefers to cuddle it.

-He is deeply afraid of snake-like Pokémon because he was bitten by a Silicobra.

-He likes to exercise a lot.

-He does dye his hair but no one know which of the two color is the natural one.

-He eats snow

-He tried many instruments in his life , but was never good at music

-He is REALLY good at cooking

Relations :

NEEDS UPDATED PICTURE

Ghetsis : It's pretty much nightmare fuel for Braxton and he tries to erase Ghetsis from his life to no avail , it felt like this period his burned on his back.

Natural : He is a bit afraid of the King of Team Plasma , but he hopes that N is doing well and that he is healing and thriving.

Brycen : On the advices of Clay and Alder , Braxton took some battle lessons from Brycen to help himself understand his pokémon better and to be a more fitting trainer for his newly acquired snom. He admires Brycan a lot , and Brycen finds him kind.

Lenora : They both like each other , but Braxton is still a bit too shy to ask her verbally if they could be considered friend , as he fears it might look childish.

Clay : They are very close , and while they only started as boss and employee , they have now a deep connection.

Looker : Looker appreciate Braxton honesty while they were trying to find the hidden sage , but Braxton feels neutral about Looker , because he does think it is a bit too late to catch them as the harm is already done. But he is still glad Looker took time to listening to him , he just struggle to give his trust easily.

Pedro : A former friend , that now terrifies him. He wishes to never see him again because he can't comprehend how someone could become like that , and how someone could still follow Ghetsis after all that. It's terrifying to him because he is a afraid he could have done the same as Pedro .

Alder : He finds him supportive and nice and Alder is pretty much very chill.

Zinzolin : Braxton is terrified of a man that would follow another man like Ghetsis just to see " what happens if he wins". Zinzolin dislikes a traitor.

Rood : While Braxton likes Rood , he can't help but fearing getting to close. He feels guilty about it but "what if Rood is lying too?" is a thought that keep spinning in his mind.

Grimsley : They are in a relationship , and while it looks very random , they actually met multiple time after Braxton lost against him in the League. They like friendly bullying.

Ramzi :

Tags : #oc : ramzi TRUE NEUTRAL

Ramzi is a 32~years old Team Flare member . He was born iniKiloude City , Kalos , but moved in Lumiose when he was very young with his family.

He comes from a relatively wealthy background and pretty much had anything material set up for him as he grew up , but he lacked genuine connection with his family and always felt like the black sheep and wasn't good at school either.

Growing up , he started to disagree more and more with his family values and how they were looking at the middle class and worker class with disdain. It was only natural for him when he heard about Lysandre , a philanthropist rich guy , to agree with him in every way.

He heard around the Lysandre Cafe about Team Flare , part of their goal and who was the one to direct it. He quickly decided to join , stealing part of his parents money to buy his admission in the group.

By doing so , he burnt any link he had left with his family.

After quite some time hanging around Lysandre and the scientist , Ramzi grew close to his boss , and the feeling was mutual.

He also realized something as the month got by , that Lysandre was loosing his mind slowly but surely and that he had to something to avoid his partner irrational thoughts to become a reality.

When Serena and Pia managed to infiltrate the HQ and to battle Xerosic , Ramzi was absolutely flabbergasted to hear that the scientist disobeyed Lysandre and opened the Weapon anyway.

He felt like something snapped in his partner and had to fight him to stop him from doing something irreparable.

After what felt like hours , Lysandre reluctently agreed to be arrested , so did Ramzi.

Lysandre was likely judged criminally insane and had to go through therapy and probably for life.

Month goes by , and Ramzi and Lysandre heard about Xerosic messing up stuff , and they met Looker and Emma , willing to help to aleviate their own guilt.

The whole ordeal took a toll on their mental health , especially Lysandre that tried so hard to rewire his brain into thinking humans were ultimately worth of being helped.

They saw Xerosic taking advantage of a young girl with barely any knowledge about life outside the street , they saw the father figure of this same girl leaving once his work was done and they both almost felt like Team Flare was right all along and that human were rotten to the core.

They both agreed to take care of Emma , worried she might grew up to hate humans too.

Two years later , they reformed Team Flare , with other members and another respectable goal : Helping what they swore to destroy years priors.

Facts :

-Ramzi loves red and orange , and only choose his pokemon based on that.

-He is a big fan of drag shows and loves to see creative people.

-His favorite berries are Roseli Berries.

-Despite not having lived in the south of Kalos for too long , he still passionately defend the word "Chocolatine" over "Pain au Chocolat" and it's a source of funny arguments between him and Lysandre

-His natural hair color is a mystery and he hates taking off his glasses.

Relations :

Bryony : While Bryony do not care about Ramzi , Ramzi appreciate her style and her work ethics. He wished her and Celosia would just kiss already.

Aliana : Aliana dislikes his proximity to Lysandre and Ramzi just doesn't mind her that much

Sycamore : While Sycamore likes Ramzi for getting Lysandre back to his "former self" or at least close to it , Ramzi feels a bit uneasy around him , first of all because Sycamore is clearly simping of HIS partner , and also because he wonders how could Sycamore could have just let Lysandre get this far if he had known him for so long.

Malva : Malva genuinely appreciate the effort of Ramzi into helping Team Flare and Lysandre , and his effort to make the name not a shameful thing only. Ramzi likes her loyalty to Lysandre , but also is scared of her because she would probably kill someone if she wanted to.

Lysandre : While their relationship was complicated , they both need each other to thrive and to grow , but they almost become co dependant. Ramzi is often worried about Lysandre , and tend to follow him everywhere. Lysandre doesn't mind it as he fears being alone with his thoughts ever again. They both need therapy.

Pia : Ramzi is a big fan of Pia's art , and he thinks she is so cool and interesting despite her trying to kick his ass in the Flare HQ. Pia thinks Ramzi is dumb , lame , and that his hair looks stupid.

Pedro : Pedro was a flare grunt for a short time , but they both grew close. While Pedro still cherish his friendship with all his heart , Ramzi doesn't feel great calling him a friend as he heard about the news about Plasma wrongdoing. However he can't help having some affection left from his time with Team Flare. He doesn't want to reconnect with Pedro to avoid messing up his memories , and Pedro is only focused on Ghetsis at the end of BW2.

Emma : That's his daughter and if someone dares to hurt her then someone must DIE. Emma sees him more as a older brother than a father.

Looker : While Looker appreciate the honesty of Ramzi and his will to take care of Emma , Ramzi berates him for leaving.

Xerosic : Ramzi once loved Xerosic , found him funny and interesting , but now he only despises and fears him. He is very glad that he got arrested but he can't even comprehend how could someone do what Xerosic as done.

Celosia : Celosia is hard working and also she got some sass and Ramzi really find her cool. They spent time together in the HQ , trying to see who was lame or not in the team. (spoiler : they both were)

Mable : She hates the fact that Ramzi might get more praised than her , and she got some ego. Ramzi finds her immature but not enough to care.

(I use the scientists from the manga and the game for the girlies because we literally barely have any content for them in the game and it's so annoying :( )

Pia :

Tags : # oc : pia CHAOTIC GOOD

Pia is a 23 y.o artist , born in Cyllage City , Kalos.

She grew up with a family that was pretty much overwhelmed with her needs as a disabled kid. She had a tendency to run away a lot and that's how she met her Spritzee when she was 12. It helped her out of meltdown and her parents agreed to keep it , despite it refusing to get inside a pokeball.

She only used unown-writing as a communication tool as a child , forcing her parents to learn it , but it helped greatly with creating bond and made their familial dynamic better. When she was 10 , her aunt decided to take her to Ruins of Alph for their vacations in Johto and that's how Pia decided her aunt was the greatest person in the world.

She grew up watching art show , reading , performing and spending her summers at her wine aunt place in Lumiose city. When she was 20 , she moved in with her aunt , and started an apprenticeship to be a furfrou groomer. It didn't worked out well but she adopted a furfrou near this time and she loves him dearly.

She decided to take on the league challenge , and met all kind of people , but also helped greatly in taking down the Team Flare , making her even more famous. She already got some fame from being a well appreciated performer , but now it was pretty much through the roof.

She even grew closer to the journalist that was following her around from time to time.

Facts :

-The letters she chose for her Unowns have a signification

-She groom her furfrou now and then , but always try to invent new haircuts.

-She got into fist fight multiple time. She is pretty good until she get touched. (she has 0 defense)

-She refuse to elaborate on her haircut.

-She has advanced knowledge on unowns and thinks they are neat.

-She can't wear nail polish or she'll cry and roll on the floor screaming in horror.

-Her favorite place to visite outside of Kalos is Johto , that's also where her grandmother lives.

-Her aunt is a wine aunt and Pia aspire to be like her when she reaches her fortys.

-She caught all the unown form and is searching for shinies when she travels.

-She only use honor ball just because they are cool looking.

-She is pretty savage.

-She is often scared that Spritzee might leave some day , but she can't catch it since it refuses to get inside the pokeball. Pia thinks the pokemon probably got a bad memory about getting caught.

-She thinks Team flare's outfit are a crime against humanity.

-Fluvetin is Spritzee in french , and she added a possible "e" when they were feeling like it.

-She got a lot of Pokemon themed objects and fidget toys , and she is always chewing on gums.

-She thinks Tulip makes the best makeup in the world.

-She is non-verbal and her main unown are "ftg" which is " stfu" in french basically.

Relations :

Siebold : She likes him and she likes him specifically for the huge buffet he prepared when they won against Team Flare.

Drasna : She never saw a grandma slaying so hard and Pia wishes to look like her. Drasna is adorable and like anyone that is slightly nice.

Xerosic : Pia thinks he should die. Xerosic thinks Pia is an obstacle in his life.

Diantha : While Pia feels intimated by how pretty , intelligent , nice and perfect Diantha is , they are still very close and Pia is glad to have fought against her in the league , despite loosing. They even teamed up to take down Team Flare and Pia will never forget that.

Viola : They love each other , and Viola is basically her best friend and her step-sister. They just love to talk about their special interest for hour while Alexa is standing there , waiting.

Alexa : Alexa loves Pia , Pia loves Alexa , and they both are meant for each other. They both help each other , and take care of each other. Alexa loves to teach Pia stuff about journalism , and talk about what she learned , and Pia loves to show her unown images.

Lysandre : Lysandre is thankfull that Pia stopped him before it was too late and fought against his ideas. Pia thinks he still should be in jail and she is terrified he might do something like that again.

Serena : Pia considers her like a heroic baby and she is VERY proud of her for joining the fight against Team flare. Serena doesn't have the same amount of affection for Pia as she rarely sees her , but she admires her.

Malva : Malva hates Pia with all her might because she didn't tried to save Lysandre , but tried to take him down. Pia never interacted much with Malva but she clearly isn't fond of her.

Ramzi : Ramzi is a big fan of Pia's art and he thinks she is cool. Pia thinks he is a stupid idiot that owns only one brain cell and that it's not even a working one.

Wikstorm : That's Pia's babygirl. Pia loves him very much and dearly , they are best friends at this point. Pia loves to hear him yap about history and she thinks his haircut is outrageous but wouldn't tell him because she couldn't handle him looking even slightly sad.

Ships :

CrepusculeShipping : Lysandre x Ramzi

OrangeSorbetShipping : Zinzolin x Pedro

Redcarpetshipping : Alexa x Pia

NONAME : Burgh x Braxton

(no art yet)

______________________________________________________________

Important event change  in the AU:

Ending of Team Flare :

While all the events about Team Flare where the same as in the game , the ending is different.

In my headcanon , Lysandre is not evil by definition as he doesn't mean to hurt for the pleasure of hurting or to gain something for himself only. In my opinion , he suffers from a violent mental crisis and is ill.

Unlike Cyrus who has a similar goal , Lysandre is REALLY persuaded that it's for the greater good and is willing to die to achieve it , while Cyrus knows he is manipulating his team and just want the world to himself as *he* wants it to be.

While both are clearly suffering , I would say Cyrus is fully conscious about what he is going to do and almost see it as a revenge against a world that hurted him.

Lysandre however does not seem conscious about how irrational he is and how HE is the impending doom he is so scared off.

-he is willing to die for his ideas-

Lysandre makes me think of those people killing because they hallucinated something or someone telling them to do it to save the world , which is something that put someone in the case "criminally insane" as their ultimate goal was not the murder but to avoid a tragedy that their mind made up itself , and I totally think Lysandre would be classified as criminally insane too.

You see him during the game getting more and more delusional and even scared and distressed about what he is about to do. He even gives you the option to not fire the weapon to avoid having the doom fall of the world on his shoulders , only to be betrayed by Xerosic.

And what happens when Xerosic betrays him ? His mind snap , he has to do it he can't go back it's a sign he HAS to do it. He even is willing to kill himself to save a world he GENUINELY thinks is in danger. You can see how in the span of hours he just became a mess , and all his ideas collapses and merge and even him doesn't understand what he is doing.

He genuinely believes that this is the only solution , the ultimate good choice to save the world from the doom his mind made up.

And that is the only way I can even imagine the writing of Pokemon XY being somewhat "logical".

Onto my AU :

Ramzi realizes that Lysandre isn't going well ,that something in his brain is ultimately going wrong and he doesn't care about the cause or the "why" , all he cares about is saving Lysandre from himself and saving the world at the same time.

He knows that Lysandre is probably as terrified as he is , and alongs Pia , Serena and Diantha , they manages to stop his team and Lysandre himself altogether.

Team Flare is ultimately broken up when Lysandre agrees to follow Looker , and Ramzi never leaves his side.

Lysandre is judged to be criminally insane , and is obligated to be in therapy and to be evaluated every now and then to avoid him getting that delusional and irrational and out of reality again.

Ramzi actually stood by his side and assured that he could heal properly and get back to a more stable state than the one he was in when he decided to save the world from impending doom by BEING the impending doom itself.

Ramzi didn't wanted to break Team Flare down suddenly but asked Lysandre if he could take the lead for a moment to try to undo all the wrongs they had done. Lysandre accepts , and make Ramzi the new leader of Team Flare.

They both still suffer from huge amount of guilt about the past actions of Team Flare and Lysandre often is scared of letting himself get that intense and irrational about something

Xerosic on the other hand is taken responsible for activating the weapon and feeding Lysandre delusion to achieve his own morbid goals. He is quickly arrested after the Emma's events.

Ultimately , Lysandre and Ramziu slowly get back into society , Lysandre looses owner ship over his cafe , the holo cast and pretty much any sponsors he had and fell into some depressive state.

Ramzi tries his best to get him to feel better , and thinks it's a good thing for Lysandre to not have that much responsibility over anyone.

Obviously it is not a perfect good ending , Lysandre is still despised by most people , Ramzi too by definition.

ULTIMATE HARMONIA AU

After acknowledging the real intentions of his former-father Ghetsis , N was thrown out of the castle while Ghetsis would try to groom another person to find the remaining stone for him to use.

N , lost , with barely any time to process what just happened to him , his ideal , stumbled upon a man who swore with passion to get rid of the filth in the present world.

Seeking what he always knew was the truth , he decided to learn more about Lysandre , his stance about humans , and Pokémon alike.

Sure enough , since the timeline in BW2 is similar to the one in X/Y , Lysandre obviously heard about Team Plasma , probably even believed in their cause in the beginning : at the end of the day , he does hate the idea of Pokemon remaining mere tools for humans to use as they wish.

He heard about the downfall , about how Ghetsis lied to everyone before vanishing , letting all his puppets behind and also his son.

He despised the man , but actually praised his ideas.

When N and Lysandre finally interacted , when Lysandre understood where N was coming from , it was only logical for them to unite and share their mutual thoughts.

""I'm sure you understand that Pokémon are not tools for humans to fight each other with."

"And that people who do think that Pokémon are tools are beyond saving, no matter how hard you try." (Lysandre in game (master ex ) quotes)

N wouldn't accept Lysandre ideas of removing Pokemon from the world and letting only a few humans alive to avoid the Pokemon abuse , and wouldn't take much for him to make Lysandre change his mind as well :

N is saying the truth : the only problem is the story are the trainers , not the Pokémon.

They would become allies , joining their ideals , and get lost former-Plasma grunt on their side.

The Ultimate Weapon would be used , but they would have to find a way to make it work as they wanted it too : to eradicate only the very thing that threaten both of their ideals : Humans.

______________________________________________________________

Pokemon party lore here !

[ilikefelines]

A Thousand Cuts Until Insanity

Day 7 (October 20) - Moment That Made Alicent Your Favourite Character • Dowager Queen • Free Choice

Written for Alicent Hightower Appreciation Week 2024.

Word Count: 5604

Summary: Alicent Hightower — stretched too thin, flung far out.

@alicenthightowerdaily

@zaldritzosrose (For the divider's. Thank you.)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59901373

Aemond was the quietest of them at birth, though both his siblings were born red-faced and sobbing. Grand Maester Mellos had been concerned for his health.

“He was born too early,” the venerable man had told his king, “and I fear that he shall not survive the year.”

“The boy has lived this long already,” she remembered her husband replying, “and Alicent tells me he has a fierce appetite.”

That had been true enough, and the knowledge that her husband had been paying attention to their children had warmed Alicent, back then. Of course, he cares, she’d thought with girlish excitement, Aemond is his blood. But with age came wisdom, and Alicent now knew that Viserys’s response had not found its roots in love, or even in a vague sense of concern for his third-born child, but in apathy. It was easy to preserve one’s sense of ease when one did not care. Five of his children died in the womb or the cradle; what’s another?

Queen Alicent Hightower pulled herself out of her thoughts when she heard the herald’s voice. It sliced through the air like a heated blade through suet, and bile rolled in the pit of her stomach.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, her consort, Ser Laenor Velaryon, rider of Seasmoke”—Lord Corlys’s latest attempt to save face, no doubt—" and their son, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.” Immediately, Viserys stirred in his seat at the very centre of the grand table placed upon the dais, grinning with anticipation as his daughter and her bastard ascended the steps.

He kissed Rhaenyra’s forehead, embracing her. “Look how Jacaerys has grown!” he exclaimed, always happy enough to embrace his role as grandsire. “If the lad carries on like this, he’ll soon be old enough to serve as my cupbearer at council.” He swung the plump one-year-old into his arms, causing him to giggle, while all the while Alicent could see Aemond watching with hunger in his eyes from his position on her lap. This was her babe’s third name day, and the feast that was being held this morn was supposed to be for his sake, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Viserys was comporting himself.

As the princess and her husband took their places above the salt, a gong was rung and serving girls began to carry in the royal family's food, whilst down below, half-a-hundred knights and lords of lesser rank dug into their trenchers with alacrity. And that was only at the outer tables – two hundred more guests had managed to cram themselves into the hall, and in the courtyards of the keep, the retinues, with their assortment of men-at-arms and hangers-on, were feasting. Every lord thinks to outdo the other in affinity. Half the inns in the capital were full of nobles who, arriving late, could not be allowed rooms in the Red Keep.

The Small Hall rang with the sound of chattering voices, and clanking cutlery; dogs fought viciously for scraps underneath the tables, as the wine flowed and flowed and flowed. Alicent saw one girl—Lord Tarly’s oldest niece, she was sure—giggling with her betrothed, a Crane squire. She wondered what it felt like, being so uncomplicatedly happy, with your whole life ahead of you; she glanced at the king, whose liver-spotted hands quivered as he brought a silver spoon to his mouth.

At two-and-twenty, Alicent felt with grim certainty that all youth had long been wrung out of her. Still, at least the fare’s adequate. King and court could have no possible complaints to that end. The table upon the dais was laden with hearty beef stew, three large lamprey pies, a giant swan dressed in its plumage, stuffed with songbirds and mutton, and tender morsels of venison swimming in a creamy soup of mushrooms and blandissory, amongst twenty other dishes of varying delicacy.

After the king, the choicest options were served to the table directly below their own, the one occupied by Alicent's own family, who’d been amongst the first to arrive from their seat at Oldtown. Alicent met Lord Hobert's eye — her uncle inclined his head in genteel acknowledgement.

The feast was not a bad one; indeed Alicent had spent many an evening planning the affair with the king’s steward and the Hand, Lord Strong. And yet, the celebrations for Jacaerys Waters’s —Alicent would never think of him as a prince, despite his mother’s brazen lying—first name day had taken up nearly an entire month, with tourneys and balls, and feasting every night. The beggars were well-fed at least, she thought with bitterness; what the courtiers had deigned to leave behind, Alicent had given to the poor that gathered at the Red Keep’s postern gate of an evening.

She manoeuvred Aemond more securely onto her lap. He was too young yet, to stomach any of the other food, so she scooped spoonful's of pottage into his mouth. “Such a good boy,” she murmured to him, kissing the back of his head. Alicent could feel the soft curvature of his skull against her lips, still delicate after his recently ended infancy. “You’ve no trouble with your food, now do you, Aemond?”

Helaena did not do well with loud noises and large groups of people, and Aegon had been all but barred from the feast after the incident in his father’s apartments, Ser Criston his constant shadow, so it was just her and Aemond at the king’s side. After all, he was the name day boy.

“A toast!” Lord Jason Lannister's drunken voice rang out. “To Prince Aemond — may His Grace have cause to celebrate many and more name days in the future!” The entire hall let out a raucous cheer, whilst the little prince looked with interest at all the people who’d come to King’s Landing for him.

“Is this feast only for me, Mother?” her child asked, his voice a breathless whisper.

She gave him a fond smile. “Yes, my sweet. And this evening we shall open your presents!” The queen smoothed Aemond’s hair, her mind far away. Alicent did not notice her son reaching for the king's chalice until it was too late. There was a splash and the chalice clanged against the floor.

“Alicent!” Viserys barked, and she felt herself grow cold, dread pooling into the pit of her stomach. “Control the boy, please!”

Hippocras had been spilt all over Viserys’s new cloth-of-silver tunic, staining it irreversibly. The queen quickly gathered Aemond against her, shushing his incessant questions—" Mother, why’s the king angry?”—as three maids cleaned up the spilt wine. She could hear Viserys’s grumbles and could feel the annoyed looks he was sending her—all the hair on the back of Alicent’s neck rose, goose flesh rising along her arms. She suppressed a yawn, as Aemond squirmed in her lap, wanting to walk: the king called for me last night, did he not?

Alicent could only remember leaving the room. Everything after that was merely darkness, and then a long harrowing walk back to her chambers, where Talya had a warm bath prepared for her. The more Alicent thought of it, the more her palms sweated. Her mouth went dry, and she felt as if her throat was closing up, and no matter how much air she gasped for, she couldn’t breathe—

“Mother?” Aemond asked, and he sounded uncertain. Alicent tried to smile at him, but it came out as a grimace. Odd flashes of memory were filling the queen’s mind—the smell of herbs, a thin scarecrow of a hand covered in mottled flesh reaching for her, peeling skin and the smell of ointment, three rats moving along a bedroom's rafters—and she was going to be sick. She felt liquid working its way up her throat. The queen stood, ignoring the stares of the feasting courtiers, and placed her son down into her chair. She swallowed convulsively.

“Aemond,” Alicent said, voice strained, “stay with your father. I’ll be right back.” She rushed out of the side door behind the dais, ignoring Viserys’s shouted queries. Alicent could hear Aemond crying. She opened the door, barely managing to shut it before the vomit finally caught up with her, spilling out onto the floor as Alicent gasped and coughed and spluttered. Half of it landed on her, soaking the silk of her cornflower blue gown. She heaved and heaved and heaved until she was sure it was over. It's back.

If she were mad enough to return in her current state, the princess and her lickspittles would likely die from laughter. Of late, no one enjoyed her misfortune more than Rhaenyra, Alicent knew, though the queen had means of getting back at the wretch, means which she would allow to grow fat and ripe before she reaped them. The light of the windows illuminated swirling dust motes, highlighting the red in Alicent’s hair.

Her mind felt disoriented as if she’d just banged her head against the floor. Placing one foot in front of the other, Alicent allowed the simple rhythm of left, right, left, right to guide her back to her rooms. The servants ducked their heads as she passed them by. Alicent could sense their eyes following her. I’ll have Larys deal with them. Half the court was at the feast, or elsewise enjoying the grand pyromancer’s entertainments Viserys had ordered put on in the city, so the corridors were deserted.

“Talya!” Alicent’s voice sounded shrill to her ears, as she burst into her apartments. “Are you here?”

Her gown stuck to her clammy skin; she pulled it off, the acrid smell of sick almost overpowering her senses.

“Your Grace?” Talya appeared — from whence Alicent knew not — with an armful of linen, dark eyes wide with disquiet. A frisson of cold understanding settled into them as she took in her queen’s panicked state.

“Water,” Alicent gasped, but the handmaid had already abandoned her previous task, running to fetch a small wooden basin and filling it with tepid water from the ewer. The queen was able to master herself then, as Tayla locked the door and peeled off her mistress's shift and hose and stockings, wiping away her sweat with a cool cloth as Alicent stood in the basin. It was only when she was clean and dressed in a new shift, that the gut-churning fear within her subsided.

“It happened again, Your Grace?” Talya asked, bony fingers digging into the red rough spun of her apron.

Alicent nodded, taking in slow, steady breaths. Viserys will be wondering where I am. She’d left Aemond there, she realised, and anxiety prickled its way up her spine, replenishing her dying dread.

“Clearly. And I was so sure it was over with.” Alicent let out a scornful laugh. Much good that assumption had done her. “I do not know what is wrong with me. Perhaps I've gone mad.”

The handmaid shifted from foot to foot. “You should talk to a maester.” Alicent looked at her sharply, but Talya was uncowed. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you’ve been like this since young Prince Aegon’s birth. I worry that it'll worsen, should you ignore it again.”

Most servants wouldn’t dare talk to the queen in such a manner, but Alicent had an understanding with Talya. When the young queen returned to her rooms dead-eyed and trembling at night, with the scent of Viserys’s rotting flesh still in her nostrils, it was Talya who attended her and set her at ease.

Alicent scoffed. “I’m sure Maester Mellos shall find my ailment to be eminently curable. ‘Oh yes, Maester, I cannot stand the sound of my husband's voice. It sends me into hysteria.’” Her voice hardened. “No, Talya. Any maester would think me insane. They’d take my children from me. I have borne this malady for six years. I can bear it six years more.” Alicent poured herself a cup of mint cordial from a nearby flagon, swilling it about her mouth to remove the lingering taste of vomit, and stood up in one smooth movement. “Now help me dress. I require another gown.”

The queen returned to the feast garbed in a gown that reminded her of home. The high-necked bodice was all Myrish lace, delicate as a spider's web and stitched onto a panel of cream silk. The tippet sleeves were so long that their points brushed the floor, lined with miniver and edged in a grey dark as smoke. Let them think I left for frivolity. A change of clothing to soothe my vanity. Her eyes slid across the hall. The feast had well and truly reached its peak, the noise so loud that it almost shook the rafters.

“You should never have left so abruptly,” the king told her, as Alicent seated herself with easy grace. She could see Viserys’s pockmarked face, frowning at her out of the corner of her eye, but took no notice. “Aemond’s been pestering my daughter. See to him, before he causes any more trouble.” He glanced meaningfully down at his ruined tunic. 

Sure enough, she found Aemond perched on the arm of his half-sister’s chair. The boy was talking her ear off, something to do with dragons. “Is it true that Syrax is fat?” The little prince asked and Alicent winced.

His half-sister replied in a flat voice, “Perhaps it seems that way because she’s no longer a juvenile.” Rhaenyra fiddled with her golden rings, as Laenor handed Jacaerys to a nurse. The babe wailed as he was carried out of the hall.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that Aegon’s dragon is prettier,” Aemond declared, with that strange confidence that was unique to toddlers alone. “He even looks like the sun. That’s why he’s called—”

“Sunfyre,” Rhaenyra interrupted, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I never would have guessed.” The golden coronet sitting atop the princess’s braid flashed in the light filtering through the stained glass windows.

Rhaenyra had dressed in her usual opulent fashion. Her gown was one of darkest red, like freshly spilt blood, slashed with rich purple damask at the skirts. A heavy chain of gold, to match her coronet, sat along her bodice, wrought in the shape of falcons. 

Beside her, Ser Laenor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The heir to Driftmark looked handsome in a mauve doublet, with the seahorse of House Velaryon picked out on his yellow half-cape in hundreds of tiny winking diamonds.

Aemond had finally noticed his mother, running to her with a squeal of joy. “Alicent,” the princess murmured, as Aemond buried his chubby face in her skirts, “I understand that you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence. I do wonder at your hasty departure, though. Was it Aegon?”

Alicent’s mind had gone blank, her limbs leaden with sudden fatigue. “What?”

“Were you seeing to another one of my half-brother’s mischiefs, Your Grace?” Rhaenyra took a sip from her glass. The princess's cheeks were flushed pink, her lips stained with Arbor Red. “That boy can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Alicent felt her hackles rising. The princess was freshly twenty-one and Aegon six, and yet she hated her half-brother with a passion that took the queen’s breath away. “Rest assured, Rhaenyra, Aegon is in his rooms, watched over by Ser Criston.”

Rhaenyra is a fool, Alicent reminded herself. Should she wish, Alicent could ruin her with a single sentence, but Ser Criston’s life stayed her hand. The Marcherman had proved himself a faithful knight. She would not use his past mistakes against him. Princess Rhaenyra had thrown herself onto the Kingsguard, stolen his honour and played him for a fool. In doing so, she’d earned herself a dangerous enemy in his person. The queen thought of brown-haired sworn swords and uncanny resemblances. He was not the princess’s only enemy, of late.

“They’re bringing the cake!” Aemond’s high-pitched voice broke Alicent out of her reverie.

Sure enough, servants swarmed their table, carrying honeycombs and sugar spun into the shape of slender towers, cream cakes and fruit tarts, a giant towering jellies and date scones, along with all the fruits of summer. Viserys slurped as he ate a melon, bits of its pale flesh stuck between his yellowing teeth. Juice ran down his chin, as he reached for another.

“Only one cake,” Alicent warned Aemond. She would not have her son sickening himself before his nap. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you share some more with Aegon upon the morrow.” 

Her son's response was not the one she’d anticipated. “Aegon’s always sad.”

Alicent sighed, beginning to usher Aemond back across to their seats when she heard Rhaenyra’s voice, loud and distinct amidst the tumult of the feast.

“As well he should be,” the princess's voice slurred. “He should be flogged. That’ll teach him to keep his hands to himself. Who was he to touch my mother's belongings?”

Alicent froze, breathed in, and felt her chest expand with it. She glanced at her husband but he was pretending deafness, eyes focused on his lemon cake. So it would be up to her to defend their child. Again. 

“Prince Aegon is being punished as we speak, princess. Surely you’ll not hold a grudge against him forever?”

It had happened three days past. Viserys had bid his eldest son sit, as the king worked on his miniature of Old Valyria. The child had soon grown bored, and the king had been concentrating intensely upon his craft, or so Eddard the stonemason had told her.

Whatever had happened, Viserys had paused when he heard the sound of crashing glass. Prince Aegon, curious as all children of six were, had accidentally broken a Myrish lens. Glass from Myr was worth its weight in spice, and this glass had been a gift to Queen Aemma from the Free Cities, upon her coronation, and a keepsake of her husbands upon her death.

By the time Alicent had arrived, Viserys’s face had been puce with anger, and Aegon bore a red mark on his cheek where he'd been slapped. Their son's fingers had been bleeding from the broken glass, but the king hadn't noticed, so full of rage was he. Aemma Arryn, Alicent realised with sadness, would be appalled.

“‘Punished’?” Rhaenyra's brows furrowed. “He’s been locked in the nursery. That’s hardly sufficient.”

Alicent could hear the courtiers whispering, likely remarking on yet another incident of familial disharmony within the royal House. “Aegon has already apologised for his mistake, step-daughter. You can always purchase another Myrish lens. Such things are replaceable.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“You would know all about replacements, since you are one,” Rhaenyra sneered. The princess had been wroth for a long time now, ever since her uncle had eloped with Lady Laena. “I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve my half-brother. That boy gives us only grief.”

And you’ve given your husband horns, Alicent thought but did not say. 

“You would do better to engage in self-contemplation, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, loudly enough for half the hall to hear. “Your son’s features are rather unique, for a Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to reply, features contorting with fury, but her father spoke first.

“Alicent, enough,” Viserys hissed. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself, woman.”

Worry not, husband, your daughter makes enough of a spectacle for us both.

She would’ve said it too, but little Aemond was looking at her, eyes wide with confusion, so Alicent swallowed her reply, ignoring Rhaenyra’s mocking smile and Viserys expression of quiet relief.

Some Targaryen’s, Alicent had come to find, were cowards.

The throne room was uncomfortably crowded. Viserys had shown himself for once, having gathered the strength to leave his sickbed and sit his iron chair. Rhaenyra stood to his right, conversing with him in hushed tones. Alicent had dressed lavishly for their guests, in a gown of dark green satin, its sleeves and bodice slashed with pure cloth-of-silver, that shimmered in the light. She sat on a throne of gilded wood, watching the milling courtiers below.

The queen had been pleasantly surprised when Viserys had told her of the invitation he’d extended to her kin. It’d been nearly a half a decade since Alicent had had cause to meet with her uncle, Lord Hobert. The Lord of Oldtown had brought his son with him. The last time she’d seen Ormund, he’d been a gangly boy of fifteen. He’d used to humour Alicent and her brother’s, back when they were still children residing in the Hightower, playing come-into-my-castle with them, and other games besides.

Now Ormund was a man-grown, with a wife and children of his own and there was a gulf between them, wrought open by separation and the passing of years. He and his father bent the knee to them, eyes on the floor.

“Your Grace’s, Princess,” Hobert said, “it is a pleasure to visit with you. We were flattered by your invitation, my king. To what do we owe the honour?”

A dreadful prescience nagged at Alicent, one she did her best to ignore. She’d asked her husband the very same question, and he’d dismissed her, murmuring something about the importance of reaffirming bonds between family. Raven’s sent to her father in Oldtown had been equally ineffective. Ser Otto Hightower had served two kings —and perhaps a third in the future, if all went well—and his time at court had taught him well the importance of silence. He had not been forthcoming about his plans, simply commanding her to fulfil her duties as she always had. Yet Alicent sensed that it was Otto who’d driven Viserys to his chosen course. Why else would the king have invited the Hightowers to the Red Keep?

“Lord Hobert, you and yours have ever been leal to the Crown,” her husband intoned, “since the Conqueror’s day. Was it not the Hightowers of Oldtown who were the first to acknowledge our ancestor’s right to rule? Such good service deserves a reward.”

The queen frowned. Lord Hobert and her cousin were still kneeling — they’d not been summoned all this way for a history lesson. As the king’s illness had progressed, his mind had begun to wander. Alicent was seized with the sudden fear that Viserys wasn’t quite lucid. She stared at him intently. Her husband wore his robes of state, blackest silk shot through with gold; the crown of the Old King girded his brow, its seven gemstones gleaming. For all her worries, though, Viserys’s eyes were sharp. Alicent breathed a sigh of relief…then felt her breath stop as the king continued.

“As such, we have decided to bestow upon you the fosterage of our youngest son, Prince Daeron. He shall leave the Red Keep with your party within the fortnight.”

Alicent gaped. She’d not been told of this. No one had mentioned Daeron being fostered. She thought of her little boy, six years old and cheerful. To be sent away from all he knew at such a tender age—it was too much, even for the likes of Viserys.

“Husband.” Alicent’s voice was edged with barely restrained panic. “Surely such a thing could wait a year, at least until our son mounts Tessarion.”

Her father’s secrecy now made a terrible sense. He hadn’t wanted Alicent to know about his intentions for his youngest grandson, even as he set his plans into motion. Otto Hightower may have been in Oldtown, but his influence over the king’s councilmen remained. For all that Viserys had banished him, he could not strip away the alliances his erstwhile Hand had formed at court.

She could see it in her mind’s eye. The letters the king's advisors must have received, the way they’d slowly convinced the king of the merits of Otto’s suggestion, subtly, with no mention of her father, and entirely out of Alicent’s sight. Of late, she’d been absent from meetings of the small council. Her Aemond had caught a fever, and whilst Alicent had been tending to him, the lords had no doubt plotted and planned and played her false.

And now they come for Daeron.

The king eyed his wife, considering Alicent’s suggestion, and she felt the beginnings of hope. All she wanted was a year. One year more for Alicent to hold her youngest son close, her baby, her well-behaved boy, who didn’t flinch away from her touch in fear, or look at her with eyes that were far away. Him and Aemond — they were her soul’s joy.

But then Rhaenyra spoke, her voice high and clear in the quiet of the room: “Her Grace is a mother - her heart cannot bear the thought of losing a child, even to kin. But you are the king, Father, and know your duty even when it is hard. I say to send the boy away. We cannot wait until he mounts Tessarion. How long might that take?”

The princess was smiling, smiling, smiling as she said this, lips turned up with triumph. Any chance to spite the queen, any chance to exercise some cruelty. His name is Daeron, she thought wildly, not ‘the boy’. Alicent felt the urge, deep in the marrow of her bones, to take Rhaenyra by the scalp, thrust her into the swords that made up the Iron Throne and watch as her face was cut to bloody ribbons.

Not so pretty then.

But Viserys was already nodding, even before the princess had finished her sentence. Her husband turned back to Lord Hobert, and Alicent bit her tongue as they began to discuss the necessary preparations. She would not be able to sway him now. Alicent’s eyes met Ormund’s.

He looked away.

Alicent felt somebody shaking her and could hear shouting: “My Queen, awake, awake! Something has happened to Prince Aemond.”

Alicent shifted under the weight of the bedclothes, understanding coming to her slowly through the groggy fog of disturbed sleep. Aemond: she bolted up, all at once, fumbling around as she disentangled herself from the furs. A brazier had been lit, and it cast lurid shadows all across her guest chambers, as Talya and her ladies dressed her. From there, it was a short walk to the main hall, Talya five paces behind.

Alicent’s heart was in her throat as she entered High Tide’s hall - she could hear its loud beating. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, it went. She could see her husband, atop the Driftmark Throne, face in his hands and Rhaenyra’s bastards, bloody and wounded. The Kingsguard, all seven members, stood around them. Ser Criston’s knuckles were white against his sword’s pommel. Lord Corlys and his wife stood beside him, clutching their sobbing granddaughters, silent and grim. The princess was nowhere in sight. 

Aegon and Helaena stood in front of the hearth, tears running down their cheeks. The queen wiped her clammy palms against her skirts and went to her children, soothing Helaena with gentle touches. For once, the girl allowed it. 

Aegon slipped his hand into hers. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. Her eldest son was shaking, his purple eyes wide. Distantly, she heard the roaring of a dragon.

“Where is my son?”

The denizens of the torchlit hall murmured lowly to each other, but none would answer their queen. Alicent saw her father, standing at the very back and caught his eye. When Otto looked back, his gaze was full of grief.

Bile rose in her throat. “Where is Aemond?” Alicent asked, louder now, her skin pebbling with gooseflesh despite the heat of the room.

“Ser Criston, show her,” the king commanded. He still held his face in his hands.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. The knight approached Alicent as if she were some mad beast. “My queen,” he said, and his voice was impossibly gentle, “calm yourself as best you can.”

“I want to see my Aemond.”

Something has happened. Alicent knew it from her father’s look, from Viserys’s hunched figure, from Ser Criston’s gentle tone. The knight gripped Alicent’s hand in his own and guided her to the back of the hall, where a padded bench lay. Someone lay slumped atop it, a white sheet over their head, someone with a child’s figure.

Alicent stared at that white sheet for a full minute. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. The queen’s blood was ice in her veins as she reached for it, pulled it back and saw—

A knife. Through Aemond’s eye. Its serrated edge shone dully, wet with his life’s blood. The world spun and blurred and then reshaped itself.

“Take out the knife,” Alicent whispered. “Take out the knife! Don’t leave him like that.”

Ser Criston reached over. The blade squelched as it was pulled out of the socket, and all Alicent could see was Aemond's expression, a rictus of pain. Alicent was certain that her son had died like that, alone and screaming.

Alone.

She fell to her knees, tears running down her face. She could taste them on her lips, fresh and salty. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

“Wake up,” she said to her son’s cooling corpse. Alicent shouted at the top of her lungs, the hall echoing with the force of her shrieks. “Wake up! Wake up! You have to live, you’re only ten, you have to live and grow and take up the sword—you’ve always loved it, my special boy. Don’t you want to be a knight? You must marry and have children. You’re a prince, don’t you see, Aemond?  Stop this at once, rouse yourself, you must needs live!”

She could hear whispering behind her, a voice saying, “She’s lost her wits,” and another murmuring about bastards and kinslaying and yet another, shushing them both. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Aemond didn’t heed her. The boy stared with sightless eyes at the ceiling, as if he weren’t ignoring his mother, as if he weren’t being disobedient to the one who’d birthed him in a bed of blood. Alicent came closer, still sobbing, and cradled his head in her arms, holding him close, her tears falling onto his face. She kissed her child’s head and felt the hard curvature of his skull against her lips. Blood was running down Aemond’s cheek from his bloody eye, pooling onto the bench below him, coating Alicent’s fingers.

My babe, my boy, why does he not look at me? The blood staining Alicent’s hands twisted itself into the shape of a grave, split into strange writhing creatures, slithered up her arms and face, blinding her until her vision was filled with red. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

The queen heard the sound of a door swinging open over her heartbeat, and Rhaenyra’s tinkling laughter reached her ears. She turned to look. The princess had arrived with her uncle, both of them dishevelled and talking loudly. It took her but a moment to realise what had happened. She saw her bastards. Her smile died.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

And then: “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them. The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question.” Viserys’s desperate face. “My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons.”

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Alicent glimpsed the bloody knife on the floor, the one that’d killed her son. She stood and slid it up her sleeve. Her world was red. The princess was still kneeling in front of her bastards, back turned. Alicent walked forward. The princess stood and turned towards her, but not quickly enough. Alicent stabbed the knife through her arm, felt it cut through gristle, felt it scrape against bone.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Rhaenyra's blood splattered across the stone floor. That was sweet, but her screams were sweeter.

Lyman Beesbury’s body was still lying in the chamber of the small council, when the queen returned there at dawn to meet with Ser Criston. She’d dispatched him to Dragonstone with half a hundred men-at-arms, the night of the king’s death. Alicent had smelt Viserys rotting through the wooden door and acted accordingly.

Her sworn sword stood before her now, a bloody sack in his hand. “Did you find them all?” Alicent asked him, almost trembling with anticipation.

“Most of them, my queen.” The knight hesitated, his expression nervous. “For all we took them unawares, Prince Daemon managed to escape with his sons.” Ser Criston’s hands were crusted with viscera: acting as the queen’s headsman was a bloody job.

“Princess Rhaenys? The girls?”

“I had to kill the princess. She wouldn’t stop fighting, you see.” His expression was almost distressed. “But the girls have been taken captive.”

Ser Criston upended his sack. Five heads rolled out, bouncing onto the floor and stinking of decay. For Aemond. Alicent gloried in the sight.

"Good," Alicent looked into Criston's beautiful eyes and cupped his cheek. The knight leaned into her touch. "You've done well, Criston."

Much later, after all was said and done, the Lord Confessor found the Dowager Queen alone in her chambers. She held two skulls on her lap, one of them large, the other small. Larys stood shadowed in the entrance, out of sight and listening.

“Your grandsire lies dead, little bastard, no more to bolster your crimes. Here’s his crown. Go on, have a look.” The queen hefted the small skull in front of her face. Its empty sockets had a clear view of the jewelled crown girding her brow. “And you, the beloved daughter, how did you die? In bed, at play, or dining, with the laughter of your loathsome get ringing in your ears? It matters not. I ask you, what is Viserys's favour worth now? No doubt your soul burns in some fiery pit, under heavenly purview.” With sudden violence, Alicent threw the skull down. It cracked. “Aemond, be well content. You are avenged, as has ever been mine intent.” 

[literallyjusttoa]

What’s better Christmas present than a bit of angst huh?

When Apollo was young, not yet a year old, he was banished from Olympus due to his crime of murder. Gaea called for his head, but Zeus shielded him.

“I will not rule as my father did,” he said “The boy can learn, he can be better.”

Apollo was sentenced to exile. Nine years, though he was not told this. No, Apollo was certain that he had lost his chance to join his family in the heavens. His father had spared his life, and as penance he now had to stay on the mortal realm for all eternity, alone.

The young god made due with what he had. He wandered through the fields of Greece, tending to the animals he found along the way. He would sing, as light and clear as the birds, and mortals would flock to the sound. Apollo was never allowed to linger long, but he fell in love with that feeling of warm comfort mortals seemed to carry with them, that joy that he could never quite reach. When he could, he worked, often for little reward. He wanted another taste, another glimpse of a less lonely existence. So he became a shepherd, a soothsayer, a musician, always a few steps away, watching but never being.

One day, in the middle of the coldest months, Apollo was hired by a farmer in the Vale of Tempe. He had a large herd of cattle and was in desperate need of a someone to care for them. Apollo traveled through the backroads and forests, making his way to the valley. When he arrived, however, he found no farmer, and no cattle. Instead, a lone man sat at the base of the river that flowed through the vale. The water was near frozen over, but the man did not shake. Instead, he turned, and smiled wide.

“Apollon,” Zeus said, “Olympus has missed you.”

Apollo was shocked. Had his father truly come for him? He dropped into a low bow, too nervous for words.

Zeus chuckled, low and warm, “Rise, son. There is no more need for humility. It has been decided you have done enough.”

“Truly?” Apollo asked, “May I truly join you on Olympus?”

“You may join me at home, Apollo.” Zeus responded, “Your home. Come, we shall perform a rite of purification in these waters, and then you will ascend to your throne.”

And so the rite was performed, and Apollo was cleansed. As far as the rest of the world knows, the two immediately ascended to Olympus, to the glorious applause of the other members of the divine court. Apollo took his throne, next to his dear sister, and began his immortal duties.

But there was a moment, one moment, which was kept away in that sheltered vale. Once Apollo had been cleansed, he stood at the bank, waiting for the next step. Any demand his father asked of him, he would have agreed too. But Zeus held nothing over his head. Instead, he summoned a cloak of sheep’s wool, and placed it over Apollo’s shoulders.

“A gift,” he murmured, “The golden treasures you were born with will bring you glory, but this my son… I hope this will keep you warm.”

And Apollo believed, with all his heart, that he would never be lonely again.

Time is a cruel master. As years bled into centuries that bled into millennia upon millennia, Apollo realized that loneliness would be his most constant companion. He realized that the source of this loneliness, this suffering, would often be the very man that promised to keep him warm. The fire of his father’s hearth burned everything it touched, leaving Apollo with blistered hands and a scorched heart.

But he still wore the sheepskin. When the loneliness crept into his bones. When the lightning crackled across his limbs with a burning pain, as warm as his father promised with an agony he’d never mentioned. When all seemed lost to the ground and the dust. Apollo found that wool cloak and cast it over his shoulders. Even broken promises can bring some sort of comfort. Even old sheep’s wool can bring an illusion of warmth.

I was his child once. He used to love me.

If only the bite of a king’s cruelty could be chased away as easily as the chill of a winter’s day. The wool does nothing, and the loneliness remains. Apollo shivers, and goes to rest.