#undead roe au

[historicboii]

Sometime ago, we created the undead gene roe au in the ww2 rpf server. Its sad, funny, thoughful and more!

We are having fun over there making our favourite medics life hell.Thank you to all and specially to @upontherisers , @leftenantjopson and @corrosivesaints, you guys have helped me so much.

A bit of context, in this au besides gene, babe is cursed to be reincarnated, this scene takes place before gene and Anthony Mayfield, our ww1 babe ship out to war.

But thats enough of me talking, lets get on with the fic!

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There is no greater sorrow than thinking back upon a happy time in misery- Dante, the Divine Comedy

"You got me a gift?

"Yeah, i mean it will be a while before we get back to the States, and well, I know you usually dont go out much, so i figured I might get something for you."

He handed me a expensive looking bag, probably from some of those found in the richer parts of the city, the parts were i would never go.

"Thats.... Very nice of you, Anthony"

"Well this is what friends do for each other. And please dont call me Anthony, I told already you you can just call me babe......... Well get on with it, open It !!!"

"Right now?"

I felt that this was too intimate of a gesture to do in public, a gesture meant between two lovers, not two soldiers ready to go to war.

"Well, we might not get another time to relax and be alone once we board that boat"

Seeing as i wasnt moving, he grabbed me and we started wrestreling, he was stronger but i was faster, and i had more experience fighting dirty.

We ended up on the floor, my hands keeping his arms behind his back. We spent a couple of seconds breathing heavily, i could feel his exahustion in the way his shoulders relaxed. Then, after the adreline had worn off, i realiced the position we were both in, and i quickly got Up and release Anthony.

"Okay, okay, leave me alone, I will open it"

I grabbed the bag that had been dropped during our previous activities.

Inside the bag was a small blue box, tied toguether with a matching ribbon. It looked expensive, sure, i knew Anthony had some money, at least much more than i had, but this was excessive, even for him.

I slowly opened the box, revealing a beautiful ornate lighter. Brand new. I grabbed it and spun It so i could see it more clearly. And then i saw it.

On its side, there were two intertwined letters. A G and a T. Gene and Tally.

"Wow, thats very beautiful"

"Do you like It? I figured you would like that. You keep talking of that sister of yours and that way you can keep her close during the war"

Somehow, that declaration was the worst of it. So intimate, the way he had remembered me talking about Tally. I couldnt say i loved the gift. Not to him. But what to say?

I looked at him. We were both too young, his face hopeful expecting my answer. He didnt know death like i did. He still had hope that we would make It somehow.

But today was not the day i reminded him of that. Today we were two boys happily enjoying our last days of freedom.

"It Will be handy for sure. Thank you, really, It means a lot"

"Well as long as you dont lose it somewhere in Europe my friend, i Will be happy"

He slung his arm around me. I had to force my mouth shut as not to say that i would be happy so long as i had him with me.

[corrosivesaints]

been having an absolute blast discussing the undead gene roe au in the ww2 rpf server so i was compelled & wrote a lil ficlet about him. special shoutout to @upontherisers @leftenantjopson and @historicboii, i love discussing our soggy boy together 😌💕

set around ep6-Bastogne. CW: for gore, descriptions of a head wound, mentions of an animal death, and vague references to suicide under the cut.

“WITH BLEEDING INSIDE THE HEAD THERE IS A METALLIC TASTE AT THE BACK OF THE THROAT.”

-Jenny Holzer

He’s wet. That’s the first thought that filters in. He’s wet and it’s cold. His head hurts, and he can’t see, and his breath rattles in his chest doggedly, an automatic response that refuses to quit. Gene coughs, once, twice, feeling something thick and viscous in the back of his throat. Everything smells like fresh, red meat. His limbs are stiff, uncoordinated. With a great deal of blind fumbling, he manages to get on his hands and knees, where he hacks out a wad of what feels like blood and phlegm, slithering out of his throat like a secret he don’t want to reveal. He blinks his eyes, shakes his head roughly. Every bone in his skull throbs, and his right ear is ringing, a loud high-pitched whine, the same tone of a German shell whistling overhead.  His vision is fading in and out, giving him faint impressions of his dank little foxhole, his bag lying abandoned, his helmet knocking against one knee. 

Then his hand closes around a foreign object and every muscle in him locks up. 

Hoobler. He had to–Hoobler was shot, he had to get to him. Fuck. He couldn’t see, he couldn't hear, Hoobler is gonna die, he has to get up. 

He tries, he really does, but his limbs aren’t cooperating. The unidentifiable object is small and bitingly cold. Metal. His fingers wrap around a handle. A gun, is the singular thought that floats to the front of his mind. Suddenly, he’s nauseous, heaving again, bile and blood and the food he foraged that morning hitting the ground with a wet smack. His vision is clearing incrementally, but his right eye is irritated. He swipes at it, and there’s blood. Why would he have blood on his face? Why isn’t anyone coming to get him, to lead him to Hoobler? 

Why is it so quiet?

He blinks down at the gun, and tries to think. His headache is powerful, overwhelming, painful enough he’d be sick once more if there was anything left in his poor stomach. Gene snatches his hand away from the weapon, which gleams mean and dark in his intermittently clear vision, the lines of it foreign. Hoobler…he had found a German luger. 

Gene wipes at his eye, because the blood is still running into it, alarmingly hot and sticky. Hoobler. The thoughts keep snagging in his brain: a gun, Hoobler has a gun. Something happened, something bad. Gene’s bleeding, did he get a hit to the head? He explores upwards after he cleans his eye, following the natural fault lines of his own skull until he–until– 

Gene lets out a wounded noise, like a dying deer he saw once, when his sister had missed the killing blow, sprawled out on the wet earth, eyes rolling in its head. He had not been able to help the animal, only holding its head as it had died, beautiful and awful, blood soaking his shirtsleeves. It’s a look he has never forgotten, and has seen on boys in trenches and foxholes, aid stations and the backs of jeeps. Gene has been wounded, in much the same way. A cold knowledge steals over him. 

Hoobler was dead. Gene has failed him. The whine in his ear grows louder, if that was possible. Hoobler bled out, hot and tacky and full of fear. Hoobler is never going home. Another wasted life Gene could not save. Dead because of human folly, because of a German Luger, because Gene wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t trained enough, and he didn’t have any goddamn supplies in this Godforsaken forest. 

He shudders, the cold making him feel ancient beyond his considerable years, as if he’s wandered the earth since the Greeks besieged Troy, or since St. Peter was put to the cross. Is this how they felt, old men watching young men die? Sentencing them to a miserable death for ideals that Gene is finding hard to think ever mattered in the first place. He crouches in his foxhole, blinking slowly and letting his vision crystalize. He needs to be able to assess what happened. The world is strange, fuzzy shades of gray, indistinguishable from the trenches of 30 years ago. If not for his uniform, it could be 1917. Gene coughs, waits for the ground to feel steady under him before pulling his bag over. His hands don’t shake as he pulls out his canteen and a wad of gauze. They never have, no matter how exhausted, how cold, or how scared he is. 

He traces the fine contours of his skull again, the touch light and hesitant. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but probably grisly, the shoulder of his jacket is stiff with gore. The smell of old blood is overpowering. He stares at the Luger and tries to remember what happened after Hoobler died. His memory is a dark hole, faint impressions, despair and the goddamn cold and how tired he is, worn down to the bone, one war behind him and another dogging his steps. Gene volunteered for this, but he might have made a terrible mistake, a decision he can’t undo, just like he can’t stop every death that happens under his hands or–

Gene shudders, stares at the Luger. There’s a memory, just out of reach. His thoughts are sluggish, hazy. He’s running on instinct mostly, even if the wounded he’s caring for is himself. His fingers feel the edge of sharp bone, flabby skin, and then–warm, squishy meat. Gagging, he rips his hand away. He’s thankful there’s nothing left in him to vomit. He takes a deep breath, in and out, and then reaches back. Hot viscera and God, why did you make it so he’ll always remember what a man’s brains look like and feel like, red and grey and pitiful in the mud? Gene bites back a whimper. His touch hurts, a foreign, clumsy intrusion to a place that should never be exposed, his fingers wooden. Fluid sluices down his face and neck, fresh and wet, blood and God only knew what else, slick like the fearful sweat gathering under his arms. 

After a long tense few minutes his questing fingers find the foreign material–the bullet–nestled in the cradle of his insides. It slithers free, a perverse sort of birth, and he stares down at it in the palm of his hand. It’s misshapen, half crushed as some shrapnel ends up after encountering the strangely hearty resistance that can exist in a body. Such a small thing, and he suspects that will continue to shock him.

He’s been sitting hunched over for he doesn’t know how long when a voice comes over his head.

“Doc?” It’s Lip, his voice pitched low, cautious. He comes into view, eyes scanning the area methodically. “Everything alright? The boys thought they heard a–”

He stops abruptly, his focus landing on Gene, his mouth clicking shut into a stern line. Gene glances around, taking in the sight clearly for the first time. His foxhole is a crude gap in the ground, reminding him of a hastily dug grave, one end splattered with blackened-red gore, as if someone tried to bury a body they had bludgeoned to death. 

“Gene,” Lip keeps his voice low and methodical. “What happened?” He’s worried, Gene can feel it radiating off him, acrid and sharp. He blinks, turning his attention back to the bullet in his hand. He doesn’t know. 

“I don’t…” he licks his lips nervously. His head still aches, and conversation is difficult to string together. “I don’t know,” he admits softly. Curls his hand closed, wishes he could hide the evidence so Lip won’t worry, he’s got more than enough on his plate basically running Easy Co as they are slowly suffocated by the German line. 

“Okay,” Lip says, possibly to reassure himself as much as Gene. He carefully climbs down next to him. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up huh?” He puts down his gun, picking up the canteen and producing an old rag, gingerly dabbing at the mess crusted around the wound. Lip sucks his teeth and lets out an involuntary hiss in surprise at one point. Gene does his best to stay still, to not whine at the pain and let him work. 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“No.” Lip ain’t stupid, he’s probably aware that a man doesn’t bleed that much or get a hole in his head and be as collected as Gene is. If he does think anything of it, he’s hiding it well, face lined with a type of paternal concern as he cleans him up. Gene’s trying his damndest to push past the dark and the pain, to remember, but he’s a hollow shell, has hardly any strength left in him to try. He worries the bullet between his fingers as if it’s one of his rosary beads. This looks bad. The army don’t approve of men deliberately hurting themselves, he does recall that. However, it’s only a problem if he has. 

The Luger sits at Lip’s side, unassuming and slight. The gun was chilly to the touch when he had grabbed it, but Gene’s not a great baseline–he runs too cool, especially his hands, which are compounded by cracked skin and weeping sores from the chill of the Ardennes. He has no idea how long he’d been laying in this hole, bleeding out from a wound that wouldn’t kill him anyway, regardless if he had turned the gun on himself or not. 

“Gene,” Lip says slowly, and that’s the first time he’s ever used his Christian name. “This is,” he pauses, pressing his mouth into a line. “Does it hurt?” He’s deliberately not touching the main injury, but up close it’s clearly obvious that Gene’s got a hole in his head, has layers of bone and brain on display, and any other Easy man wouldn’t be sitting up, wouldn’t be cognizant like he is if they were in this state.  

“Yeah,” he says. He hopes that Lipton can’t see it too well in the fading natural light. 

“We don’t got any morphine.”

“I know.” 

Lip sighs, his gaze darting to the gun and then to Gene. 

“Is there anything in the wound?”

“No.” Gene opens his hand briefly, and Lip’s face goes a shade pale. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Okay. I’ll give it a quick wash and bandage. You got gauze, Gene?”

“Shouldn’t waste it.” The wound will close up on its own. All that will remain is a faint scar and a gap in his memories. Other guys need supplies more, Gene will see the end of this war just like he did the last, but not every Hoobler or John Julian will. Lip gives him a stern look at that, brokering no argument. Cowed, Gene hands over the bandages. 

He holds the canteen up to Gene’s head and warns, “You might wanna bite on something, boy.” Gene agrees, clenches the fabric of his cleaner sleeve between his teeth and nods. Lip cleans the wound. Gene howls, thankful the sound is muffled. It would bring the Germans right down on ‘em. Bright, sharp, searing pain lances through his skull, every nerve screaming as Lip flushes out the wound. It’s agonizing. It seems to go on forever, and Gene is weak and dizzy when it finally ends, panting just the same as that deer had, a lifetime ago and thousands of miles behind him. He’s trembling again, and wet. His coat is ruined. 

“Hard part’s over,” Lip reassures him with a squeeze to his shoulder. The contact is warm, the heat Gene’s been missing for months, for years even. He lets himself lean against the wall a bit as Lip preps the gauze. Turns out he’s an alright nurse, he takes directions well when Gene gives them so the bandage doesn’t obscure his eye. The fabric gets sticky quickly, and Lip frowns. “That’s still bleedin’ bad, maybe I should have Luz radio a jeep.”

“No, it’ll stop soon.” Gene presses a hand against the bandage, trying to gauge how bad it is by touch alone. He should have Ralph check it when it’s healed up a bit. Can’t risk anyone guessing at the truth. Dubious is probably the kindest adjective to use for the expression Lipton’s wearing.

“You’re not staying here.” Gene, too tired to pick every fight, yields to that logic, letting Lip haul him out of the hole and put his helmet back on. It don’t sit right, with the bandages. Lip empties the Luger, raises his brows briefly, and pockets it. 

“You really don’t remember anything?” Gene shakes his head. He’s got a guess, which is probably right anyway, but it would be shameful, and rotten, if it was true. The kind of action they shot men over, that his grand-mère would disapprove of, a horrible mortal sin in the eyes of the Church. 

If Lipton doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t hint at it, just herds Gene along to his own foxhole, which is a slightly better hole in the ground, covered with a torn tarp and currently sheltering a miserable Luz.

“Woah,” he says at the sight of them.

“I gotta run up to CP, Doc got nicked by a stray piece of shrapnel. Get him some rations and something hot if we got it,” Lip orders. George nods numbly as Lipton disappears. Gene huddles down and braces himself for a long night of not one but two people fretting over him.

“Jesus, get over here you’re shivering,” George says, shaking his head, throwing off his shock as he pulls Gene over and throws a blanket over him. Gene sniffles. He’s so used to the permanent damp chill that surrounds him he forgets how badly the weather here has been affecting him.

“Stray shrapnel,” George mutters, patting his pockets to see if they’ll produce some K rations, or miraculously, something he can brew, like coffee. “You’re our medic,” he adds in an angry undertone, as if he would fight all the Germans in the Bois Jaques single handed at the perceived offense. Gene leans into his shoulder, into the heat of another body. His sister said he was like a lizard, always seeking out the best heat source to bask in. George, not finding anything, calms, wraps an arm around him, unphased by how dirty his uniform is. Luz runs hot, like a bony furnace. Gene’s aware he probably smells pretty awful, but he can’t bring himself to reject what’s being offered. 

“I’m okay,” he says, “just cold.”

“Did Dike put you up alone again? God, what an asshole.” George glares at the opposite wall, and if looks could kill Dike would have been dead a hundred times over. Genes sighs, a tide of exhaustion washing over him. He’s been running on scraps for so long–food, heat, medical supplies, hope. It’s awful to understand why he might have…if he really was at the end of his rope. 

“That’s insubordination,” he protests, but it’s half hearted even to his ears. 

“The army can kiss my hairy ass,” George declares hotly. “Get some rest, I’ll shake ya if someone hollers for a medic.”

“Thanks, Luz.”

“Anytime, Doc.”

Gene closes his eyes, curls into the warmth, and sleeps.

[minijenn]

Okay so, one idea I should mention is that my original plan for the Beach Pines equivalent to "The Cool Kids" was to replace the convenience store with a wrecked yacht (which is still haunted), and the alien moss with an abandoned Homeworld experiment where the Diamonds tried to bring Ice to life.

Namely, it was abandoned because their Gemstones would melt before they could get anything done, which had the unfortunate affect of creating puddles that are neither dead nor alive, and basically freeze over into something akin to the forced fusions when the sun sets.

It would've also served to set up Dipper's insecurities, with his ice powers only making the Ice Phantoms stronger and more monstrous, while Mable's fire would be able to melt the Ice and evaporate the Water to free the spirits of the Undead Gems.

Part of my idea was having Rose's healing tears be what "wakes up" the haunted water, energizing the undead/haunted puddle to the point that it's able to revive/refreeze at sundown and invade the haunted yacht in an attempt to hide from the sun and also smash any heat sources that might try and melt it.

Since then, though, I think I want to replace it with a somewhat original chapter (blending elements of two different Steven Universe episodes that got skipped over), and save the Cool Kids' introduction for a later point.

Mostly so I can figure out who should have the healing powers when the Healing Tears were intended to be foreshadowing for Rose Quartz being Pink Diamond. Because I do kinda want to have one of the Crystal Twins crack their Gem at one point.

Interesting ideas! Though I should point out, at least in my take of the swap AU that Roes Quartz is an actual Rose Quartz and not Pink Diamond, so I'm not sure if she'd have healing poers.

[kuipernebula]

Some One Piece FFXIV Au Thoughts:

The guild is called the Straw Hats, with the nametag <X>

Nami’s a midlander, and a White Mage because it includes weather in it and there’s a staff involved. Her natural ability to predict and understand the weather in particular is why she was chosen to study proper White Magic in the first place. (I.e. The Weatheria arc? Just Nami training with the Padjals) Also really into glamouring her gear.

Luffy’s also a midlander. He’s also a Monk because of course he is. Still obsessed with being a pirate. His training with haki is him learning proper Monk techniques on top of his pugilist techniques. He keeps trying to get Dragoons to teach him their jumping techniques and none of them do. (Note: Could be a paladin because “designated leader” and all.)

Zoro’s a Samurai, and either au ra or highlander. While I’d love to give him multiple swords as would best fit him, I didn’t break the mold on Nami’s class, either, so one sword it is. He’s considered learning the arts of the ninja, though, because more swords obviously means more power. (He never does.)

Sanji is a wildwood elezen, and probably also a Pugilist/Monk but there’s a strong argument for Dancer should it ever come out. Heavily invested in Culinarian and only learned the other crafting classes to cross-class stuff to it. Is a pain to raid with because he refuses to attack female characters but he still needed to clear Shiva and Garuda.

Usopp is a midlander, and a special-case Archer, kinda like how the archons are special case versions of classes. He’s also pretty heavily invested in Alchemy, but no one appreciates it like he wants them to. Makes a lot of boasts about how he manages to kill things despite being a class instead of a job. (No one cares.)

Chopper is a lalafell. (While making him a reindeer still would be cute, honestly he works best as a lalafell.) I’m just going to go ahead and skip expansions to whenever Chemist comes out because holy shit there is no better class for Chopper? Even more heavily invested in Alchemy than Usopp.

Franky is a sea wolf roegadyn Machinist. Also a master of every craft in the game, but has his specializations are in Carpentry, Blacksmithing, and Armorsmithing. Also, his decision to wear nothing but a pair of speedos and a vest is completely normal among male roe’s in the game already. Why isn’t he in the game already.

Robin’s a duskwight elezen. She’s also a Scholar or a Summoner, having inherited the history of Nym or the Allagan Empire through her life. (I honestly can’t decide which is better for her because they’re both perfect.) She’s filled out her sightseeing log and sometimes goes through dungeons just to experience them again.

Brook’s hard to place honestly, only because by all accounts he SHOULD be a Bard, but his fighting style is literally just a ghost-themed Red Mage. So either he’s a special case Bard using a Rapier (which breaks upon any examination of the game system tbh) or he just becomes a ranged fighter. (I don’t like either solution...) Anyway he died recently enough that the aether disturbance of the Calamity brought him back, but he’s retained his cognizance unlike 99.9999% of undead so he pals around with the Straw Hat guild. Could also just be a Dark Knight...

Jinbe is probably a sea wolf roegadyn, unless we want to go really weird and make him a smarter-than-average Sahagin. If the former, he’s a monk hailing from the Domans, giving him a different fighting style than Luffy. If the latter, he’s a “pugilist”-type Sahagin with water-themed moves and such. (Note: This custom Sahagin class could be a tank Monk variant for the purposes of class balance)

Carrot is a seeker of the sun miqo’te. Breaking my previously-establish fist-fighter plan, she’s actually a special-case Rogue who channels elements through her daggers. Is way better than she should be for being a class instead of a job. Despite her relative power level, she’s really new to life outside her clan (the C clan?)

Vivi should be a midlander, but the royal family of Ul’dah are lalafell and it’s honestly the best place to put her? Unless we make her thavnairian royalty, instead. Not sure on what her combat class is, but the way she fights with strings and distraction makes me say either special-case Rogue or special-case Paladin. Either way Carue is her trusty Chocobo who is max level and scares the rest of the party because no one cares about combat chocobo until Carue one-shots a FATE boss. (As guilds are legal and such, she’s able to be a member, but considers herself a “provisional” member because she’s usually tending to royal duties.)

[historicboii]

A medieval drawing of a nurse, completely not related to our undead roe au.

Man those medieval manuscripts sure do have some funny ilustrations, learned a lot painting this.

Tagging the other masterminds of the au under the cut

@upontherisers @corrosivesaints @leftenantjopson

[historicboii]

A bit of an early Christmas present from me, i guess. Featuring our medic and a cameo talking about Life. And a bit of lore i guess. This has taken so long to finish, so please enjoy.

As always, thank you to @upontherisers @leftenantjopson and @corrosivesaints , i love talking about our boy.

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Do not be afraid; our fate

Cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.

-Dante, the Divine commedy

Waking up had been the hardest part.

Each time it happened he felt like a piece of himself was lost. To what, he didn't know. Maybe it went to Heaven, and thats how he would get in, piece by piece. Maybe It was lost to Hell, being cast out. A piece of his soul to pay his unholy gift.

War was his purgatory. Everytime he fell asleep he kept seeing the ghosts of his comrades, old and new, but oh so young. Stuck in time just like was.

But at least they had the release of death, a finality to their existance. He had no such thing. Just endless suffering, as unending as those woods that they were stuck at.

A voice calling to him stopped his thinking. A womans voice. For a second, he thought of his mom, how she always called out to him. He thought of his sister, she would be older now. Probably married, maybe she had some kids of her own. Could he face her again, after all that he had seen? All those deaths, for what? So that in a couple of years, she would send her sons to war?

The last time should have been the last, but here he was again. All those lost for nothing. Anthony had died for nothing. Just another death for the pride of someone else. Pawns in a stupid game.

The voice kept coming near, and now he could see to who it belonged to. It was that woman, the one who followed Renee like a shadow.

"Êtes-vous ok?"

She asked him. Speech came slowly, but he willed his mouth into the shapes.

"Oui, but i cant remember whats happened"

"Une bombe. You were in that church and it went down"

He remembered now. He had come by winter's orders after Harry was hit. He thought that the woods were hell but he found out how wrong he was

Everything had been on fire. They had made it to the church and he had jumped out the Jeep to help the wounded. He stood un the entryway were not long ago he had been talking to Renee. She was helping some poor soldiers get out when a beam fell. The fire and the smoke did the rest.

God, Renee. If there was a good in this world, It was her. He had tried to help her. He had died trying. And now she was dead. He hoped that at least hers was fast. Another death by his hands.

"Devrait être mort"

"Mais tu ne l'es pas"

Did she know? Had she seen him come back?

The questions must have shown on his face, because the woman smiled kindly and spoke.

"Come with me. I can explain everything"

They walked along all the rubble. The fire had been put out, leaving only the scorched remains of Bastogne.

Somehow, a house stood. It was old, a bit beat up, but nevertheless there it was. The woman, Anna, his mind supplied, opened the door. It must have been her house then.

"Tea? And please, leave your things where you can. Feel yourself at home"

A sense of warmth filled him, and not because he was under a roof for the first time in days.

"Je suis desolé, mais, why am i here?"

"Sit down, and i will explain everything"

I followed her hand, to a couple of old sofas. I was intrigued by what this woman would say to me, so i sat down where she told me

"Whats your name, boy?"

"Eugene, madame. Eugene roe."

"Tell me, have you always been like this?"

"Like what, madame?"

"Undead. And please stop with the madame stuff, you can just call me Anna"

"Very well. Well for what i can remember, yes, i've always been like this."

"And how old are you?"

"Technically I'm around 50"

"You are young yet"

"What does that mean?"

"When you've been like us for as long as we've have you learn a couple of things. Like how not to get crushed by a burning beam."

"Us? Whos the other one?"

I watched her flinch for just a second. Like if a mask had broken. But as fast as it had been broken, it came on again. The other person must have been someone close to her. Recently dead then, if the flash of pain was anything to go by. And there was only one person i had seen Anna with

"Was it Renee?"

Those simple words, spoken aloud. It was one thing to go to a strangers house, another entirely to accuse someone of being effectibly inmortal.

The silence was deafening. She must have thought i was crazy. But at least she spoke

"Renee is, was, like that, she always gives all of herself until she is no more"

"I dont understand"

"Have you heard the story of Saint renee?"

"Can't say i have"

She stood up and walked to a side table. She took an used cigarrette case, and took out one. She didn't light It just yet.

"Its an old fable. They say once, when France was ravaged by the plague, a young girl escaped her home and went to help the poor souls consumed by it. They say she took their pain and inflicted It onto herself. Even when her pain was too great she still kept walking, going to all the villages, to all the hospices and she kept saving them. Until the disease was no more.

They say the girl died, but that years later, the same woman appeared again, at their time of need. She was there when the british atacked, she was there during the terror, and she was here in the last war.

Always the same, a young woman with a blue scarf. Like the saying says 'Quand la terre est en feu, voici la fille bleue' "

"That was her, right?"

"Oui"

"Were you there?"

"Come on, im not that old! Do they teach you no manners, american?"

"Je suis desolé"

"Dont be, i'm still older than you"

She took her cigarrette to her mouth. As if i was her puppet, I took out my lighter and lit her cigarrette.

She took a long drag, and the silence filled the room once again, as if to leave us space to stop and think about the story she had just told me.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Of what?"

"Doing this. Waking up each day, acting like we are normal. Is that everything there is to it? We keep living and they keep dying?"

"For us yes, we live so that they can too. We try to live life to its fullest.

Me and Renee, we trust each other. I never know when she will be back, or how, or why. But i still have hope that i will see her.

When you've seen the worst of hummanity, and believe me petit, this is as bad as any other war, you start to enjoy the little things, human things. The music, the art..... Their laugh."

She stopped there, lost in thought. I did the same. True, it was a miserable time, I was cold, the show was terrible and i hadn't slept in a week because of the shellings.

But then i remembered my time in Easy. Luz's jokes. Winter's determination. Stories shared in foxholes. Complaining about Sobel.

And above all , a man. Babe.

His smile, his hair that contrasted against the white snow.

I made a move to tell her to continue.

"So instead of trying to die, try to live. For them. Find a tether, and if im right, i would say you already have one."

"I think i have"

I stayed a bit more with her, and we swapped stories. Of our families, of our adventures. Turns out neither were called what I thought of originally and were living under aliases. Anna was really augusta and renee was .And we were more alike than I thought, both preffering each otger over men. I liked her. She reminded me of my own sister and i felt more safe in that little house than I had felt in months, probably since England.

But sadly, i had to leave. I still had people to fight for. People i had to protect. I said farewell and promised to visit as soon as i could.

Sometime later, i found lipton by a Jeep. Theyhad come to pick the few men that were ok and take them back. I got in It and we left the ruined city, and with It all that had been in It.

We had been sitting quietly, but before we entered the forest Lip asked me.

"So-Lipton started- what were you doing there?'

" Catching up with a friend"

"Sure. Are you better? Im sure being there wasn't doing you any good"

"Dont worry, im okay"

"Right, boy"

And i knew, in that moment, that i really was. And as soon as we made It back to the frontlines, i had someone to look for.

[historicboii]

Aahhhhhhh i love It!!! Love our little undead boy!

been having an absolute blast discussing the undead gene roe au in the ww2 rpf server so i was compelled & wrote a lil ficlet about him. special shoutout to @upontherisers @leftenantjopson and @historicboii, i love discussing our soggy boy together 😌💕

set around ep6-Bastogne. CW: for gore, descriptions of a head wound, mentions of an animal death, and vague references to suicide under the cut.

“WITH BLEEDING INSIDE THE HEAD THERE IS A METALLIC TASTE AT THE BACK OF THE THROAT.”

-Jenny Holzer

He’s wet. That’s the first thought that filters in. He’s wet and it’s cold. His head hurts, and he can’t see, and his breath rattles in his chest doggedly, an automatic response that refuses to quit. Gene coughs, once, twice, feeling something thick and viscous in the back of his throat. Everything smells like fresh, red meat. His limbs are stiff, uncoordinated. With a great deal of blind fumbling, he manages to get on his hands and knees, where he hacks out a wad of what feels like blood and phlegm, slithering out of his throat like a secret he don’t want to reveal. He blinks his eyes, shakes his head roughly. Every bone in his skull throbs, and his right ear is ringing, a loud high-pitched whine, the same tone of a German shell whistling overhead.  His vision is fading in and out, giving him faint impressions of his dank little foxhole, his bag lying abandoned, his helmet knocking against one knee. 

Then his hand closes around a foreign object and every muscle in him locks up. 

Hoobler. He had to–Hoobler was shot, he had to get to him. Fuck. He couldn’t see, he couldn't hear, Hoobler is gonna die, he has to get up. 

He tries, he really does, but his limbs aren’t cooperating. The unidentifiable object is small and bitingly cold. Metal. His fingers wrap around a handle. A gun, is the singular thought that floats to the front of his mind. Suddenly, he’s nauseous, heaving again, bile and blood and the food he foraged that morning hitting the ground with a wet smack. His vision is clearing incrementally, but his right eye is irritated. He swipes at it, and there’s blood. Why would he have blood on his face? Why isn’t anyone coming to get him, to lead him to Hoobler? 

Why is it so quiet?

He blinks down at the gun, and tries to think. His headache is powerful, overwhelming, painful enough he’d be sick once more if there was anything left in his poor stomach. Gene snatches his hand away from the weapon, which gleams mean and dark in his intermittently clear vision, the lines of it foreign. Hoobler…he had found a German luger. 

Gene wipes at his eye, because the blood is still running into it, alarmingly hot and sticky. Hoobler. The thoughts keep snagging in his brain: a gun, Hoobler has a gun. Something happened, something bad. Gene’s bleeding, did he get a hit to the head? He explores upwards after he cleans his eye, following the natural fault lines of his own skull until he–until– 

Gene lets out a wounded noise, like a dying deer he saw once, when his sister had missed the killing blow, sprawled out on the wet earth, eyes rolling in its head. He had not been able to help the animal, only holding its head as it had died, beautiful and awful, blood soaking his shirtsleeves. It’s a look he has never forgotten, and has seen on boys in trenches and foxholes, aid stations and the backs of jeeps. Gene has been wounded, in much the same way. A cold knowledge steals over him. 

Hoobler was dead. Gene has failed him. The whine in his ear grows louder, if that was possible. Hoobler bled out, hot and tacky and full of fear. Hoobler is never going home. Another wasted life Gene could not save. Dead because of human folly, because of a German Luger, because Gene wasn’t fast enough, he wasn’t trained enough, and he didn’t have any goddamn supplies in this Godforsaken forest. 

He shudders, the cold making him feel ancient beyond his considerable years, as if he’s wandered the earth since the Greeks besieged Troy, or since St. Peter was put to the cross. Is this how they felt, old men watching young men die? Sentencing them to a miserable death for ideals that Gene is finding hard to think ever mattered in the first place. He crouches in his foxhole, blinking slowly and letting his vision crystalize. He needs to be able to assess what happened. The world is strange, fuzzy shades of gray, indistinguishable from the trenches of 30 years ago. If not for his uniform, it could be 1917. Gene coughs, waits for the ground to feel steady under him before pulling his bag over. His hands don’t shake as he pulls out his canteen and a wad of gauze. They never have, no matter how exhausted, how cold, or how scared he is. 

He traces the fine contours of his skull again, the touch light and hesitant. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but probably grisly, the shoulder of his jacket is stiff with gore. The smell of old blood is overpowering. He stares at the Luger and tries to remember what happened after Hoobler died. His memory is a dark hole, faint impressions, despair and the goddamn cold and how tired he is, worn down to the bone, one war behind him and another dogging his steps. Gene volunteered for this, but he might have made a terrible mistake, a decision he can’t undo, just like he can’t stop every death that happens under his hands or–

Gene shudders, stares at the Luger. There’s a memory, just out of reach. His thoughts are sluggish, hazy. He’s running on instinct mostly, even if the wounded he’s caring for is himself. His fingers feel the edge of sharp bone, flabby skin, and then–warm, squishy meat. Gagging, he rips his hand away. He’s thankful there’s nothing left in him to vomit. He takes a deep breath, in and out, and then reaches back. Hot viscera and God, why did you make it so he’ll always remember what a man’s brains look like and feel like, red and grey and pitiful in the mud? Gene bites back a whimper. His touch hurts, a foreign, clumsy intrusion to a place that should never be exposed, his fingers wooden. Fluid sluices down his face and neck, fresh and wet, blood and God only knew what else, slick like the fearful sweat gathering under his arms. 

After a long tense few minutes his questing fingers find the foreign material–the bullet–nestled in the cradle of his insides. It slithers free, a perverse sort of birth, and he stares down at it in the palm of his hand. It’s misshapen, half crushed as some shrapnel ends up after encountering the strangely hearty resistance that can exist in a body. Such a small thing, and he suspects that will continue to shock him.

He’s been sitting hunched over for he doesn’t know how long when a voice comes over his head.

“Doc?” It’s Lip, his voice pitched low, cautious. He comes into view, eyes scanning the area methodically. “Everything alright? The boys thought they heard a–”

He stops abruptly, his focusing landing on Gene, his mouth clicking shut into a stern line. Gene glances around, taking in the sight clearly for the first time. His foxhole is a crude gap in the ground, reminding him of a hastily dug grave, one end splattered with blackened-red gore, as if someone tried to bury a body they bludgeoned to death. 

“Gene,” Lip keeps his voice low and methodical. “What happened?” He’s worried, Gene can feel it radiating off him, acrid and sharp. He blinks, turning his attention back to the bullet in his hand. He doesn’t know. 

“I don’t…” he licks his lips nervously. His head still aches, and conversation is difficult to string together. “I don’t know,” he admits softly. Curls his hand closed, wishes he could hide the evidence so Lip won’t worry, he’s got more than enough on his plate basically running Easy Co as they are slowly suffocated by the German line. 

“Okay,” Lip says, possibly to reassure himself as much as Gene. He carefully climbs down next to him. “Okay, let’s get you cleaned up huh?” He puts down his gun, picking up the canteen and producing an old rag, gingerly dabbing at the mess crusted around the wound. Lip sucks his teeth and lets out an involuntary hiss in surprise at one point. Gene does his best to stay still, not to whine at the pain, and let him work. 

“Do you remember what happened?” 

“No.” Lip ain’t stupid, he’s probably aware that a man doesn’t bleed that much or get a hole in his head and be as collected as Gene is. If he does think anything of it, he’s hiding it well, face lined with a type of paternal concern as he cleans him up. Gene’s trying his damndest to push past the dark and the pain, to remember, but he’s a hollow shell, has hardly any strength left in him to try. He worries the bullet between his fingers as if it’s one of his rosary beads. This looks bad. The army don’t approve of men deliberately hurting themselves, he does recall that. However, it’s only a problem if he has. 

The Luger sits at Lip’s side, unassuming and slight. The gun was chilly to the touch when he had grabbed it, but Gene’s not a great baseline–he runs too cool, especially his hands, which are compounded by cracked skin and weeping sores from the chill of the Ardennes. He has no idea how long he’d been laying in this hole, bleeding out from a wound that wouldn’t kill him anyway, regardless if he had turned the gun on himself or not. 

“Gene,” Lip says slowly, and that’s the first time he’s ever used his Christian name. “This is,” he pauses, pressing his mouth into a line. “Does it hurt?” He’s deliberately not touching the main injury, but up close it’s clearly obvious that Gene’s got a hole in his head, has layers of bone and brain on display, and any other Easy man wouldn’t be sitting up, wouldn’t be cognizant like he is if they were in this state.  

“Yeah,” he says. He hopes that Lipton can’t see it too well in the fading natural light. 

“We don’t got any morphine.”

“I know.” 

Lip sighs, his gaze darting to the gun and then to Gene. 

“Is there anything in the wound?”

“No.” Gene opens his hand briefly, and Lip’s face goes a shade pale. 

“Okay,” he repeats. “Okay. I’ll give it a quick wash and bandage. You got gauze, Gene?”

“Shouldn’t waste it.” The wound will close up on its own. All that will remain is a faint scar and a gap in his memories. Other guys need supplies more, Gene will see the end of this war just like he did the last, but not every Hoobler or John Julian will. Lip gives him a stern look at that, brokering no argument. Cowed, Gene hands over the bandages. 

He holds the canteen up to Gene’s head and warns, “You might wanna bite on something, boy.” Gene agrees, clenches the fabric of his cleaner sleeve between his teeth and nods. Lip cleans the wound. Gene howls, thankful the sound is muffled. It would bring the Germans right down on ‘em. Bright, sharp, searing pain lances through his skull, every nerve screaming as Lip flushes out the wound. It’s agonizing. It seems to go on forever, and Gene is weak and dizzy when it finally ends, panting just the same as that deer had, a lifetime ago and thousands of miles behind him. He’s trembling again, and wet. His coat is ruined. 

“Hard part’s over,” Lip reassures him with a squeeze to his shoulder, the contact is warm, the heat Gene’s been missing for months, for years even. He lets himself lean against the wall a bit as Lip preps the gauze. Turns out he’s an alright nurse, he takes directions well when Gene gives them so the bandage doesn’t obscure his eye. The fabric gets sticky quickly, and Lip frowns. “That’s still bleedin’ bad, maybe I should have Luz radio a jeep.”

“No, it’ll stop soon.” Gene presses a hand against the bandage, trying to gauge how bad it is by touch alone. He should have Ralph check it when it’s healed up a bit. Can’t risk anyone guessing at the truth. Dubious is probably the kindest adjective to use for the expression Lipton’s wearing.

“You’re not staying here.” Gene, too tired to pick every fight, yields to that logic, letting Lip haul him out of the hole and put his helmet back on. It don’t sit right, with the bandages. Lip empties the Luger, raises his brows briefly, and pockets it. 

“You really don’t remember anything?” Gene shakes his head. He’s got a guess, which is probably right anyway, but it would be shameful, and rotten, if it was true. The kind of action they shot men over, that his grand-mère would disapprove of, a horrible mortal sin in the eyes of the Church. 

If Lipton doesn’t believe him, he doesn’t hint at it, just herds Gene along to his own foxhole, which is a slightly better hole in the ground, covered with a torn tarp and currently sheltering a miserable Luz.

“Woah,” he says at the sight of them.

“I gotta run up to CP, Doc got nicked by a stray piece of shrapnel. Get him some rations and something hot if we got it,” Lip orders. George nods numbly as Lipton disappears. Gene huddles down and braces himself for a long night of not one but two people fretting over him.

“Jesus, get over here you’re shivering,” George says, shaking his head, throwing off his shock as he pulls Gene over and throws a blanket over him. Gene sniffles. He’s so used to the permanent damp chill that surrounds him he forgets how badly the weather here has been affecting him.

“Stray shrapnel,” George mutters, patting his pockets to see if they’ll produce some K rations, or miraculously, something he can brew, like coffee. “You’re our medic,” he adds in an angry undertone, as if he would fight all the Germans in the Bois Jaques single handed at the perceived offense. Gene leans into his shoulder, into the heat of another body. His sister said he was like a lizard, always seeking out the best heat source to bask in. George, not finding anything, calms, wraps an arm around him, unphased by how dirty his uniform is. Luz runs hot, like a bony furnace. Gene’s aware he probably smells pretty awful, but he can’t bring himself to reject what’s being offered. 

“I’m okay,” he says, “just cold.”

“Did Dike put you up alone again? God, what an asshole.” George glares at the opposite wall, and if looks could kill Dike would have been dead a hundred times over. Genes sighs, a tide of exhaustion washing over him. He’s been running on scraps for so long–food, heat, medical supplies, hope. It’s awful to understand why he might have…if he really was at the end of his rope. 

“That’s insubordination,” he protests, but it’s half hearted even to his ears. 

“The army can kiss hairy my ass,” George declares hotly. “Get some rest, I’ll shake ya if someone hollers for a medic.”

“Thanks, Luz.”

“Anytime, Doc.”

Gene closes his eyes, curls into the warmth, and sleeps.