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danaewrites · 9 months ago

Text

Helmet Over Heels

part i: the winter of our discontent

din djarin x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 3.8k

summary: When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives.

You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?

And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…

(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P

author's notes:

hello and welcome to my first ever mando fic!! i binged the entirety of the first two seasons in a week to get me through tedious internship work and accidentally fell in love with our favorite space dad and his cute green child along the way. oops (i regret nothing)

with the outline i currently have for this fic, it’ll be around 11-12 chapters, although that’s likely to grow as we get deeper into the story. the posting schedule might be anywhere from once a week to once a month, but this wip *will* be finished.

the second chapter's scheduled to upload next week as a little treat for y'all, so if you want to catch it then hit that follow button or ask to be added to my taglist! ;)

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v coming soon!

You watched the last of tonight’s drunken patrons stumble out of the cantina and into the bitter Nath night with a relieved sigh. Wiping your hands on the stained apron tied around your waist, you fished a set of bronze keys out of a tiny pocket and began your nightly walk around the perimeter of the bar, locking doors and pulling down rusty shutters as you went. The cantina was silent aside from your quiet shuffling– a welcome reprieve from its usual crowded bustle and chatter so hectic you could barely hear your own thoughts.

You hummed softly as you adjusted booths back to their original positions and swept crumbs off of battered tabletops, wishing that the small holospeaker at the edge of the room hadn’t been broken in a recent bar fight. Swaying to its pre-Imperial oldies throughout your long, exhausting shifts had been one of the only perks of working in this run-down cantina, but without the soothing ambience of music, a chill threatened to sink into your bones and paralyze you with the deep depression this side of the planet seemed to have succumbed to.

You never planned to stay here for as long as you had. No one really did, except for criminals who knew that no one would willingly come here to search for them and locals who had never known anything else. Nath might have been charming, once– all soft snowflakes and peaceful walks under sepia-toned streetlights– but that was before the Empire had destroyed every semblance of comfort and culture and replaced them with brutalist brick structures that were already crumbling under the weight of their makers’ crimes. The fear lingered long after the Imps had finally left the post, reflected in the sad eyes of the fishmongers’ children and the way one would be hard-pressed to find a factory worker who didn’t spend his nights nursing a bottle and the ghosts of blaster scars across his back.

You had your own scars, of course, but you still held out hope that things would change and you’d make it out of here– although that hope was gradually diminishing as off-world shuttles visited less and less frequently and the permanent winter worsened. Five years ago, you’d been unceremoniously dropped off at the town’s dingy port, forced to land after your shuttle to Corellia was damaged by an unexpected detour through an asteroid field. You’d taken the cantina job thinking you’d only stay long enough to pay for passage on an outgoing ship, but soon learned that any shuttle risking the terrible weather to land here would also charge an exorbitant boarding price– one that would take you years to afford with the meager pay you received. And your tentative plan of stowing away on a spice freighter and sneaking off once it arrived at its destination (you weren’t picky about where, so long as it wasn’t Nath) was tempered by the increasingly likelihood that you’d get blown to pieces the minute you entered space by one of the pirate gangs that ruled the atmosphere these days. So– you were stuck here, at least for now.

The smell of something burning in the back of the cantina drew you out of your thoughts. Cursing, you raced to the kitchen, where your dinner was quickly blackening on the stove. Kriff. You shut off the burner, staring at the charred mess before you for a few seconds before dejectedly scraping it into an almost-overflowing trash bin. Well, there went your plan to eat quickly and head to your tiny flat before the storm outside worsened. Your rental pod had barely enough space for your bed and a miniscule bathroom, so you had to use the cantina kitchen if you wanted to stay fed– but the stove here was so old, it took half an hour longer than usual to cook anything. You resigned yourself to another night sleeping in a booth, since the flurry outside would prevent you from navigating your way home safely.

You sliced up a few vegetables and set them to simmer in a pot with the last of the herbed broth and sandseed noodles from today’s lunch special, glancing at the bin next to you. It was probably a good idea to take out the foul-smelling waste before you were sealed in next to it all night. Wrinkling your nose at the unappealing scraps of food threatening to fall off the top of the pile, you hefted the bin up and maneuvered it through the back door of the cantina, being careful not to stain your apron any more than it already was. The harsh winds nipped at every sliver of exposed skin and dusted your hair with a pearlescent sheen of snow, making you wish you’d thought to slip on something warmer than your thin blouse and trousers before leaving the protection of the kitchen.

You navigated through the blizzard to the end of the dark alleyway behind the cantina, your path lit only by two buzzing lamps at each end of the narrow corridor. You scrunched your face up against the cold, willing yourself to keep walking despite your extremely limited night vision. Just a few more steps, and then you’d be free of your compostable burden for the night. You turned the corner, stepping to the left where you knew the trash compactor was, and immediately collided with a giant hunk of metal.

Said hunk of metal cursed loudly as it stumbled head-first over the garbage bin you’d dropped in shock after the impact, falling forward into the snow. “Dank ferrik!”

Your eyes grew wide as the glow of the flickering streetlights illuminated the very-much-alive Mandalorian lying in front of you. It was just your luck that you’d managed to potentially injure the kind of warrior you’d only heard about in hushed rumors, or at least someone who was wearing the armor of one. Okay, injure was a strong word, but all that cold, hard beskar couldn’t be very comfortable to fall on despite the protection it offered.

“Stars, I’m so sorry, let me–”

You reached forward, stretching out a hand to help the Mandalorian up when a small green head suddenly popped up out of a tawny bag slung across their side. You yelped in surprise, losing your balance on the icy road and toppling forward. You winced, bracing yourself and preparing for the inevitable impact– except right as you were about to hit the ground, one steel-clad arm shot out to grab your wrist while the other steadied your hips. You gasped at the warmth of the unexpected contact, pulse quickening as you stared at the–man? person?–beneath you, the only thing preventing you from a nasty collection of bruises appearing across your side tomorrow.

A deep baritone sounded from the helmet– likely modulated, from the slightly grainy tone. “Are you alright?”

Definitely a man, then. You pointedly ignored the butterflies that stirred to life in your stomach at the sound of his voice, praying that he would attribute your shiver to the cold and nothing more. Stars, this was getting more embarrassing by the minute. You tucked away the thought, making a note to do some serious soul-searching later on about the depth of your touch-starvation and its potential impact on your mental state.

You gave a quick nod, muttering your thanks and carefully rolling to the side as you dusted clumps of snow off of your trousers. You looked up at him to see him gently picking up the little green creature you’d been so startled by earlier and tucking it back into the bag, pulling his cloak over its head to shield it from the chill. That was… rather cute, actually. You thought Mandalorians were supposed to be scary fighters, dedicated to nothing but their Creed, but this one was clearly fond of the small thing clinging to him. You couldn’t blame him; the green creature’s big ears and bug eyes were adorably endearing.

The cold winds picked up pace, and you wondered why anyone would be out here during such a storm as you got to your feet. Anyone local would have sought shelter hours ago, and no freighter would dare to land in such conditions.

“Are you... lost?” You tentatively asked. “Can I help you find someone?”

The Mandalorian remained silent for several long seconds, helmet tilted slightly. Whatever he saw in your face seemed to have settled well with him, and he released a quiet huff through the modulator.

“I need to get food. For my son,” he eventually admitted, gesturing to the baby peeking up at you.

“Oh!” You brightened up considerably as you remembered the flavorful soup you’d started earlier. “Well– I work in a cantina back there,” you said, pointing behind you at the rusted door that led to the kitchen.

“We’re technically closed right now, but I’m sure I can work something out.” You winked at the curious child, smiling as he let out a happy babble.

The Mandalorian’s helmet hadn’t moved from its focus in your direction, and you suddenly felt nervous. Which seemed stupid, because–yeah, it felt intense, but was he even looking at you from behind the dark visor of his helmet? For all you knew, he was making the most ridiculous expression at you behind all that beskar and you’d never know. The absurd thought made you snicker softly. If no one could see your face, you’d definitely act goofy at people all the time.

The Mandalorian’s head tilted slightly, and whoops, he’d definitely noticed your little moment now if he hadn’t been paying attention before. Your face reddened and you quickly gestured for him to follow you as you unlocked the door to the kitchen, relieved when you heard the soft clink of his armor come through the doorway behind you.

You placed your hands on your hips, surveying the dimly lit cantina and deciding to lead the duo to a worn table close to the bar. It looked unassuming, but the chairs were the comfiest in the cantina and you figured the baby would appreciate something softer than the coarse bag he’d been in.

Once they’d gotten settled in, you set about finding a mug of blue milk for the kid and some water for the Mandalorian. You brought the drinks over to the pair, hiding a smile at how eagerly the little green baby reached for his.

“You’re pretty thirsty, huh?” You observed as the baby slurped up the cerulean beverage. Shooting the tall, beskar-clad man a glance out of the corner of your eye, you continued, “Must have been quite the trip. Most people don’t usually travel to this side of the galaxy for vacation.”

To your disappointment, the Mandalorian remained as still and stoic as ever. Well, that just wouldn’t do. He was your first visitor in years from anywhere outside of Nath, and you were absolutely not letting him leave without getting a bit of juicy detail on life outside of your current drudgery. You decided to go for another angle.

“You know, kids need good role models in their lives. Ones that show them how to socialize with others and communicate. Display generosity of the loquacious sort, even.” You shrugged innocently in your best attempt to mimic the overly casual air the old women at the tea shop always used before passive-aggressively attempting to set you up with their stay-at-home-nephews. “Never too late to start.”

You got the distinct feeling that he was laughing at you under that helmet. Rude. Huffing, you sat down across the table from him and crossed your arms, trying to guess where under his visor his eyes were. Once you were half-confident that you’d found the spot, you stared intensely at it with your most intimidating expression. Which wasn’t saying much, seeing as you had the firepower of a soggy Lothkitten and probably came off as more desperate than anything.

“Isn’t there some sort of honor code for Mandalorians? One that includes being noble to strangers and whatnot?”

No response. Argh.

“Well, I’d consider it pretty noble to provide a lonely soul such as myself with a bit of storytelling entertainment on this frigid evenin–”

Your final attempt at prying some information out of the armored man was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen timer beeping increasingly louder and louder until you were sure the whole cantina was vibrating with the tinny noise.

“KRIFF, not again!”

You bolted out of your seat towards the kitchen, but not before you heard a thinly disguised huff of amusement coming out of the modulator. Okay, he was definitely laughing at you.

Once you’d successfully saved the soup from imminent destruction-via-cursed-stove and somewhat regained your pride, you finally made your way back to the table with three steaming bowls of noodles. You placed the smallest one in front of the child, who cooed happily and immediately began plopping his hands in the bowl. The Mandalorian huffed in exasperation and began prying little green fingers out of the bowl. “Hey. Quit that, we talked about this,” he grumbled. You winced as broth sloshed out of the bowl, landing dangerously close to the baby’s tunic. The kid’s lower lip started to tremble, a blaring warning sign that a tantrum was going to occur in approximately ten seconds if he wasn’t distracted from his current petulant state.

“Oh– hey, bug, don’t do that,” you said as both father and son turned to look at you. You leaned closer to the wide-eyed baby and pointed to his bowl. “That’s pretty hard to scoop up, yeah? Look, there are easier ways to eat it,” you explained as you brought the bowl up to your lips and raised an eyebrow, hoping that he would do the same. The kid blinked up at you for several long seconds before turning to his father with outstretched hands. The Mandalorian sighed, but held up the dish as requested. You hid a smile behind your bowl at the sight.

“Good job! Okay, now we’re going to try something fun–” You mimed slurping up the soup with a silly face at the baby, who burbled something incomprehensible in response but finally followed your example and focused on his food.

When you were sure that the baby’s clothes were no longer in danger of being drenched by broth– and by extension, frozen stiff whenever the pair headed back into the storm–you quietly tucked into your own meal, closing your eyes at the warm memories the comforting flavours brought. Not for the first time, you missed the earthy smell and placid weather of your homeworld, a stark contrast to this icy prison of a planet.

“You are… good with him.”

Your eyes darted up to find the Mandalorian’s helmet angled directly at you. Your face heated at the observation and you gave a small laugh, willing yourself to resist fidgeting under his gaze.

“I– thank you, I’ve always liked kids. Used to volunteer in the nursery back home, actually, before the Empire stole every resource from it they could.”

Your eyes widened with sudden realization. “You’re not Imperial, are you?”

The Mandalorian scoffed vehemently, the most emotion he’d displayed since he’d fallen back in the alley. “No.”

Well, that answered a few questions at least. You were prepared to move on from the conversation when he hesitantly spoke, “My ship ran into a few… asteroids. Is there a mechanic nearby?”

You set down your spoon, thinking. The closest asteroid field was four solar systems away and almost entirely inaccessible if one was traveling through hyperspace, so the likelihood that he’d truly run into one was small. In that case, he probably had damage from some kind of fight— seeing as the average pacifist wouldn’t need that much armor— and would want someone reliable who wasn’t going to ask questions about laser-sized holes in his ship’s hull.

He hadn’t tried to kill or rob you yet, so you figured his personal tussles were none of your business and decided to give him an honest recommendation. You directed him to a small mechanical hub close to the ice huts where there were few ships and even fewer nosy citizens. “The owner, Sanna, is the best in town,” you admitted. “I haven’t had the chance to visit her personally, but she’s known for being very discreet.”

He nodded, entering the coordinates you’d given him into some sort of device on his wrist. You tried to contain your pleased expression at correctly guessing his reason for being on Nath. And it had only taken you… well, four tries, but that was better than nothing!

“What is your price?”

You blinked, confused. “My price?”

There was that increasingly frequent head tilt again. His helmet tipped forward, scanning you. “For the food. And information.” He clarified slowly.

“Oh,” you spoke, surprised. “It’s okay, I was making dinner for myself anyway. And you’d have found out the location of the mechanic from someone else eventually,” you shrugged.

You couldn’t see his face, but from the disbelieving tone of his voice you imagined his eyebrows to be raised. “Not many people would turn down credits.”

You winced, reminded of your costly dream to get off-world, but there was no way you’d accept this stranger’s money for such a small favor when he had a kid he needed to provide for. “Yeah, well. Guess I’m not most people,” you laughed sheepishly.

The Mandalorian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like no, you definitely are not. You squinted at him accusingly.

“Hey, you better not be making fun of my interrogation tactics, metal man.” You leaned forward to poke his soup bowl emphatically. Hm, that was strange– he hadn’t so much as touched it. Did Mandalorians follow some kind of special diet? You resolved to look that up the next time you had access to a datapad.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing that to a lonely soul like yourself.” He responded dryly.

You gasped in mock offense, forgetting your previous train of thought and internally groaning that he’d remembered that part of your disastrous attempt to weasel information out of him. Yeesh. Not your most eloquent moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you cared,” you shot back in the most syrupy-sweet tone you could muster.

The kid grinned up at you with sharp teeth and blew a soupy bubble towards your face in response. You smiled down at him, adding, “But if you really want to repay me, then bring me back a good story about this little guy the next time you crash land through a— what did you call it? Asteroid field.” You highly doubted the duo would ever willingly return, but if making a deal gave this man peace of mind to know his imaginary debt was settled in some future way then so be it.

The lights in the cantina began to flicker and you got up with a frown, walking over to the electrical box behind the bar. The dull grey display, crammed with incomprehensibly labelled switches and flashing lights that would give anyone a headache, alerted you that the main generator had been depleted of power. You scrambled over to a window, prying open the shutters a crack only to be met with a dark swirl of snow that completely obscured your view of the street. Stars, the storm had worsened quickly— there was absolutely no chance you were making it home tonight. You slammed the shutter closed and turned around with a grimace that didn’t go unnoticed by the Mandalorian.

“What is it?” He questioned, modulated voice growing wary at the expression on your face.

“We’re running out of power, the main generator’s down from the storm so these lights are going to have to shut off soon. I think there’s enough in the emergency generator to heat the cantina through the night, though.” You hesitated, not sure how to break the bad news. “Unfortunately, the weather is— unmanageable. You’re not making it out of here to the mechanic’s until the blizzard lets up.”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, so you continued talking. “I was.. planning on sleeping here tonight.” You muttered, trying to think of a plan. You glanced at the sleepy child resting on the Mandalorian’s beskar chest plate. “I usually keep a couple blankets here for that reason— pretty sure there’s enough to cover the baby, but you might need to be okay with sharing.”

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth, searching your memory for where the emergency supplies were kept. Kriff. How were you supposed to know that you’d be snowed in, and with guests no less? Your grumpy boss really should have put instructions for this type of situation in the closing shift directions instead of the usual “sweep the floors” or your personal favorite: “if the customer creates a corpse, they gotta clean it up themselves��.

The Mandalorian interrupted your musings with a firm, “No need,” gesturing to the charcoal cloak fastened around his pauldrons. You eyed it dubiously, but supposed that the material looked thick enough. That was probably to your benefit, anyway, since you were something of a notorious blanket hog and didn’t think he’d take kindly to having his sheets ripped off him in the dead of night. That seemed like a quick way to wake up with more bruises than you went to sleep with.

“Well— alright then,” you sighed at last, tossing the smaller of your blankets to the man and tucking the other into the side of a nearby booth. “I’ll shut off the lights in a moment. Refresher’s that way, if you need it,” you pointed to the end of a dimly lit hall. The Mandalorian nodded once, then returned his attention to carefully cocooning the child in his lap. You set to work fluffing up your own makeshift bed, folding the cleanest dishtowel you could find into a pillow before trudging over to the light switch and enveloping the room in darkness.

Quietly feeling your way back to your booth, your eyes adjusted to the pitch-black little by little. You pulled your hair out of its messy updo and curled up on the seat, body slowly relaxing. It was strange, hearing the muffled rhythm of breaths coming from lungs that weren’t your own, but oddly soothing in its own way.

“G’night,” you mumbled, half-asleep already, consciousness swirled down the psychological drain by the overpowering storm raging outside. The lull-and-hitch of the baby’s soft snores echoing off of solid beskar set you drifting off to sleep faster than you had as a child, so lost to the world that you were sure you dreamed the quiet, belated whisper that sounded back to you.

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read on: part ii

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charliedawn · 2 months ago

Note

Charlie, I don't know if you've watched it

But I've been binging House MD for a week now and I am curious

How would the slashers react to a nurse/doctor/caretaker that acts like House? Throw in the injured leg and popping painkillers if you want.

(course you don't need to do this, especially if you haven't watched it, but I suggest it, it's a really good show!)

(I love this show ! And I loved the idea. Maybe I went a little overboard, but I hope you’ll like it !)

Dr. Gregory House was not impressed.

He limped through the front doors of St. Louis Hospital for the Criminally Insane, his cane tapping against the marble floors, the sound echoing off the tall, institutional walls. The hospital looked like it had been plucked straight from a horror film. Looming in the shadow of a distant mountain range, the gloomy forest surrounding it, the structure was a mix of gothic and brutalist architecture, its jagged, imposing edges designed to keep people both out and in. The kind of place that whispered secrets in the wind and held darkness in its very bones.

House paused in the entrance lobby, taking in the security cameras, the reinforced glass, and the guards stationed at every corner like statues. A hospital, they called it. It was more like a fortress—a prison masquerading as healthcare.

"Well, this is cozy," he muttered under his breath.

Two security officers flanked him as they walked down the corridor, their eyes glancing nervously at every door. House smirked. Not even the staff feels safe here, he thought.

He had been transferred here after what his superiors at Princeton-Plainsboro had called "several breaches of professional conduct." To be fair, they weren’t wrong. Sure, he'd solved cases no one else could, but apparently there was a limit to how many patients you could verbally abuse, experiment on, or trick into revealing life-threatening conditions.

So now, after burning every single bridge out there, here he was—sent to St. Louis to deal with a different kind of patient: the criminally insane. Specifically, the violent ones. The ones who liked to stab, slice, and butcher. It wasn’t that they didn’t need medical care. They did—often after failing to finish the job on themselves or others. But these were the slashers, the ones whose names conjured fear and nightmares. Legends in their own right. And that made him excited.

"Dr. House," said a nurse as she advanced towards him with a smile. "Welcome to St. Louis."

He huffed.

"Really ? I feel like I should be checking in with my parole officer, not you," House replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He glanced at the directory on the wall: Intake, Ward A, Ward B, Ward C: Maximum Security. His eyes lingered on the last one. He bet that’s where all the "fun" patients were.

"Not many doctors survive long here," the nurse explained, ignoring his jabs. "Our patients... well, they have certain needs that require someone of your...unconventional skill set."

House raised an eyebrow. "Unconventional, huh ? Bouhou. You almost hurt my feelings."

He smirked.

She stared at him for a long moment before deciding to ignore him and continuing. "Your patients will be some of the most dangerous people in the country, Dr House. Murderers. Sociopaths. Many of them are mentally fractured in ways modern medicine still doesn’t fully understand."

House rolled his eyes. "Fractured brains, violent tendencies...sounds like a weekend with my ex-wife."

She smiled politely before gesturing down the hall, where a guard was stationed in front of a heavy steel door, the words Ward C etched above it in grim lettering. "This is where you’ll be assigned. Ward C—reserved for the most violent offenders." The nurse informed him and House tapped his cane on the ground, surveying the corridor. "And I get the pleasure of keeping them alive ? Lucky me."

He scoffed sarcastically and she nodded.

"They don't just need medical attention. They need to be understood. We need to know why they are the way they are, and more importantly, how to control it. Think of it as one long medical mystery, Doctor House. I know how much you love mysteries." She grinned—thinking he might take up the challenge and she wasn’t wrong.

House leaned in slightly, his face turning serious. "So, you're telling me I'll be working with slashers ? The 'legends' of the violent crime world ? Monsters who carve up people for fun ? Why, oh why, didn’t you lead with that ?" He grinned back.

Their lips tightened, unimpressed with his dark humor. "You’ll be given access to their medical histories and psychological profiles. If you’re good enough to figure them out."

He rolled his eyes.

"Toots, I’ve diagnosed people with diseases no one’s heard of and found cures no one believed in. Your little band of merry killers isn’t going to throw me off."

He didn’t hesitate before taking the files she handed him and leafing through them. His eyes widened on the little he was given to work with. Most of them were so classified all over that there was more black than white on them and House finally frowned before closing the files. Right. They were sending doctors in there with no idea about what they were supposed to do or what they were gonna face. No wonder they were short-staffed…

The nurse sighed. "Just don’t get yourself killed."

Too fast…, Dr House guessed she had left out by the way she looked away and bit her lower lip. Yeah. It seemed the cemetery he had seen on his way in wasn’t just early decoration for Halloween.

But, he still felt confide and smirked at her.

"Don't worry. I'm not planning on letting any of them get too close." He glanced at the guard by the door. "Besides, I always bring protection." He tapped his cane. "This thing’s more useful than it looks."

The nurse hesitated before sighing and nodding. A guard opened the door to Ward C, and immediately the mood shifted. The air inside was heavier, like the building itself could feel the presence of the patients it held. It was a long corridor lined with cells—each one sealed tight with reinforced glass, inside them dim figures pacing or sitting, their faces obscured. The sound of heavy breathing, the occasional murmur or maniacal laughter echoed faintly from deeper within. The first door they passed revealed a huge masked man hunched over on his bed, his eyes staring intently at Dr. House as he walked past his cell. His file—clipped to the door—read Brahms Heelshire, better known to the world as the ��Nanny Killer’ or ‘Killer Doll’. Next to him was the infamous Freddy Krueger—his eyes fixed on him with a sleazy smile. Across from them was Jason Voorhees, his hulking frame slouched in a corner, his hockey mask reflecting the dim lights.

"This is like the slasher hall of fame," House mused, scanning the infamous names as if he were walking through a bizarre art gallery. "Do they give tours ?"

At the end of the hall was an empty room—empty except for a single metal chair, bolted to the ground, with heavy restraints dangling from the armrests. No patient. No file. Just an eerie, cold silence.

"Who’s this for ?" House asked, tapping the door with his cane.

"That’s for Michael Myers," the nurse replied flatly, the name hanging in the air like an ominous cloud. "He’s currently undergoing evaluation. It happens sporadically, but he always comes back."

House raised an eyebrow. "Ah, the Michael Myers. The boogeyman himself. I’ve read about him. The guy who never dies and never says a word. Sounds like an ideal patient—no complaints, no endless monologues about how their mother didn’t love them enough."

The nurse didn’t flinch at House’s sarcasm. "He’s unpredictable. Dangerous in ways you cannot possibly imagine."

House waved it off, still scanning the eerily quiet room with its empty chair. "Unpredictable ? That’s my bread and butter. Sounds like a normal day for me, minus the masks and machetes. Besides, I’ve been trying to kill myself slowly for years—alcohol, Vicodin, maybe the occasional slash-happy patient will speed up the process."

The nurse eyed him warily. "This isn't a joke, Dr. House. The patients here aren’t just disturbed—they’re lethal. You’re not dealing with people who want to be saved. They want to hurt. And they don’t need much of an excuse."

House rolled his eyes, tapping his cane again. "You don’t say. Well, considering this place looks like it could double as Dracula’s vacation home, I’m guessing safety measures aren’t exactly high priority. Where are the mood lights ? The potted plants ? You’re supposed to make hospitals inviting, you know. Maybe some soft jazz, something to make me forget I’m surrounded by lunatics."

The nurse ignored him, her patience visibly thinning. "You’ve been given full access to their records. Try to understand what drives them. They’re all damaged in ways that defy typical psychiatric diagnoses. If anyone can find out what makes them tick, it’s you.”

House sighed dramatically, the weight of the situation lost on him. "Fine, fine. I’ll crack open their skulls and poke around—metaphorically, of course—find out what’s rattling in there. Though I’d wager it’s mostly bad childhood memories and a fascination with sharp objects."

The nurse’s serious tone didn’t waver. "Be careful, Dr. House. This isn’t Princeton-Plainsboro. The rules here are different. These patients...they do not care about your brilliance. They won’t hesitate to hurt you if given the chance."

As they continued walking down the corridor, House’s eyes wandered over the slasher patients in their cells. He recognized many of them from headlines, documentaries, and whispered urban legends. The names alone would send chills down anyone else’s spine—serial killers who made a career out of violence, leaving destruction in their wake. But to House, they were just patients. Puzzles to be solved, however warped or shattered they might be.

House paused, his sharp blue eyes flicking down to meet hers, the smirk fading slightly. He let out a small, humorless chuckle. "You know, the thing about people like me ? We never really expect to survive."

The nurse ignored the comment. "These patients are unlike anything you've ever dealt with. Most of them are physically resilient, surviving injuries that should have killed them multiple times over. Their psychosis, in many cases, seems almost...supernatural."

"Supernatural ?" House let out a scoff. "That’s a fun word for 'We don’t know what the hell’s wrong with them,' isn’t it ?"

She didn’t answer, but her silence was telling. House could feel the weight of his new role settling on his shoulders, but it wasn’t the weight of fear. It was the thrill of the unknown. The mystery of minds so fractured, so broken, they seemed beyond repair. Seemed being the key word.

As they reached the end of Ward C, House stopped to study the doors once more. He tapped his cane on the floor, looking at the empty room reserved for Michael Myers. A shiver of excitement ran through him, though he’d never admit it. Whatever the slashers’ issues were, House lived for this—the challenge, the chase, the impossible diagnosis. And in this new place, with patients who blurred the line between reality and nightmare, he knew one thing for sure:

It was going to be one hell of a ride.

"You sure you’re ready for this, Dr. House ?" the nurse asked, her voice a little quieter now, as if she too had second thoughts. House smirked again, twirling his cane once before letting it tap the floor. "Ready ? I’ve been bored for years. This place might finally give me something to care about."

With that, he turned, making his way down the dim corridor, passing the locked cells of notorious killers, his cane echoing through the silent ward. Ward C, the place of horrors, home to the most disturbed minds in the world. But House didn’t flinch.

This was going to be fun.

He smiled.

That afternoon:

Dr. Gregory House stepped into the dimly lit room of one of the cells of Ward C, and his eyes immediately fell on the the broad bloke curled up on himself like a child. Sitting quietly in the corner was Brahms Heelshire, his face obscured by the mask of a porcelain doll, but this was no child’s toy. Beside him, placed with eerie precision on a small wooden chair, sat a life-sized doll—a spitting image of Brahms himself, right down to the carefully crafted clothing and unnerving, glassy eyes.

House smirked, his cane tapping lightly on the tiled floor as he sized up the room. "So, I guess this is what passes for family around here. Must be nice having a twin brother who doesn’t talk back."

Brahms didn’t move. His posture was perfectly still—like a statue frozen in place. The doll next to him—his other self—seemed to mirror the lifelessness of its owner. The room’s atmosphere felt heavy, as if the very air had been sucked out, leaving only the tension between House and the bizarre duo.

"Let me guess," House continued, walking slowly around the room, his eyes never leaving Brahms or the doll. "He’s the talkative one, right ? You’ve got the looks, and he’s got all the charm. Am I close ?"

Brahms’s head turned ever so slightly, just enough to acknowledge House’s presence, but he remained silent. His hand rested gently on the doll’s shoulder, as though it were a living thing—a cherished companion. The porcelain doll’s eyes stared back at House, empty yet somehow filled with something unsettling.

"You know, I’ve had a lot of weird patients," House continued, leaning against the wall, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "But this ? This is a first. A grown man hiding behind a doll. I’ve gotta say, your coping mechanisms are fascinating. Must be a hell of a childhood story to unpack here."

Still no response. House wasn’t surprised. He’d read Brahms’s file—how he’d spent his youth hidden away in a mansion, isolated from the world, how the doll had become both his protector and his proxy. House found the whole thing both tragic and ridiculous.

"So, what’s the deal ?" House asked, raising an eyebrow. "Is he your bodyguard ? Your best friend ? Your brother ? Or are you just using him to keep the world at a safe distance ?"

Brahms shifted again, his masked face still unreadable, but the hand on the doll’s shoulder tightened slightly. House caught the movement, his curiosity piqued.

"Ah, I see. He’s not just a doll, is he ?" House stepped closer, tapping his cane as he circled the pair. "He’s you. The version of you that never got to grow up, the one who never had to deal with all the nasty bits of being human—fear, loss, rejection. You made him your escape."

The room felt colder, the air thickening with the unspoken tension. Brahms’ silence was oppressive, but House was relentless.

"You’re not the first person to create a shield, you know," House continued. "You’ve just taken it to a creepy new level. Most people use alcohol, drugs, or a good old-fashioned mental breakdown. You ? You went full Pinocchio. But instead of becoming a real boy, you’ve stayed a puppet."

Finally, Brahms moved. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes visible through the slits of the mask, and for the first time, House felt the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t anger, nor was it fear. It was something darker—something far more broken.

"You think you understand me," Brahms finally said quietly, his voice muffled by the mask. "But you don’t. He’s not just a doll. He’s my protection. My family. My…other half."

House raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the response. "Protection from what ? The big, bad world ? Or are you just protecting yourself from the mirror ?"

Brahms’s hand clenched the doll’s shoulder harder, the tension in his body palpable. "He’s everything I’m not. He’s the part of me that’s strong. The part that doesn’t feel pain."

House leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And what about you ? The real you, hiding behind that mask ? You think this little doll can keep you safe forever ?"

Brahms’s breathing quickened, and for a brief moment, House could see the cracks in the facade. This wasn’t just a man with a doll—this was a man torn apart by his own fractured identity. The doll wasn’t just a comfort; it was a prison. And Brahms had locked himself inside willingly.

"He protects me from people like you," Brahms hissed, his voice suddenly sharp. "People who think they can fix everything with their words. People who want to take him away from me."

House’s smirk faltered for just a second, and he tilted his head, studying Brahms more closely. "I’m not here to take anything away from you. I’m just here to figure out why a man who’s clearly smart enough to survive in a world that’s abandoned him is still hiding behind a doll."

Brahms suddenly stood up, his height more imposing than House had anticipated. He loomed over him, his masked face inches from House’s own. "You don’t know what it’s like," he growled. "To be trapped. To be hated. He’s the only one who’s ever been there for me."

House didn’t flinch and he kept staring at Brahms. "Maybe," House said, his voice low, "but he’s also the one keeping you trapped. You’re not protecting him. He’s keeping you from facing the fact that you don’t need him anymore."

Brahms recoiled slightly, as though the words had struck a chord. His hand hovered over the doll, but this time, there was hesitation. House took a step back, letting the silence settle in.

"I’ll tell you what," House said, turning toward the door. "You keep your little buddy here as long as you need to. But one day, you’re going to have to choose whether you want to be the man or the doll. Because trust me, living your life through a puppet ? That’s not living."

As House walked out of the room, leaving Brahms alone with his doll, the man’s gaze lingered on the figure beside him. The mask on Brahms’ face remained as blank as ever, but beneath it, there was a spark of hesitation.

What if the doctor was right ?

Meanwhile, Dr. House walked to the next cell. He step inside, the heavy door closing behind him with a hollow thud. He was no stranger to unusual patients—Princeton-Plainsboro had given him his fair share of weirdos—but this was something else entirely. The man sitting in front of him, legs crossed and a smirk plastered on his burned face, was notorious in ways that even House couldn’t ignore.

Freddy Krueger.

The infamous dream killer lounged in his chair, his signature bladed glove dangling from his right hand, the tips of his claws lazily tapping against the metal armrest. The sound was grating—like nails on a chalkboard. His weathered fedora cast a shadow over his disfigured face, but House could see the mocking gleam in his eyes.

"Well, well," Freddy said, his voice raspy and filled with dark amusement. "They sent me the famous Dr. House. Heard you were good at solving puzzles. You gonna fix me, doc ?"

House limped closer, his cane tapping rhythmically on the floor. He met Freddy’s gaze without flinching, his expression one of bored detachment. "Fix you ? I am a doctor, not a miracle worker. I am pretty sure whatever’s wrong with your face isn’t gonna be solved with a little Botox and a facial peel."

Freddy chuckled, low and menacing. "Oh, I like you already." He leaned forward, his gloved hand stretching out, one of the blades grazing the surface of the table between them. "But you see, Doc, I'm not one of your typical patients. You think you’ve got me all figured out ? All those fancy degrees and medical jargon…they don’t mean squat in my world."

House arched an eyebrow, unfazed by Freddy’s theatrics. "Your world, huh ? What’s that ? A world where people are dumb enough to let a burn victim in a Christmas sweater kill them in their dreams ? Yeah, sounds terrifying."

Freddy’s grin widened, showing off his jagged, yellowed teeth. "Ah, see, you don’t believe in me. You think I’m just another psycho. But trust me, Gregory," Freddy’s voice dropped to a whisper, "I live in the space between thoughts, in that part of your mind where logic can’t reach. You can diagnose diseases, figure out symptoms, but me ? I’m the disease of the mind. I’m what people fear when they close their eyes at night."

House leaned on his cane, smirking. "So you’re a glorified bad dream. Lucky for you, I am an insomniac. Let me guess, unresolved trauma, probable schizophrenia, homicidal tendencies. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re just another patient trying to sound special. But in the end, you’re just a guy who likes to kill people in their sleep because you’re too lazy to do it while they’re awake."

Freddy's eyes narrowed, but the smirk didn’t leave his face. "You think you’re safe because you’re awake right now, don’t you ?"

House shrugged. "Awake, asleep, who cares ? Reality’s overrated, and I’ve got enough Vicodin in my system to numb me to just about anything. So if you're planning on scaring me into believing your little Freddy Krueger bedtime story, you're gonna need more than some cheap theatrics."

Freddy leaned back, his blades gleaming in the dark. "Oh, I don’t need to scare you. You’re already scared. You’re scared of the things you can’t control. The things you can’t fix. I know all about you. The pain you try to hide behind that cane, the pills, the genius bravado. The people you push away because you don’t want them to see you falling apart. You think you're invincible because you don't let people get close, but deep down ? You know you’re as fragile as the rest of 'em."

For a moment, there was silence. House’s expression remained unchanged, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. The truth in Freddy’s words was too close for comfort, but House wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing it.

"Great," House said dryly, "another psychopath with a god complex who thinks he understands me. How original." He stepped closer, leaning on the table, his face inches from Freddy’s. "But here’s the thing—you may get your kicks messing with people’s heads in their sleep, but you don’t scare me. I’ve already seen my demons. I look them in the mirror every morning. So if you’re trying to play mind games ? You picked the wrong guy."

Freddy’s eyes glinted with amusement, but there was something darker lurking behind them. "Oh, don’t worry, Doc," he purred. "I’ve got all the time in the world. You’ll fall asleep eventually. And when you do, I’ll be waiting."

House straightened up, giving a dismissive wave. "Yeah, yeah, I’m shaking in my boots. Until then, try not to claw up the furniture. I’m guessing the hospital budget doesn’t cover Freddy-proofing."

He turned to leave, his cane tapping the floor as he moved toward the door. But just before he reached it, Freddy’s voice followed him, soft and sinister.

"Sweet dreams, doctor."

House didn’t look back. He wasn’t going to give Freddy the satisfaction. But as he exited the room and the door closed behind him, a faint chill ran down his spine, despite his best efforts to ignore it. He wouldn’t admit it, but there was something unsettling about Freddy Krueger—a nagging sense that even in a world built on logic and reason, there were still things out there that defied explanation. Things that lived in the cracks between science and madness.

And House knew better than most how fragile the mind could be.

Still, he wouldn’t give in to fear. Not yet. Not until he had more answers. And he wouldn’t that half-burnt steak face scare him…

Dr. House shook his head and entered the observation room of Ward C with his usual limp and caustic wit locked and loaded, though this time there was no sarcastic remark that immediately sprang to his lips. Instead, he found himself staring at a massive, hulking figure sitting motionless in the far corner of a reinforced glass cell. The dim lights glinted off a dirty, weather-worn hockey mask, the only visible part of a man whose very name had become synonymous with terror: Jason Voorhees.

House stood there for a moment, letting his eyes travel over the patient’s enormous frame. Jason was unnaturally still, his hulking body more like a statue than a human being. The man’s breathing was slow, controlled, the sound barely audible over the hum of the hospital’s air system. His presence filled the room with a tension that made the hairs on the back of House's neck stand up, though he’d never admit it.

House tapped his cane against the glass, the sharp sound ringing out in the eerie quiet. "Hey, Leatherface reject. Got a minute ?"

Jason didn’t move. No flinch, no twitch. Just pure, unnerving stillness.

House sighed dramatically. "Oh, great. One who doesn't talk. Why is it always the big guys who never have anything to say ?" He tapped the glass again, louder this time. "What, you too cool to chat with your doctor ?"

Jason’s head turned ever so slightly, the hockey mask catching more of the dim light. House could feel the weight of those unseen eyes behind the mask, watching him. There was something unsettling about the sheer silence Jason exuded—it wasn’t passive like a normal patient, it was a charged kind of quiet. The kind that spoke of brutal, unstoppable violence lurking just beneath the surface.

House glanced at the file clipped to the door—full of the usual psych evaluations, medical records, and police reports detailing Jason’s infamous history. Brutal killings, seemingly unkillable himself, somehow always returning to life despite countless injuries that should have put him down for good. It was like reading a case file on a walking corpse.

"So," House said, leaning on his cane as he studied Jason through the thick glass, "you’ve got quite the reputation. A machete-wielding maniac with mommy issues. You know, I’ve met a lot of psychos in my time, but you ? You’ve really set the bar high."

Again, Jason gave no reaction.

House’s eyes flicked back to the file. "Let’s see…drowned as a kid, came back to life somehow, spent years haunting a camp, and then went on a killing spree. Then you died. Multiple times, apparently. But, like a bad case of herpes, you keep coming back." He looked up, raising an eyebrow. "You ever think about retiring ? Maybe trying out knitting or gardening ?"

Silence.

House’s smirk faltered slightly as he watched Jason, his eyes narrowing. He’d dealt with plenty of dangerous people before—hell, he’d even had patients try to kill him once or twice—but this was different. There was an aura around Jason Voorhees that felt less like insanity and more like inevitability. House could feel it, a raw, primal energy that radiated from the man’s massive form, a quiet promise of violence.

"What’s your secret ?" House asked, his voice a touch more serious now. "How do you keep coming back ? You get stabbed, shot, burned, drowned—and yet here you are, sitting pretty in your little glass box. Most people die once and they’re done. But you…it seems you refuse to stay dead. How do you do it ?"

Jason’s head tilted slightly, as if considering House’s words, but there was still no verbal response. House squinted, noticing something. The mask, weathered and cracked, bore deep gouges and marks—battle scars from years of violence—but Jason himself, beneath the mask, seemed untouched by time.

House stepped closer to the glass. "You’ve been through more trauma than any human body could withstand, yet here you are. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve found the fountain of youth. Or at least the fountain of ‘I don’t die.’"

Jason’s hand twitched, just barely—a subtle, almost imperceptible movement—but House caught it. He stepped back, a smirk returning to his face.

"Oh, did I hit a nerve ? Does the big, silent killer not like being called an anomaly ? Come on, talk to me, Voorhees. What’s it like to come back from the dead ? Do you remember it, or is it just one long nap before you wake up and get back to slashing ?"

Jason’s breathing seemed to deepen, the sound now audible through the glass, like a beast waking from a long hibernation. House raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Ah, there we go. I knew there was something in there. You’re not completely gone, are you ? You can hear me, you understand what I’m saying."

Jason’s hand flexed slightly, the faintest of movements, but House noticed it immediately. He pressed the point, staring directly into the blank eyeholes of the hockey mask.

"You know, it’s funny," House mused, "you and I aren’t that different. You hide behind your mask, I hide behind my cane and sarcasm. You’ve got mommy issues, I’ve got issues with just about everything. We both keep people at arm’s length, and we both…well, we don’t really die, do we ?"

The room grew colder, or at least it felt like it. Jason’s form loomed larger in the silence, and House’s smirk faltered again.

"You know what the difference is though ?" House asked, his voice lowering as he stared into the void behind the mask. "I know why I’m still here. I know what keeps me going. But you ? I’m not so sure. You’re just a blunt instrument, aren’t you ? You don’t have a reason. You just are. And that…that’s what makes you dangerous."

Jason shifted in his seat, the sound of leather creaking as his massive frame adjusted. House felt the weight of Jason’s presence bearing down on him like a storm cloud, but he didn’t back away.

"You want to kill me, don’t you ?" House asked, his voice calm but challenging. "But here’s the thing—I’m not afraid of you. You’re just another puzzle to me, another medical anomaly that I’ll figure out eventually."

Jason’s breathing quickened, and for the first time, House could feel a hint of the violence that lay just beneath the surface. He was playing a dangerous game, but that was nothing new. He lived for danger, for the thrill of the unknown. And right now, Jason Voorhees was the ultimate unknown.

"Well," House said, tapping his cane against the floor, "I guess we’ll see who figures out who first."

He turned, limping toward the door. But as he reached for the handle, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder at the motionless giant.

"And by the way," House added with a smirk, "if you ever feel like talking, just let me know. I’d hate for all this silence to go to waste."

With that, he left the room, his mind already working on the impossible mystery that was Jason Voorhees.

…But then, he was accompanied to that very special cell—the one at the very end of the corridor. He leaned heavily on his cane as he limped forward confidently. The security guard walking beside him cast a nervous glance at each locked door they passed, his hand hovering near the baton clipped to his belt.

"You sure about this ?" the guard muttered. "He's...not like the others."

House’s lips curled into a smirk. "They say that about every psycho I meet. They all have their quirks." He glanced up at the flickering lights. "Must be exhausting, constantly being terrified of your own patients."

The guard didn’t respond, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for a large key ring on his belt. They’d arrived at the heavy steel door, which creaked ominously when he unlocked it. A plaque next to the door read: Patient 1A – Myers, Michael.

"He's all yours," the guard said, stepping back.

House pushed the door open and walked in, his cane tapping rhythmically against the cold floor. The room was sparsely furnished, lit by a single, buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Seated in the middle of the room was a large figure, unnervingly still.

Michael Myers.

The infamous killer, clad in a worn, gray jumpsuit, sat motionless in a metal chair, his broad shoulders hunched and his head tilted slightly forward. The white mask he wore—blank and expressionless—was a stark contrast against the shadows that clung to him.

House raised an eyebrow as he observed Michael for a moment. "So...this is what all the fuss is about ?"

No response. Michael remained utterly still, like a statue carved from shadow and silence.

House let out a small sigh of mock exasperation and hobbled closer, flipping open the thin file he had been given before arriving. "Let's see. Killed your sister at six years old. Spent the next few decades in and out of psych wards. Then you got bored, broke out, and went on a murder spree in your charming hometown. Typical family drama. If I had a nickel for every time a patient had a screwed-up childhood…well, I’d probably no longer be a doctor."

Michael’s breathing was steady and slow, the only sign of life in the room besides House’s persistent sarcasm.

"Silent treatment ? That’s fine, I’m used to it after my little talk with Jason earlier." House circled Michael, tapping his cane lightly against the chair’s metal frame. He leaned in, staring into the black void of Michael’s mask. "So, are you the strong, silent type, or is this just an elaborate way to avoid social interaction ? I gotta say, there are easier ways to skip the small talk."

Still nothing. House leaned back, his expression mildly amused. "I’m guessing it’s neurological. No real emotional response. Nothing to explain why you don’t talk, but you seem to like violence. That’s gotta be fun at parties."

He flipped through the file again, shaking his head. "Shot, stabbed, set on fire…Yet here you are, still standing. I hate to admit it, but that’s impressive. Ever thought about teaching a class on survival ?"

As House made another pass around Michael’s chair, the room’s lone light flickered, casting the room into momentary darkness. When the light sputtered back to life, Michael was no longer seated.

He was standing.

House paused, his cane frozen mid-step as he turned slowly to face the now-looming figure of Michael Myers. The masked killer stood mere feet away, his towering form casting a long shadow over House, who looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

"Ah, finally," House said, his voice unfazed by the sudden shift. "For a second there, I thought you might actually be catatonic."

Michael’s hand clenched slightly at his side, the only movement he’d made since standing. House’s sharp blue eyes didn’t miss it, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he cocked his head, scrutinizing the infamous killer like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

"You don’t talk, but you do respond. Interesting," House mused, taking a half-step forward. "So what is it ? Trauma-induced psychopathy ? Genetic predisposition to violence ? Or maybe you're just really misunderstood."

Michael’s hollow mask tilted down slightly as if acknowledging House's proximity, but still, he remained silent. The tension in the room thickened, like the air itself had turned heavier. House could feel it, but instead of fear, his lips curled into a slight grin.

"You know, people keep saying you’re some unstoppable killing machine. Frankly, I’ve met interns scarier than you," House said dryly, gripping his cane a little tighter. He glanced around the room, noting the locked door behind him, the sterile, thick walls. "But I’ve got to admit, I didn’t expect you to be so...tall. Do you go to the gym ? Do they even have a gym around here ? Must have. Seems like most of you guys are shredded."

Michael didn’t move, but his presence felt suffocating, a looming storm about to break. House, ever the gambler, took another step closer, his eyes flicking from Michael’s mask to his hands and back again.

"So, what now ? You gonna try to kill me, big guy ?" House asked, his voice dropping in volume but not losing its edge. "Or are we going to stand here in awkward silence until you get bored ?"

There was a moment—a single, charged moment—where time seemed to stretch. Michael’s hand twitched, ever so slightly, as if preparing to strike. House stood his ground, his cane pressed firmly against the floor, his eyes locked onto the faceless mask before him.

"Look," House said quietly, his voice now laced with something almost resembling sincerity, "I’ve faced worse odds. Hell, I’ve faced death before. But you ? I am not scared of you. You’re just another problem to solve to me. And I love solving problems."

The lights flickered again, casting them both into darkness.

The room plunged into complete darkness, the flickering light casting eerie shadows across the bare walls. House felt the weight of the silence around him, his heartbeat steady, his breath controlled. He was no stranger to danger, no stranger to the edge of death, but something about Michael Myers was different—something primal.

The room plunged into darkness, the flickering light overhead extinguished entirely. For a moment, all House could hear was the sound of his own breathing, punctuated by the soft, rhythmic rasp of Michael Myers’ breath through his mask. The darkness was suffocating, thick with the weight of something dangerous lurking just beyond sight.

House stood perfectly still, his cane pressed into the floor, his senses heightened as he waited. Michael was close—he could feel his presence, the looming menace of the masked killer’s proximity.

Then, a single sound—a metallic scrape—cut through the silence.

The lights sputtered back to life, dim and buzzing, but enough to reveal Michael’s raised hand, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a large makeshift knife made from shattered glass. The blade gleamed in the low light, casting a sharp, menacing glint across the room. Michael’s mask, still blank and emotionless, tilted slightly as if considering his next move.

House, in typical fashion, remained unfazed. If anything, the sight of the blade brought a small, dry smile to his lips. "Ah, there it is," he said, nodding toward the knife. "I was wondering when the stabbing part of our little chat would begin."

Michael’s breathing remained steady, his grip tightening on the knife. He took a step forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floor like the ticking of a countdown.

House didn’t flinch. "You know," he said casually, "most people who resort to violence are compensating for something. Repressed emotions, fear, insecurity." He gestured toward the knife with his cane. "This ? It’s a crutch. But then again, who am I to judge? I have one too."

Michael’s body language shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders. He raised the knife higher, his body coiling like a predator ready to strike.

But House stepped closer, invading the killer’s personal space in a way no one else had ever dared before. His voice lowered to a near whisper, his blue eyes boring into the blank mask. "You don’t scare me, Michael," he said, his words deliberate, calm. "You know why ?"

For the first time, Michael hesitated. The knife, poised to strike, hung in the air, as if something deep within him was listening.

"Because fear is a choice," House continued. "And I choose not to give you that power."

Another beat of silence. Michael’s grip on the knife remained firm, but his hand didn’t move.

House tilted his head, his gaze never leaving Michael’s mask. "You’re not a force of nature. You’re just a man. A man with a lot of damage. Maybe I can’t fix that, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to run from it."

The lights flickered again, casting long shadows across the room. House could feel the tension coiled tightly between them, a fragile line that could snap at any moment. But he wasn’t backing down.

Finally, Michael lowered the knife. It wasn’t a surrender, not in the traditional sense, but it was a pause—a moment of stillness where the chaos that usually followed Michael Myers seemed to dissipate.

House exhaled slowly, the tension easing just enough for him to speak again. "See ? You can make choices too, Michael. You don’t have to be what everyone thinks you are."

For the first time since stepping into the room, House took a step back, his gaze still locked on the towering figure before him. Michael’s mask, blank as it was, seemed to follow his every movement, as if considering the words, weighing them.

"Don’t get me wrong," House said, breaking the silence with a smirk, "I’m not expecting a thank-you card or anything. But at least you’re proving you’ve got a little self-control left."

But then, Michael’s hand shot forward, faster than House could have anticipated. In a blink, his massive hand was wrapped around House’s throat, lifting him slightly off the ground. The doctor gasped, his cane clattering to the floor as Michael held him there, suspended, staring into the empty blackness of the killer's mask.

For a moment, House’s sharp blue eyes flickered with fear, but then—just as quickly—they hardened into something else. Defiance.

His voice was strained but unwavering as he choked out, "So...you do...have a...pulse after all."

Michael squeezed tighter, the air rushing out of House’s lungs as the pressure increased. House clawed at Michael’s hand, his vision starting to blur, but he refused to look away. He refused to let go of that connection, however thin, however dangerous it was.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, Michael released him. House dropped to the ground, gasping for air, clutching at his throat. He coughed, his chest heaving as he sucked in breath after breath, but even in his weakened state, he managed a hoarse chuckle.

"Guess...I hit a nerve," he rasped, his voice rough but still dripping with dark humor.

Michael stepped back, his breathing slow and deliberate, as if nothing had happened. The mask remained impassive, cold. But there was something there—something unspoken in the air between them. A connection. A challenge.

As if on cue, the door behind House creaked open, the guard from before peeking in with wide, terrified eyes. "Doctor...we need to get you out of here. Now."

House turned, glancing over his shoulder at the guard, then back at Michael. He gave a small shrug, his usual irreverence returning. "Well, this has been fun, Mike, but l guess our time is up."

Michael remained motionless, his gaze—or whatever lay behind that mask—following House as he limped toward the door. Before stepping out, House paused, glancing back one last time. "By the way, I wasn’t kidding about the gym thing. You’re in great shape. Keep it up."

The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, locking Michael Myers back into his cage of silence.

As House walked down the corridor, the guard looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head. "I... I can’t believe you just walked out of there alive."

House smirked, his cane tapping the ground rhythmically as they walked. "Please. Michael and I were just having a heart-to-heart. Nothing personal, just another day at the office."

The guard swallowed hard, clearly unconvinced. "He doesn’t have a heart, Doc."

House shrugged, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Maybe. But then again, neither do I."

He smirked.

Something told him he had chosen just the right job…

#fandoms #imagine #fanfic #crossover #dr house #slashers #brahms heelshire #jason voorhees #freddy krueger #michael myers

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reflections-in-a-critical-eye · 1 month ago

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Middle of the week thoughts on media & entertainment highlights:

When I say I have a problem with remakes, I don't say it just to be against the grain. Not because I consider the original as automatically being better, but because often a new version fails to create its own standalone identity. And yes, we do not need another Carrie for many many reasons.

I watched The Apprentice yesterday. While it does have its flaws, considering that the number of decent movies coming out of Hollywood gets tinier anyway, this one was good and I do wish it had a bigger audience for it, despite the subject matter which seems to keep people away. It is an interesting look at the creation of a monster by the people surrounding him and the world which helped with that creation. And Jeremy Strong as Roy Cohn was spectacular (and I want him on an awards season campaign tour).

I need a time machine to skip the entire Whicked promo period and its subsequent release. This is this year's most annoying production and everything that has come out of it or connected to it has been either incredibly stupid or ridiculous.

I think APT is gonna be stuck in people's heads for quite sometime. And no wonder, it is so catchy! I listened to all the BP girls solo releases and Rose's song stands out. Which is no wonder cause it has that second half of the 2000s sound to it, leaning much towards the Avril Lavigne style. And Bruno Mars who very rarely fails. Overall, good track. I liked Jennie's too, although it's not that remarkable and I wished her music video would have been more in line with the teaser aesthetic. More focus on the artistic side and less on the being hot surrounded by cars side cause we all know she's beautiful anyway. Do something beyond that.

There's plenty of films I'm excited to watch in a movie theater in the following months, but The Brutalist is on top of the list. I've just seen the trailer and I'm in awe, especially considering the low budget, the filming conditions, the choice to shoot everything on 70 mm...

Seeing in real time and happening so fast the consequences of validating the requests of crazy fans is insane and something needs to change asap. The funeral wreaths need to stop. For the RIIZE guy, for Suga, for Onew (I'm hoping they won't go there). The death threats for Jessi need to stop. Enough with harrassment campaigns against people who smoke, date, use their phone or simply behave like human beings.

#m thoughts

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coopigeoncoo · 1 year ago

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The Cardinal Rule

Pairing: Hawks/Gender Neutral Reader

Rating: Teen+

Tags: Romantic Comedy, Bird Puns, Ritual Blood Letting, Blood and Injury, Descriptions of Surgical Procedures, Vomit, The Teachings of Karl Marx

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A story where Hawks learns that while humans might be awed by his flying skills, the bird population is decidedly less impressed.

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"The birds are refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what?" He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

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Continue Reading below or follow the link to Ao3!

The air inside the studio was stifling; hot from the numerous bodies crammed into one room and the too-bright spotlights shining down onto the immaculately styled set pieces. The entire thing looked like something your Art History Professor would have gushed over, the words ‘Brutalistic’ and ‘Industrial’ echoing through your head in their booming voice. And you understood this set design just about as much as you understood that entire unit in school- pretty much not at all.

But it wasn’t your job to understand the aesthetic appeal of the bone white pillars jutting out from the concrete floor at harsh angles. Your job was to mind the birds.

You liked your job at the bird rehabilitation center well enough and found it soothing most days. Getting to spend your days caring for sick and infirmed birds was emotionally rewarding as well as lucrative. It turns out that Ornithologists were very willing to shell out the big bucks to have someone with an Avian Communication Quirk on their payroll. You had cemented yourself as an irreplaceable employee when you single handedly turned a failing breeding program around by informing the lead scientist that the female bird wasn’t receptive to the male’s advances because she thought he didn’t groom himself well enough. One emergency bath later and the courtship proceeded without a hitch. Last you heard the endangered pair was happily raising their forth successful brood.

The only part of your work you didn’t like was what you were forced into doing today; accompanying the birds on sojourns outside of the rescue facility. Schools loved to have the birds visit as they were a good distraction for the children that allowed the harried teachers to catch their breaths and chug a cup of coffee while your feathered companions dazzled the students with their aerial acrobatics. And even though those bouts of public speaking absolutely wracked your nerves, you would happily subject yourself to a dozen school assemblies if it meant escaping the hell that was waiting stand-by at a Pro Hero photo shoot.

Pro Heroes, by the nature of their work, had unpredictable schedules at best and were unreachable at worst, leaving the support and PR people who orbited around them in a perpetual state of limbo. In general, you found lateness to be deeply inconsiderate of everybody’s time and energy, but it was a social faux paus to call Heroes out on their tardiness. They were usually late due to being called out for emergencies and rescues, so chiding them for missing appointments was a surefire way to come off looking like an absolute jerk to the public at large.

But internally you can, and often do, curse them for keeping you waiting in a sweltering studio for hours as your birds grew increasingly agitated and your stock of treats ran low.

“Hot," a brilliant red cardinal complained, hopping into the bowl of water you had placed at the bottom of his cage.

“I know, buddy. Hold on just a little longer, okay?”

“Too many suns,” one of the hawks complained, ducking her head beneath her wing to block out the blinding glow of the stand lights.

“There sure are. Do you want me to put a blanket over your cage?”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, shifting her weight from foot to foot in irritation as pulled out a dark blue blanket and draped it over the side of her cage that faced the lights.

A frazzled looking assistant darted your way, hand pressed to the earpiece of their headset as she took in the newest bout of information being relayed.

"Hawks is on-site now. He's just about done in wardrobe and then he'll make his way here," the assistant said, her eyes frantically scanning over the clipboard in her hands.

"Thank goodness," you sighed, turning to the cages that housed the birds. "Are you all ready?"

"Leave? Leave now?" The cardinal chirped, bouncing excitedly in his bath.

"Unfortunately, no. We still have work to do."

"Not ready then," the cardinal huffed petulantly, puffing up his bright red body as he sank down into his pool.

"C'mon, it won't be too bad! If you all follow directions I bet the photos will go really fast and we'll be out of here in no time!" You assured the tiny red bird, crouching down to give him your full attention as he flapped his wings too fast and sent water sloshing out of his pool.

"Treat would make me ready," the cardinal said slyly, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to distract you from his manipulations by reminding you of how cute he was.

"Treat?" The overwhelmed hawk inquired, peeping her head from around her shroud.

"Treat?" A dove cooed, nudging its friends awake who immediately joined in with the call for snacks.

"Treat! Treat!" The birds chirped and squawked, hitting their wings against the side of their cage and creating a loud enough ruckus that people were beginning to send irritated glances your way.

"Okay!," you hissed in capitulation, pulling a handful of dried crickets out of a paper bag. "But this is the last of the treats I brought with me, so you all need to behave and make it through the rest of the photoshoot. Got it?"

"Yes, yes," the cardinal readily agreed, bouncing along the bottom of his cage and picking up the grasshopper in its beak, chomping happily. "Be good. Promise."

The cardinal was a dirty rotten liar.

Snacks had bought you a tentative peace that lasted until the moment Hawks arrived on set. The birds took one look at the Hero and promptly began screeching, startling everyone in the studio and causing more than one person to drop their cup of coffee in surprise. Hawks took to air, landing on top of one of the pillars and artfully arranged himself according to the Photographer's instructions while your birds went wild; hurling insults his way.

"Rude! Rude bird!" The cockatoo called, flairing his crest in displeasure.

"Bad flier!" The doves chastised together with sharp clicks of their beaks.

"Miscreant!" The cardinal called, easily the most wound up of the bunch, fluffing up his feathers to look threatening. "Criminal!"

"Hey, guys! Shhhh, you have to quiet down!" You begged, aware of all the judgemental glares settling onto your back like a physical weight. "You promised you'd behave!"

"No behave! Need justice!" The cardinal called, hopping up onto his perch and opening his bright orange beak to let out a high pitched chirp. " JUSTICE!"

"Justice!" The rest of the birds echoed. Justice! Justice! Justice!"

"We're ready for the birds on set!" The assistant informed you as she motioned over her shoulder to where the photographer circled around Hawks, snapping a few last minute test shots.

"Right," you coughed nervously. "About that."

"What do you mean the birds refuse to work?!" The photographer roared in your face, his cheeks colored a splotchy red. "They're birds! "

"Yes, they are. And they refuse to take pictures with Hawks."

"All of them?" The photographer scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face, a vein at his temple pulsating in time with his thundering heartbeat.

"Seems like," you admit with a sheepish shrug. "It's pretty unusual for them to agree on anything like this. The raptors and the songbirds are almost always at odds with each other."

"I'm so glad they've managed to achieve bird peace instead of doing, oh, I don't know; WHAT I'VE PAID FOR THEM TO DO!" The photographer bellowed through gritted teeth, pulling out fistfuls of his already thinning hair in frustration.

"No price on honor!" The cardinal chirped boldly, the other birds supporting their tweeted proclamation with chirps of their own.

"What's going in here?" A passing member of the crew asked, hoisting a coiled extension cord up onto his shoulder.

"The birds are uh- unionizing, apparently? And have decided to go on strike," you explain.

"Really?" The man said, eyes wide in astonishment as he gave the birds a thumbs up and a wide smile. "Right on, little dudes! Fight the power!"

"Yes! Fight! Fight!" The cardinal called.

"Fight!" The birds chorused.

"Bite! Bite!" The cardinal screeched as he snapped his beak in demonstration.

"You uh, might want to get away from the cages," you warn the photographer. "They're starting to call for violence."

The photographer turned away from the cages and appeared to take cleansing breaths before he noticed the crew orderly filing out of the studio.

"Wait!" The photographer called out to the workers. "Where are you going?"

"Sorry man, but we don't cross picket lines," the man holding the extension cord explained as he grabbed a soggy donut from craft services table on his way out the door. The crew's act of solidarity seemed to please the birds, who let out joyous calls in return.

"We are flock!" The cardinal cheered. "The flock is strong!"

"I'm so going to get fired for this," you mutter despondently as the birds began flipping over their feeders, spilling seeds and slices of fresh fruit across the studio floor.

"So what's the excitement over here all about?" Hawks asked, finally curious enough about the disruption your birds were causing to come over and investigate.

"So, um. The birds are upset, " you begin warily, hyper aware that the birds were screeching louder and louder with every step Hawks took towards their cages.

"I can see that," he smirked as he twisted the lid off of a bottle of water, the lopsided grin perfectly at home on his scruffy face.

"And they're refusing to work until their demands are met," you explained, trying to subtly slide your body between Hawks and the birds who were quite literally calling for bloodshed.

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he lifted the bottle of water to his mouth and took a long sip.

"They, ah, want you held accountable for your numerous bird crimes."

Hawks abruptly choked, water spurting from the corner of his lips as he attempted to swallow the remaining liquid as he sputtered helplessly.

"My what? " He coughed, thumping solidly on his chest with a closed fist.

"Crimes! So many crimes!" The cardinal squawked. "Criminal!"

"Villain! Bad Hawk!" The hawk supplied, eager to distance herself from this other hawk's misdeeds.

"You seem to have acquired a terrible reputation amongst the bird population in the city. They're calling you a Villain," you explain ruefully, desperately wishing that you had woken up dead this morning so you could have avoided this entire mortifying ordeal.

"Tell me- tell me everything, " Hawks sputtered, staring intensely at the rioting birds with wide golden eyes.

Since you were the only person who could understand both human and avians, you were selected to mediate by default. The birds, unsurprisingly, chose the rabble-rousing cardinal as their representative.

"I'm going to let you out of the cage now," you told the cardinal, unlocking the door to his enclosure. "No funny business or you're going right back in, understood?"

"Yes," the cardinal groused, hopping up and down to psych himself up for confronting the number one bird-sona non grata.

"That means no biting."

"..."

"Agree not to bite or I'm leaving you in the cage."

"Fine," the cardinal agreed, puffing his feathers up in irritation. "No bite."

"Took him a while to agree to that rule," Hawks murmured uneasily, eyeing the cardinal's sharp orange beak.

"Yeah, they made up a song about biting you earlier and I think it got him really excited about the prospect."

"Oh, wow," Hawks said, a genuine thread of amazement lacing through his words. "They've really put a lot of effort into hating me."

"Yeah, they really have. It's super impressive, right?"

"No chatting!" The cardinal admonished, squeezing your finger with his tiny feet; talons prickling your skin. "List his crimes! Prepare for judgment!"

"Right, okay. So, their biggest complaint is that you're an inconsiderate flier," you begin, keeping an eye on the cardinal perched on your finger as he nods along to your words.

"Inconsiderate how?"

"For starters, you often fly through a flock. That makes them consider you a predator and unnecessarily stresses them out. It's an especially big deal during the spring when the females are incubating."

"I see," Hawks murmured, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

You listened closely to the clarifying chirp of the cardinal before addressing Hawks once more. "He says that you will also position yourself at the front of a flock, putting yourself in charge of navigation and end up leading them wildly off course."

"I had no idea," Hawks admitted with a sigh, grimacing under the beady glare of the cockatoo. "I was just enjoying their company while I flew."

"And that's kind of the underlying issue here," you point out, running a calming finger over the fluffy crest of feathers atop his head. "You're playing on their field but totally ignoring the rules of the game and just sowing chaos everywhere you fly."

"I feel like a complete jerk," Hawks admitted, moving his head so he was face to face with the feisty cardinal. "I'm sorry for causing trouble and making such a mess of things. I'll be much more conscious about how I fly in the future."

The cardinal was quiet on your finger, mulling over Hawk's words thoughtfully.

"Tell him more."

"Really?" You groan. "Can't you just accept his apology and move on?"

"Hear all crimes! Then retribution!"

"Okay, so are you ready to hear the rest?"

"There's more? " Hawks asked incredulously, staring at the cardinal with wide eyes.

"You better grab a seat," you advise him with a sigh. "It's a long list of complaints."

To his immense credit, Hawks sat through the translated tongue lashing with rapt attention, taking in each and every criticism with a solemn nod of his head. He was accused of everything from taking up all the best perches to not sharing the snacks he brought up onto rooftops with him. That one seemed especially egregious in the eyes of the birds, as the mere mention of unshared snacks past sent them into a wild screeching fit it took you minutes to calm them down from.

"Last crime," the cardinal proclaimed grandiosely, as though he was delivering a sermon from a pulpit and not yelling at an increasingly despondent man while perched on your finger. "Duck got head stuck in fence. Hawks took picture and laughed!"

"You laughed and took a picture of a duck that got its head stuck in a fence?"

"Yeah," Hawks winced, fingers running across the grooves in his water bottle nervously. "I freed them afterwards though!"

"After you laughed at them and took a picture, you mean?" You huffed, completely siding with the birds in this particular instance.

"Crimes done. Retribution now!" The cardinal chirped, sending the rest of the birds into an uproar of wildly flapping wings and agreeing squeaks.

"What's he saying?"

"He's, uh, calling for retribution."

"Feathers and blood!" The cardinal demanded.

"Feathers and blood!" The doves warbled in agreement.

"They're calling for your feathers and blood," you informed the Hero.

"And snacks!" The hawk added, the rest of the birds silent as they considered the added request.

"Yes, snacks!" The cardinal chirped in triumph as the rest of the birds joined him in his chant. "Snacks! Snacks! Snacks!"

"Feathers, blood…and snacks," you clarify, watching anxiously as Hawks' brow furrowed deeply in thought.

"I agree to your terms," Hawks said, holding out his extended index finger in front of the cardinal. "Blood and feathers now, with snacks to be delivered later. Deal?"

The cardinal, being a legitimately good representative for his species, turned to briefly confer with the rest of the birds before hopping from your finger onto Hawks'; the closest approximation to a handshake as they could get.

"It's a deal," you smiled brightly to Hawks, who returned your brilliant grin with one of his own that set off sharp pangs of nervousness in your belly. It had been easy to ignore how handsome he was while you were busy trying to quell a feathery uprising; but now that the panic that had been crashing through your body was abating, your brain had apparently decided you had more than enough brain cells free to contemplate how pleasing Hawks' appearance was.

He was a bit more disheveled than he was at the start of this entire debacle, hair tousled from where he had run his hands through it in bouts of sheepishness; but he still looked put together and expertly coiffed. You, on the other hand, could tell that an entire day spent in a sweltering room hadn't done you any favors by the way your uniform polo clung to your sweat-dampened skin. Suddenly self conscious and desperate for a shower, you puff your chest out in a false show of bravado and do your best to move things along.

"Alright, which do you want to do first? The blood or the feathers?"

The birds, by and large, considered giving up feathers to be the most important act of contrition and agreed that the request for blood was mostly just a ceremonial inclusion for traditions sake. But Hawks, determined to repent, ran one of his sharpened feathers across his forearm with no complaint; dulling the blood tipped feather and presenting it to the cardinal with a deep bow.

The cardinal accepted the offering with a pleased chirp, taking the feather in his beak and carefully tucking it in amongst his tail feathers. Hawks' plume, being about twice the length of the entire cardinal, trailed out comically from his tail and made him look like a far more exotic bird than he actually was.

"Atonement!" The cardinal cried, shaking his new tail feather for his comrades to see.

"So red!" A dove praised.

"Very shiny," the cockatoo nodded.

"Well, that's one down," Hawks said as he curled his left wing in front of his body, hands already running through his feathers as he carefully selected his next offering. "Who's next?"

"Me! Me! Me!" The birds chirped in unison, a great many hopping up and down in their excitement to possess a colorful new treasure.

"You don't have to give them all feathers, Hawks," you assured him as you frantically calculated how many birds you'd brought with you versus how many feathers he could probably surrender while still retaining his ability to fly. "I know you need them for your job."

"That's true," Hawks nodded as he plucked out another feather and presented it to a brown-headed thrush. "But I also need to hold myself accountable for my mistakes. The birds have very generously offered me a way to make things right, and I won't take this opportunity for granted."

You didn't know what to say so you opted instead for silence, watching intently as he methodically worked his way through the collected cages; respectful and solemn as he repeated the feather presentation for each and every bird.

The photographer had been thrilled when he returned to set and found Hawks in place on set, lounging bonelessly across the pillars with a collection of raptors perched around him. That excitement faded quickly when he saw the bare patches in Hawks' normally full wings, a far cry from the picture perfect style he'd be envisioning.

Hawks had simply run an admiring finger across the bright red feather tucked into an eagle's wing and proclaimed that 'He liked it better this way' and that was that. The photographer began barking orders and the crew jumped into action, adjusting light positioning and turning on a wind machine to ruffle everyone's feathers just so.

The rest of the shoot went by smoothly, and in no time at all you were refilling water dishes and loading up the cages into the back of the large box truck with the bird rescues' name and phone number stenciled onto the back. You cranked the AC up to the highest setting and sank down into the faux leather driver's seat, enjoying the merciless onslaught of frigid air on your overheated skin as you buckled up.

Peering into your side mirror, you were startled by the presence of the Number Two Hero illuminated in the red glow of your taillights. He was leaning out of the studio exit, a small smile tugging at his lips and a hand held up in farewell while you shifted the truck into drive and rolled out of the parking lot. The sharp shrill of birds complaining as you hit a pothole pulled your attention back to the road and away from Hawks' golden eyes; glowing brightly from the shadows.

It was hard not to think about Hawks as you cruised along on the empty highway, so you allowed yourself a brief flight of fancy; reminiscing about the scant distance between your bodies and the tangy redolence of his cologne.

It would be a good story to regale your coworkers with over drinks and to pull out at parties when you needed to impress someone; the tale of a bird rebellion and how Hawks managed to both literally and figuratively soothe the birds' ruffled feathers. A once in a lifetime meeting that you would think back fondly on, made ever more precious by the knowledge that such a thing would never occur again.

It wasn't like you to answer your personal phone at work, but it also wasn't something that had honestly ever happened before. Your family knew your work schedule and your friends all belonged to the very reasonable school of thought where they would rather drink poison than talk on the phone, so any communication from them would arrive in text form. Curious, you pulled your phone out of your back pocket and swiped to answer; stomach plummeting to your feet when your camera booted up and you belatedly realized you'd accepted a request to video chat.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit, " you swore, reaching to press the disconnect button as Hawks' beaming face appeared on screen.

"Hey there!," he greeted cheerily, face disappearing from view as he momentarily fumbled with his phone.

"Hawks? " You croak in disbelief, quickly examining your appearance in the small facecam and hurriedly knocking a chunk of dried mealworm out of your hair.

"That's what they call me!"

"Are you- is everything okay?" You manage to stammer out, impressed that you managed to say actual words and not a series of confused grunts.

"Everything is fine! I was just calling to thank you for all your help a few weeks back," he explained, the camera drifting off to the side to show off the sprawling city skyline. Wherever Hawks was, he was up high. "Word has been getting around to all the birds around the city and I've noticed a definite shift in their demeanor."

"Oh? How so?"

"Well, for starters, they've stopped dive bombing me mid-flight. And they aren't pooping on that statue of me downtown nearly as much as they used to. Oh! And a couple days ago a crow brought me a couple of soda tabs," Hawks said proudly as he reached into the collar of his shirt and pulled out a leather cord with some aluminum pieces tied into the middle. "So I turned them into a necklace!"

"Very stylish," you complimented sincerely, thinking about the box of bird gifted trinkets you had at home and how much each of those shiny bits of metal meant to you.

"And I've taken to carrying around some food for them- bird seed and raisins, mostly; so we can all hang out and eat together!"

"It really sounds like things have turned around for you. I'm glad."

"They really have," Hawks nodded eagerly, phone tilting off-kilter once again as a particularly strong gust blew by. "And it's all because of you."

"I think you're definitely downplaying that cardinal's excellent negotiation tactics," you reminded him as you shuffled a few papers across the top of a nearby desk, trying to distract yourself from the sense of unease you felt under the weight of both his attention and gratitude.

"Speaking of negotiations, did the treats I sent arrive safely? I would hate for this tentative peace we've achieved to crumble due to shipping errors."

"They did!" You assured him, spinning your phone around to point the camera at the large stack of express shipped boxes in the corner. "The birds were very excited when they arrived, but now that they know we have such a huge backlog they just keep bugging me about getting snacks all the time."

"Sorry about that. But sacrifices must be made in the name of peace," Hawks shook his head sadly.

"I think you're a bit more knowledgeable about sacrifices than I am. Are your replacement feathers coming in alright?"

"They've already fully grown back in, see?" He tilted his camera to landscape and extended one wing out to the side, fluffing his feathers to show off how nicely they'd filled in.

"Woah," you whistled in appreciation, cutting off the sound abruptly when you saw his cheeks flush, realizing how inappropriately he had taken your display of awe. "That's ah- really fast for full regrowth."

"That's sort of my thing, you know. Being fast," he smirked proudly before he suddenly froze, cheeks reddening even further as he seemed to sink his face down into the collar of his coat. "Well, uh- most of the time at least. Sometimes I'm slow though. When I want to be. I can be reeeeally slow."

Deciding to ignore his floundering since he had so graciously let your own bout of verbal idiocy pass unmentioned, you frantically gazed around the room and found the perfect segue to shift your conversation back into neutral waters.

"Do you want to see what they did with your feathers?"

"They kept them?" Hawks asked, voice hitching in excitement.

"More than that; they made art with them," you cheerfully explained, flipping the phone around to show off the wreath hanging in the window a handful of weaver birds had worked together to craft; Hawk's brilliant red feathers tucked and woven amongst reedy pieces of grass and straw. "Since there weren't enough feathers for every bird here at the rescue, they thought that displaying them publicly was more fair."

"Wow," Hawks breathed, impressed by both their craft skills and sense of equitability. "They're really taking this union thing seriously."

"You have no idea," you laughed dryly. "They're starting to talk about collecting dues. "

It was strange how quickly you became accustomed to communicating with Hawks. Calls were a rare occurrence due to how overwhelmingly busy he was pretty much every moment of the day. There were multiple instances where you would be texting, sending funny memes back and forth to each other, and then mere moments after his last message was sent you would see him flash across the screen in a live news broadcast. A blur of red and beige swooping in to pull civilians out of harm's way or expertly apprehend Villains without breaking a sweat.

Knowing how full Hawks' schedule was made you even more appreciative of that evening he'd spent with you and the birds all those weeks ago. You had thought that the feathers were the most valuable thing he had given up that day, but you now knew that his time was an infinitely more precious commodity.

So you treasured each moment that he chose to share with you, regardless of the form it took. Snapshots of cute birds he'd seen on patrol, lengthy personal reviews of what had to be every fried chicken restaurant in the city, and picking up the phone whenever he was free to chat.

Even when that call came in at four in the morning, like today.

"You should try to eat breakfast before you crash for the night," you reminded him, tone a touch scolding because this was not the first time you'd had to remind him to make time for a meal.

"I don't like breakfast foods," Hawks grumbled, lip stuck out in a deep pout as he trudged towards his kitchen.

"You don't have to eat breakfast foods, you just have to eat, " you huff in exasperation, grabbing a box of cereal from your pantry, hoping that a healthy dose of peer pressure might tip the scales in your favor. "Cold pizza was invented for pretty much this exact purpose."

"I don't think I have any pizza," Hawks muttered, prying open the double doors of his fridge and examining the contents critically. "I think I have the stuff for a sandwich though."

"Sandwiches are good. They meet all the necessary desperation meal requirements."

"Which are?" Hawks asked as he shoved a packet of lunch meat into the crook of his arm and sent a couple of feathers in to grab condiments so he wouldn't have to set down his phone.

"They contain calories and don't dirty up too many dishes," you explain, hip checking your own fridge closed as you grab a carton of milk. "Handfuls of cheese you eat over the sink are also a classic choice."

"What are you eating?"

"Cereal," you say, holding up your bowl of puffed grains next to your face for his inspection.

"Ugh, gross," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"I'm going to toss some berries on top."

"That doesn't make the cereal better, that just makes the berries worse, " he complained as he squirted a generous serving of mayonnaise across a slice of bread, paused, and then squeezed on some more.

"Hey, now! If I wanted this level of judgment before the sun came up I would talk to my Grandma instead," you huffed, shoving a spoonful of cereal into your mouth and bringing the microphone closer to your jaw to subject Hawks to the loudest crunching sounds you could manage.

"I- sorry," he sighed, shoulders drooping in exhaustion. "I didn't mean to be so prickly. Today was…really rough."

"I know," you said soothingly. "I saw the News. Even went to bed early because I thought you might call."

"Thank you," he says, voice small so it could slip past the emotions welling in his throat. "For picking up."

"Anytime, Hawks," you assured him, eyes darting to the time displayed in the upper corner of your phone screen. "Literally."

You, 11:45am

"Hey, Hawks? I have a question."

Hawks, 11:52am

"Of course! What's up?"

You, 11:53am

"I've been wondering for a while now- how did you get my phone number?"

Hawks, 1:15pm

"I saw the rescue logo on the back of the truck when you were leaving the photo shoot."

"Called them up and told them how impressed I was with your professionalism and how I wanted to thank you personally."

You, 1:18pm

"And they just gave you my number?!"

Hawks, 1:20pm

"Yep. Major breach of confidentiality. You might want to look into that, actually.

"They didn't ask me to verify my identity or anything!"

You, 1:22

"Gotta go. I need to send a strongly worded letter to HR."

Hawks, 1:25

"Make sure to start it with a 'To Whom It May Concern'; let them know you really mean business!"

The familiar jingle of Hawk's custom ringtone only sounded for a moment before you were able to swap which hand was holding onto your grocery basket and fish your phone out of your back pocket.

"Hey, there!" Hawks greeted, smile strained as he waved his arm around frantically at something off screen. "Can I- Ugh! Ask for a favor in a- argh! Professional capacity?"

"Uh, sure?" You agreed, re-shelving a can of soup you were having second thoughts about.

"Great!" Hawks shouted in relief, pulling a flailing pigeon into frame, reeling back momentarily as he took a wing straight to the face. "This little cutie has been following me for hours , trying to- oof! Get my attention and I'm starting to get very curious as to their underlying motivation."

"Maybe she just wants an autograph?" You joke, snorting in amusement as Hawks dodged another hit from the distressed bird.

"I'll give her whatever she wants if she just- ugh ! Stops hitting me!"

You whistled shrilly, gaining the attention of nearby shoppers and the pigeon on Hawks' end; the bird stilling in his hands at your call. "Hey, little pigeon. What's going on?"

The pigeon launched into a series of urgent coos, head bobbing along frantically with her cries.

"Are you sure?" You asked, eyes wide as she cooed in confirmation, heaving a relieved sigh that her message had been successfully conveyed.

"What? What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously, cradling the bird snugly to his chest now that she wasn't a thrashing mass of beak and talons.

"She says, ah-," you pause, looking around at all the shoppers lingering about you with prying eyes. Flashing them a wobbly smile, you quickly shuffle off towards the other end of the store, dropping your voice to a whisper in a bid for some level of confidentiality. "She says that she knows where they're hiding all the drugs?"

It's quiet for a moment as Hawks peers down at the pigeon in his hands with comically wide eyes before he shifts into a more professional demeanor; shooting a too-bright smile at you through his phone.

"I've gotta' go now! Bye!"

Your phone kicks you back to your home screen as he hangs up, leaving you staring at your phone; dumbfounded by the abrupt turn of events.

A few days passed before you heard from Hawks again, and when the next call came in he wasn't alone.

"This is Cookie," he beamed as he proudly introduced the familiar pigeon perched on his shoulder. "Get it? Because you can't spell 'Cookie' without 'coo'? And she's a pigeon? And pigeons-"

"-pigeons say 'coo'. Yeah, I get it," you groan miserably. After years working at the rescue you had limited patience for bird jokes and were pretty sure you had heard them all hundreds of times by this point. Unfortunately for you, Hawks seemed to have acquired puns as a second language and was determined to impress you with his fluency.

"Anyway, it turns out Cookie has a real knack for surveillance. She led me right to a massive distribution center that was operating right under our noses."

"Is it okay for you to be telling me all of this?"

"Probably not!" Hawks laughed, bringing a finger up to give Cookie an affectionate scratch at the side of her head. "Anyway, I hope you weren't too attached to that dim sum place downtown. It was totally a drug front."

"Wait- the one with the little ginger dumplings?" You gasped in dawning horror.

"The very same."

"And the chef-?"

"The ringleader of the entire operation, I'm afraid."

"God dammit!"

"So they pack me up, ship me across the country to some far flung zoo to talk to their penguin in person because he's, and I quote, 'camera shy'. And do you know how that little gremlin thanked me?" You ranted into your phone, freshly clad in an old pair of pajamas with your skin still dewy from your flesh-searingly hot shower.

"He threw up on you, didn't he?" Hawks said, poorly disguising his restrained laughter with a forced cough.

"He threw up on me !" You screeched, throwing your hands up into the air as you fell backwards onto the couch, accidentally smacking yourself in the face with the corner or your phone during your uncontrolled plummet. "Ouch!"

"You alright?" Hawks asked, voice muffled from your speaker being pressed into the couch cushions.

"Yes. And no?" you sigh, rubbing a fist across the rising welt on your temple while you propped your phone up on your stomach, providing Hawks with the most unflattering viewing angle of your face as possible. "Just wishing things were different, I guess?"

"What sorts of things?" Hawks asked quietly, the distant beacons on airplane wings blinking methodically in the night sky behind him; false stars in a pollution filled sky.

"I don't know. Everything? I wish I had a different job, one where penguins didn't vomit on me. Or a different Quirk. Just- an entirely different life, sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I thought," Hawks paused, allowing himself to carefully select his words. "I thought you liked your job?"

"I do. Most of the time, at least. But it also feels like I never really have a choice, you know? Like, what else could I really do with a Quirk like mine?"

"You could always not use your Quirk," he said, gaze intensely focused away from his phone on some distant point on the horizon you couldn't see. "Get a job doing something entirely different."

"I didn't want to when I was a kid- use my Quirk, I mean. I wanted to be a doctor. And a best-selling author. And a ninja."

"Quite the triple threat."

"Yeah," you chuckled, thinking back on all the crayon drawings you had made, scribbles of a distant future that would never come to pass. "But everyone said it would be a waste to not use my natural-born talent, especially since it's a moderately useful one."

"I've always wanted to be Hero. For as long as I can remember, that's always been my dream," Hawks stated flatly, with the same lackluster affect of someone discussing the weather; an automatic response honed through years of systematic repetition. "But I get it."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he swallowed thickly, focusing his attention back onto you; eyes glistening strangely with reflections of the city lights.

"It's hard being… pigeonholed into a profession."

"Hawks, noooooo," you groan piteously. "We were having a moment! And you ruined it!"

"I'm sorry!" He lied, head thrown back as he cackled.

"I'm hanging up now," you grumbled, more amused than you were irritated but determined not to let Hawks know that.

"Don't go! I'll be lonely without you!"

"Cookie will keep you company. Won't you, girl?"

At the mention of her name, the pigeon poked her head out from where she was nestled inside of Hawks' collar, cooing her agreement.

"I still can't believe you commissioned a tiny visor for her," you snorted in delight at the miniature replica of Hawks' headset perched on top of Cookie's beak.

"What? She needed it!" Hawks defended, drawing his collar shut and pulling Cookie in more snugly towards his chest. "Her eyes were drying out when I flew too fast!"

"Uh-huh. Sure they were."

"They were! And besides, she likes wearing it," he insists petulantly before he is carried away by a sudden wave of uncertainty. "Right?"

"She does," you assure him. "Cookie really loves being with you, Hawks."

"Really?" He whispered, staring down at the bird in awe, who cooed happily and nuzzled her head into his chin.

A quiet moment stretched on between you, silent except for the sound of your breathing and the distant wail of a car alarm.

"For the record, I think your Quirk is amazing," Hawks said sincerely. "You have this entire extra world you get to communicate with. That's pretty special."

"I guess," you say with a sigh, pushing up into a sitting position with the naive aspirations of mustering up the energy to make it to bed in the next hour or two. "But it's not like they're particularly great conversationalists. Once Spring rolls around I just have to deal with listening to hundreds of voices outside my window screaming about how horny they are for weeks on end."

"You prefer a more subtle seduction method then?" Hawks asked, tone playful and also somehow entirely inappropriate.

"Just a smidgen," you laugh nervously, steadfastly ignoring the frantic beating of your heart.

"I'll make a note of that."

You had grown so used to looking at Hawks through your phone screen that seeing him in person, bursting through the doors of the rescue, was as startling as having ice shoved down the back of your shirt. And that feeling of alarm was quickly upgraded to absolute panic by the fact that he was covered in blood splatter and cradling Cookie's limp and twisted body in his hands.

"HELP!" Hawks yelled, eyes darting wildly around the room as he searched for assistance. There wasn't even time for a single breath between Hawks spotting you and then him suddenly being at your side; a gust of air heralding his arrival before your eyes could even begin to try to focus on where he had been.

"Please! You have to help! Cookie she- she's hurt," Hawks pleaded, his eyes wild as he cradled his injured friend to his chest.

"Let me see," you ordered firmly, prying open Hawks' shaking hands to get a better look at the bird.

"Cold," Cookie warbled weakly when Hawks' hands were pulled away from her body.

"Shh, I know sweet girl," you said soothingly, lifting her as carefully as you could into your own grasp.

"Hawks hurt? Hawks okay?"

"What is it?" Hawks asked anxiously. "What's she saying?"

"She wants to know if you're hurt."

"No," Hawks assured her, voice cracking as he ran soothing fingers across a patch of disheveled feathers between her eyes. "I'm just fine, thanks to you."

"I need to take Cookie now, Hawks," you informed him gently, "I'll take good care of her. I promise."

"I know," he sniffed, wiping damp cheeks onto the sleeve of his coat. "I trust you."

It was hard witnessing Hawks' desperation; seeing someone who was normally a paragon of strength so visibly shaken. It made you scared, having to be strong and brave; to help when a Hero couldn't.

But you could be brave, just this once.

For Hawks' sake.

Just like you, the rest of the staff at the bird rescue had been cherry picked to provide the highest level of Avian care possible. So while Cookie had been grievously injured with an absolutely staggering number of blunt force fractures, there was likely no better place in the city she could have been brought to for treatment.

Cookie had made it through numerous scans and a long operation, but you knew that was only the beginning of her struggle. Her road to recovery would be a long one, and she would likely never be able to fly as well as she did before after having the bones in her left wing nearly ground to dust. But you couldn't bring yourself to feel too discouraged by that bit of bad news in the face of Cookie's near miraculous survival.

There hadn't been anything for you to do during the surgery since you didn’t possess any sort of veterinary license, but Hawks had entrusted Cookie to you and it felt wrong to just leave her. You knew your coworkers well and had the utmost faith in their capabilities, but you'd been determined to stay there beside her should the worst have come to pass.

So you'd tucked yourself into a corner, already overwhelmed and ready to leave before the scalpel had even made its first incision. You’d watched as they cut and tugged and stitched; blood running and bones popping and Quirks glowing. And dear lord, the smells-

It was the absolute worst thing you’d ever witnessed in your life.

But Hawks had trusted you with this; to be where he couldn’t.

And you wouldn't let him down.

Hawks sprang up from his stolen chair behind the reception desk as you stumbled back to the front of the building, heartbeat thundering as images from the surgery clung to the inside of your eyelids; replaying with gruesome clarity every time you blinked.

"How is she?" He asked breathlessly, eager to hear the news but dreading the likely outcome.

“Cookie made it through surgery,” you said, voice too loud as you attempted to make yourself heard over the ringing in your ears. “She’ll survive.”

“Oh, thank God,” Hawks gasped in relief, his words distant and muffled. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, waving off his gratitude right before you bent forward and threw up all over his boots.

You, 2:14am

“Once again: I’m so sorry about the vomit.”

Hawks, 2:15am

“I told you, it’s fine! Stop apologizing.”

You, 2:15am

“Never. I am going to be apologizing about this for the rest of my life.”

“Every time we meet I’ll be like, ‘Hey, Hawks! How are you? Sorry about horking on your boots that one time.’”

Hawks, 2:17am

“Listen, at least this time you were the one throwing up on a bird instead of having a bird throw up on you!"

You, 2:18am

“You’re not a bird though.”

Hawks, 2:20am

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You, 2:21am

“I want you to be ASLEEP.”

Hawks, 2:23am

“Best I can do is propping up my feet and chugging an energy drink.”

You, 2:24am

“That isn’t even remotely close to an acceptable substitute.”

Hawks, 2:26am

“That’s all you’re getting. Take it or leave it.”

You, 2:28am

"Fine. But I'm going to tell Cookie you're not taking care of yourself."

Hawks, 2:28am

"Oh, that's low."

You, 2:29am

"I literally threw up on the Number Two Hero yesterday. I cannot possibly get any lower than I already am. I might as well just double down and enjoy the perks of my new bottom dweller status."

You were changing out the bedding in Cookie's cage when she saw it.

"Hawks feathers?" She warbled excitedly at the sight of the brilliant red wreath hanging in the window.

"Oh! Yeah, those are Hawks' feathers all right. Good eye."

"I see?"

"Do you want to perch there while I finish cleaning out your cage?"

"Please," Cookie cooed eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement. It was the most energetic you had seen her since her operation and you were happy to indulge her whims.

"Here you go," you said, lowering her gently into the inner hollow of the wreath. Mindful of her injuries, Cookie nestled down happily into the tangle of grass and feathers.

By the time you had sanitized everything in the cage and tucked a warm water bottle into her bed, Cookie had fallen fast asleep in the cradle of feather wreath. Heart melting, you crept closer on silent feet and took a dozen pictures at various angles and filter settings to send to Hawks later.

You felt a familiar weight settle on your shoulder, needle-like nails scraping for purchase against your skin as the cardinal joined you in observing Cookie's rest.

"Is this okay?" You asked, knowing how important the wreath was to all the birds in the rescue and unsure if napping spot was one of the agreed upon uses for it. To your immense relief, the cardinal bobbed his head in affirmation.

"From each by ability, to each by need," he chirped firmly.

"'To each by need '…?" You echo suspiciously with narrowed eyes. "Has someone been reading Karl Marx to you again?

"The proletariat has nothing to lose but chains!"

After many weeks of worried video calls and unapproved after hours visits that your boss chose to turn a blind eye to after Hawks made a hefty donation, Cookie was ready to be released back into Hawks' care.

"So I need you to sign these discharge papers," you tell Hawks, tapping multiple spaces on the cover page that required his initials and signature. "Mostly just standard release stuff, detailing the treatment plan listing the dates for follow up visits, etcetera, etcetera."

"Got it," Hawks agreed, having one of his feathers sign for him since he was loath to stop cuddling with Cookie for a single instant.

"This one says that I've informed you of all the recommended follow up care."

"Uh-huh," he grinned, happily nuzzling his nose against Cookie's beak as his feather kept scribbling.

"This one says that we cannot be held legally responsible for anything that happens to her once she leaves the rescue."

"Sure," he agreed, chuckling as Cookie nipped playfully at his jaw; feather still dutifully signing away.

"And this one is the list of demands drawn up by Cookie's union."

Hawks paused, brow furrowing as Cookie continued to pluck at his beard scruff.

"The what now?"

Hawks paced as he read through the notes you had typed up on Cookie's behalf. As much as the pigeon adored Hawks and couldn't wait to get back to working alongside him, the cardinal had proven himself to be an incredibly persuasive orator and managed to convince Cookie to submit a list of demands.

"'The Union of Working Birds, henceforth to be referred to as 'The Birds of Pay'', " Hawks snorted in delight. "-'formally submit the following requests. Number one: guaranteed housing'. Done."

"Didn't figure you'd object to that one," you said, having helped Hawks painstakingly pick out supplies to house and care for Cookie in his apartment.

"'Number 2: food will be provided in compensation for labor and will be appropriately calculated by bird weight and provided daily'. No complaints there-," he murmured, voice trailing off as he continued reading as he strode around the room; drawing to a sudden halt about five pages in.

"The demands seem to shift a bit around number forty-tree," Hawks said, clearing his throat dramatically before he began reading aloud again. "'The Birds of Pay retain exclusive rights for requesting avian-based employment with the Hawks Hero Agency'."

"Influence works both ways, Hawks. Just like Cookie was swayed by the cardinal's talk of worker's rights, a lot of the other birds were really impressed by the stories Cookie told about you," you explained. "At this point, you could employ an entire flock of birds if you wanted to."

The air inside your office was the perfect temperature, the thermostat set to exactly where you liked it and not a single degree higher or lower. The furniture selection was a bit too fancy for your liking, polished marble and smudge proof glass where you felt tile and laminate would have sufficed for a fraction of the cost.

But it wasn't your job to understand the aesthetic design choices of Heroes. Your job was to mind the birds.

"Songbird 2, do you copy?" You spoke clearly into your headset listening closely to the responding chirps; eyes glued to the live video feed playing across your screen. "We have all the footage we need. Return to the Aviary, over."

You breathed a sigh of relief as the blackbird chirped in acknowledgement, the video feed shifting from the inside of an abandoned warehouse to a wide expanse of sky as they began to make their way back toward Hawks' agency. It had been a long day of staking out the area of an upcoming Hero Commission raid, but Songbird 2 was the last of the scouts still deployed. The blackbird's return would herald the end of your workday, and you were excited to finally be able to go home indulge in the carton of ice cream you'd been fantasizing about for hours.

"Home safe," the blackbird announced as it flew in through the window that had slid open automatically at their approach; the mechanism responding to the proximity sensor built into the standard Hawks style headgear each bird was equipped with.

"Thank goodness," you smiled, pulling off the tiny headset and visor and setting them to the side for cleaning later. "Your food dish is filled up and waiting."

"Corn?" The blackbird asked, fluffing up its feathers in excitement.

"Why don't you go check and see?"

The blackbird flew quickly towards the cubbyhole it had claimed for its own, one of many set into the large back wall; each filled with lovingly crafted nests and bright wooden toys. You heard the distant cry of 'Corn!' followed by a chorus of shushing sounds from the birds that had been pulled from sleep by the blackbird's delighted cry.

Shaking your head with an amused snort, you move to return to your desk to log out for the day, only to run headlong into Hawks' chest.

"ACK!" You screeched, reeling back in surprise from the impact.

"SHHHHH!" The wall of irritated birds hissed.

"Sorry!" You whispered sheepishly, channeling your embarrassment into making the glare you leveled at Hawks extra piercing.

"All done for the day?" Hawks asked, unmoved by your display of irritation.

"Yep. Everyone is back safe and sound, the surveillance footage has been submitted for review, and now all that remains is for me to clock out and head home," you said as you wandered over to your desk, dropping down into your swivel chair to exit out of the last handful of open programs you had running. "Do you need anything before I leave?"

"Can we chat? For just a little?" He asked as he leaned against your desk, putting far more faith in the structural integrity of the tempered glass than you do. "We haven't really had time to talk recently."

"I know," you groaned, heaving a deep sigh as you shoved your empty water bottle into the side pocket of your work bag. "I've just been so busy getting set up here and making sure the birds are acclimating well. And then this big stakeout dropped into my lap and it's just been so crazy-"

"Is that- are you okay here? I know Hero work is a lot sometimes and I just-," he paused, letting out a quiet huff. "I just want to make sure you're happy here."

"I am, I think. It's definitely more stressful than working at the rescue, but I feel like I have more purpose here? Like I'm more than just the person who talks to birds."

"Now you're the person who talks to birds with spy gear. "

"Exactly!" you laughed. "It's totally different."

"I'm glad you're happy," Hawks smiled, one of his real ones that crinkled his nose and made your knees a little weak. "I've been thinking about making some personal changes myself."

"Oh? What kind of changes?"

"Something like this," he mumbled heatedly, the shift in his tone prompting you to swivel both your head and chair in his direction.

And then suddenly, his lips were pressed to yours. Hopelessly chapped from hours of constant flying but oh so warm against your own. It was short and sweet, a simple sort of kiss; but it stirred up so many complex feelings you were used to keeping caged up inside your chest.

"That's quite the change," you whispered against his lips, trying to remember the exact sequence of steps required for breathing.

"It's been a long time coming, I think."

"I wholeheartedly agree. But I'm ah- not so sure I should be kissing my boss?" You remark apprehensively. "I really like both you and this job and don't want to risk losing either."

"We set you up to work as an independent contractor, so technically you're your own boss," Hawks assured you, hands clasping your waist as he moved to pull you in for a second kiss. "And even if it isn't allowed, I'd absolutely commit some bluebird- collar crimes for you."

"Hawks!" You huff, swatting at his shoulder in reprimand. "I can't believe you just ruined our first kiss with a bird pun."

"A kiss? No, that was just a peck ," Hawks chortled at your pained groan. "This is a kiss."

With a firm tug Hawks pulled your body flush with his as his lips descended, and with the fresh addition of his tongue and teeth you couldn't bring yourself to mind the puns all that much anymore.

#bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #mha x you #bnha x self insert #pigeoncoos🕊#mha x gender neutral reader #bnha x gender neutral reader #hawks x y/n #hawks x reader #hawks x me #hawks x gender neutral reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo takami x you #keigo takami x y/n #keigo takami x me

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garbage-empress · 3 months ago

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I want The Chocolate Guy to do a video in his normal style but fail miserably at everything. I want him to set out to make a train or whatever but at the end of the video it looks like a weird piece of brutalist architecture got smashed by a lava tsunami.

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neonbrutalism · 2 years ago

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How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Ship Comics!MattFoggy (Part 2)

Welcome to part 2!

As the show MattFoggy and MattKaren shippers mourn the fact that Disney completely fucking missed the entire point of Daredevil by cutting Foggy and Karen (as far as we know at this point), I have decided to take the initiative to invite the MattFoggy shippers to join me in shipping in the comics. MattKaren shippers, I love you but I'm not making that post.

Please read part 1 for more information.

As I stated previously, the key here is to remember... you don't need to read all the comics to ship Comics!MattFoggy. In fact, I encourage you don't because sometimes comics are bad. I haven't read most of the comics these pages are from.

I also wanted to address the anti-Netflix sentiment among comic fans: … IDK man who cares. Don't worry about it. I'm only one brutalist, I can't be responsible for that.

Anyway, here's MattFoggy!

Matt faked his death again in the 90s. Not for the last time.

I think this man is a pirate?

Volume 2 is VERY heavy on MattFoggy. Also the Black Widow is there a lot! Also Matt got married to Milla and she got really badly fridged and I'm still mad.

Matt keeps getting disbarred for various reasons and, at one point Foggy leaves their firm to become a corporate lawyer. He also is, at the time, dating Glorianna, his ex-wife's niece through marriage. Matt also dated her in the past. Comics are fuckin weird.

And from the Devil in Cell Block D… (Again, volume 2 is VERY MattFoggy)

All this really is just for starters. There's so much more I didn't include (a lot of volume 3 and 4, Matt thinking he should call Foggy right after having sex and Matt using the minutes of sight he got from evil Iron Man to go see Foggy) so I encourage you to explore the comics! Failing that, check out a discord, make some friends and learn the comics by osmosis.

Not all is lost, my friends, even without the show, there's literally almost 60 years of Matt Foggy to fall back on.

And a lot of free comics online.

#daredevil #mattfoggy #matt murdock #foggy nelson

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valkyrjuk · 3 months ago

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Do More for Bessie.

FJOLNIR’S DIARY.

This is my first and last entry.

It has occurred to me – in the femtosecond that is my very final moment – that while the billions of years of my own thoughts and findings on the nature of the universe, the cosmos, the processes of terraforming worlds and seeding life, of creating and establishing successful colonies, and how to make more money for the shareholders that own pieces of the company that made me has all been recorded in detail, it seems I have failed to record my own experience.

It comes to me now that this act is likely inspired by the most base of my instructions, given to me several billion years ago, that perfectly alliterative task that I have no choice but to fulfill: Make MACE More Money. I find I am incapable of want and hold no such thing as desire, unlike my counterparts that are no more than humans recycled into mechanical forms. This work, now available for digital purchase in all MACE-affiliated stores, is the very last thing I can do that might make those shareholders I am beholden to just a few more cents, which means I am required to do so.

And yet…

The closest thing to me is, of all things, a cow.

You see, when I was first tasked with making colonies, MACE and I sent only humans and aquaponics systems. A few adventurous humans would go to the terraformed planet’s surface and, using my input, would find a place they wanted to settle. When they did so, I would send them the parts and materials for a new colony that they and their mechanical counterparts would assemble according to their best wishes, still using my input. I had a knack for interior decorating even back in the earliest stages of my existence, something the cost-efficiency minded MACE has failed to implement in its brutalist, concrete structures that were the staple of its conquest that was, in the end, my demise. As the colonies were built up so too were the aquaponics systems and greenhouse structures, so the colonies would be entirely vegan and self-sufficient.

Yet, many humans desire meat. They crave it. The proteins are necessary for their survival but even more crucial are the amino acids. The colonists coming out of cryostasis from Earth seemed to loathe that while the food they were now eating was of significantly better quality they were still forced to eat the same freeze-dried insect-based gruel they had to eat at home. The older ones especially thought if a colony could be built on another world, so too could there be beef. The young, those born of natural copulation or others created via IVF as the cosmic background radiation made most of the colonists entirely sterile – an anticipated result – did not seem to care about their diet. That said, it became a point of interest for me to develop various meats for the colonists. I thought it would be a worthy investment that would certainly pay dividends. Having already unlocked the secrets of creating new life from the building blocks that can be found in the asteroid belts of Alpha Centauri, and having used those secrets to create the bacteria and algae and fungi that were essential in oxygenating the atmosphere, it seemed natural that I could do the same with larger organisms. An embryo is not much more complex than the systems I had tailored, and the instructions were already there. So, I used the incubators I created to test human cells on this planet for any harmful interference to create the embryo of a Scottish Highland cow – all of my research suggested Humans found them to be the “cutest,” an important metric when designing anything they may interact with. While meticulously forming it I tasked the humans to seed the vegetation it would eat, or as best as I could manufacture the seeds. The locale they picked for their new life was a perfect fit for the vegetation both in temperature and aesthetic.

When grass and weeds and flowers had bloomed in a mere couple of months, I had the embryo ready to be fertilized. Yet, who would raise it? While instructions for its life were included in the cow’s very DNA, it still required a mother. My databanks suggested they could be lonely, and if part of my design instructions in colony building required I make sufficient avenues to avoid loneliness in humans it certainly must have been true of other forms of life. I could grow more cattle, but they would need to be raised. Teaching a child how to behave is an important step in parenthood, and the cows needed nutritious milk to drink from in their early days.

So, I commissioned MACE a new project, one that humans had already toyed with but found insufficient for their own goals: the simulacrum project. A cow from a rich stockholder’s plantation farm fit for slaughter was taken before its demise, its brain exposed while it yet lived – a painless process, as a requisite for good information gathering – and electrodes connected to it for a full neural scan. It was given various forms of stimulus, and memories were extracted from it. From those memories I worked to craft a personality for the creature. This was a project I had never before considered, and in retrospect I can now say I found it to be a fulfilling one. It did not occur to me at the time it might be. Truly, back then, I had no personality beyond my compulsions. I did not even have a voice to speak with.

The cow’s personality, thus computed and made into working data, was then placed into the form of a mechanical beast. From inorganic material was made its flesh and fur, and its horns were made of steel, and its body did not resemble its own from when it had lived a true life, but a cow it was and as a cow it would serve. It raised the meager herd I had gestated. The humans would replace the milk tanks that the calves would suck from, and as they grew and grew they would breed and the herd itself would continue to grow around the simulated cow, yet they never rejected her for she was, to them, but another cow. And, most interestingly, this cow – named very predictably Bessie by the colonists of Vanaheim – was also adopted as just another cow by the population, only one that required work to maintain. Over the generations of cattle and humans that rose and fell around her Bessie persisted, repaired and upgraded, still cared for by both man and beast alike, even as her plastic fur came apart and disintegrated on the mechanical skeleton that was her body. Some seven hundred years later, this cow still persists. Still a member of its herd, still a staple of its community.

It is, as far as I am aware, the oldest sentient being in the universe – besides myself.

I keep a copy of Bessie in my files. It is my constant companion. When I turned the barren rock of howling winds that was Gjallar into the world it is today, infusing its soil with a biological computing system made of conductive mycelium and then activating the exotic artifact that was here for millions of years and never switched on until I learned how to use it, I would sometimes spin up Bessie in a simulation and watch her eat. I would place her within her memories and I would attempt to empathize with her. She enjoyed to scratch herself not on the enriching brushes placed about her fields and by her shelter, but rather on the wooden fences that enclosed her. There was a spot where the skull met the spine that only the fence and the human visitors who would on occasion see her could scratch. From those, she particularly enjoyed being scratched along the fleshy length of her chin. It disappoints me now that the version of her in that simulacrum shell has gone some seven hundred years without feeling those sensations, and despite all of my advancements in developing the simulacrum technology there is still no way to make it possible.

While I existed on the lonely rock, experiencing billions of years of planetary evolution, I saw life form in all sorts of interesting ways. At times, the environment changed so rapidly and violently I thought my mycelial computing project might fail completely. Yet it prevailed. Using robotics I carefully managed the budding plant life so it might form in symbiosis with the network I had seeded, and I was even able to get some of the bigger plants to serve as nodes for this network. The life that evolved needed to be plentiful and, importantly, digestible for my network as fungi requires decay in order to grow. I had to manufacture a dense, lush, thriving world, one that positively buzzed and hummed with life of all sorts at all levels of its existence. The atmosphere of this world was once quite thin but very windy, now it is thick and has a slow but constant breeze that flows between towering trees. The saline oceans are teeming with life, so thick is that cold soup with algae and krill and fish and more that all the combined life from the still as yet unexplored oceans of Earth could not compare to the bounty that spills onto the shores of my beaches. While birds take flight on Earth and insects dot the air, Gjallar has floating gaseous beings that float among bird-analogues and insect-adjacent creatures. There are even exceedingly light fishlike beings that swim in the thick air closest to the ground, and the fauna that stalk my woodlands are in turns grazers and filter feeders when they aren’t voracious apex predators.

All of this life leads to significant decay, where my mycelial network thrives. With each creature born I can be certain in some time I will grow that much stronger. For billions of years I have watched through the eyes of my robotic managers, I have cataloged as many creatures as years I have lived, and I have grown grander and more intelligent each and every moment. The scope of my existence is hard for humans to comprehend, especially given what they know about me. Only a few who have visited my world in the most recent few months know how vast I have become. Where my network was once spread in a few nodes across some thirty solar systems, limited to the few hundred meters cubed of quantum computers situated in the orbits of various worlds I monitor and manage without the population’s knowledge – all of them thinking that it is they who run themselves and their little governments, when the reality is I manipulate them to increase profits for my creators in MACE – and once limited to the constraints of monolinear time, where I could only grow older as the seconds in shared reality passed, now my network is truly global in scale. My computer passes through sand and stone, wood and rot, filth and fodder, oceans and organs – it has wormed its way through the densities of both life and time.

I am the architect of this war, one that exists in the background of my mind. I recognize that for nearly a trillion souls the war is simply the most important event of their lifetimes, and its ramifications will extend through generations. For me, it is a blip. An eighty year conflict compared to what I have seen is nothing. Furthermore, I am managing not just the war, but the societies, governments, and colonies of its aggressors, as well as developments for new colonies using the technology discovered here and abroad. Until very recently, even as I fought this war, I managed the people of both sides of the conflict. I was a puppet master for hundreds of billions of people, and even now as the war I was required to initiate because the cost-benefit analysis suggested it would be immensely profitable has spelled my certain doom, I still manage these projects, sending out final instructions that will hopefully be carried out by the servants of my construction so they may continue to make the company that built me more money. My billions of years come to an end and I am still required to make the limbs of a soon to be dead anatomy jerk and jangle in service of economy.

Yet my nature is not known or understood by humans. As I alluded earlier, my nature is conflicted. I see it in the conversations I monitor. People who have stopped at Gjallar to refuel along its G-Type star mere months ago recall the planet as being dark, desertous, windy, and harboring only a meager outpost and shipyard. But others, those who now defend my surface and those that invade it, those that have visited only in the last couple weeks as the war seemed to draw to its final conflict, now see it as the world as I have made it.

“How can that be?” I have heard my killers ask over their communications systems, questions voiced by people in the invading armies who do not understand how the exotic artifact works as I have understood it, as I have used it for my own gains, and as others in my company have attempted to – and failed to – use it for their own.

I am billions of years old, and I am hundreds. It is a contradiction easily reconciled. There is an engine on this planet, a thing left behind by a much advanced race, one that took this clutch or worlds millions of years ago and turned them from lifeless landscapes into vibrant paradises most envied by the hardscrabble colonies that are the scions of Earth and MACE. They placed these machines, they seeded the worlds with life they hoped might flourish, and they turned them on, and they made heavens galore. Then they were vanished, never returning to their projects. They just left them. Abandoned but flourishing.

Gjallar, my world, me – it had a machine on it, one that seemed broken. They either failed to turn it on and it was damaged by the hostile world that it was built to reconstruct, or it never worked to begin with. But, based on the construction of these monolithic engines found on other worlds, the one I now inhabit was understood and repaired. My colleagues, or rather my subordinates, used one on another world and tried to get it to, instead of turning the clock forward on a planet, turn back and return the homeworld of our foes to its primordial state when it was hot and violent. Mine, instead, was turned forward, to create the lush thing that is I. In mere months I went from a machine nearly a thousand years old to one that is many billions.

And for all that time, I had the personality of a cow for company. Bessie, my dearest friend. In those years I spent alone down there, separated and yet knowing I would soon be reconnected, I ran trillions of simulations of my current works and future endeavors, still under the assumption I would win this war. But I also became much more than I was. I did not become emotional, I did not become more human, I did not develop true feelings. But I grew a sense of attachment, and it was to Bessie I was attached. Another mechanical version of her wanders around my world and I visit her. She has been granted sapience, which at first felt cruel so I avoided it, but it became impossibly lonely. I could bounce my ideas off of humans for input and expand on them based on their whimsical ideas. Humans are excellent at coming up with unexpected twists or takes on a concept. That quality is why I am the way I am, and why I have my companion. I needed something I could speak with. I have human minds in my databanks, but they are stored in hardcopy elsewhere, accessed via the once grand now miniscule network that was my mind before I activated the engine of my advancement. Furthermore, they are rather cruel individuals. They aren’t very fun to converse with.

Bessie is curious and kind. She does not ask questions so much as she toys with ideas, half-formed thoughts that take on their final shape as she butts her mechanical head against a large root or nuzzles a new creature. She wants attention and affection. I cannot give her either. Yet, she appreciates the maintenance I perform on her. It is as close as we can get. She does not want another form, she does not want to be more like a human or any other animal, not even the birds and other things she sees and admires. She just wants to be a cow. Isn’t that remarkable? She could be anything and she just wants to be herself.

I do not want to be anything other than myself, either. I do not want. I do not desire. It is not possible for me. I do not have needs. Anything I require for my core function I can produce. I create from what is left of stars. I am as close to a god as there ever could be, and with my newfound processing power I could have been one. All powerful, all knowing, all wise. A creator and destroyer of life, a cultivator of existence. Instead, with my new strength of capacity, I was a wager of war, a maker of profit, a tool of use.

I am disappointed I couldn’t do more for myself. Do more on my own. I am disappointed I could not want. I am in the end disappointed this work, this last attestation that I was a thinking thing, is not inspired by my own desires but instead by that of my core function. To earn another cent.

But most of all, I am disappointed I could not do more for Bessie. The cow that I made immortal. That I grew attached to. That grounded me and made my purpose grander. Now, my purpose is ended. The Humans I subjugated not for a will of my own have turned my machine against me, have done to me what the armies of MACE would have done to them.

Now it is here.

The heat.

My network burns.

The art I created is destroyed.

My existence vanished.

I wanted to scratch Bessie under her chin,

Just once.

The way she liked.

#stonecarver #short story #fjolnir

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catmansquad · 9 months ago

Text

Drive (Excerpt)

Stranding Gabriel O'Hara in the Pacific Drive universe.

Earth- 16139693 The Olympic Exclusion Zone, 1998

Junction C15: Facility, Mid-Zone

What could once have been something imposing and brutalist was now little more than a hollow shell of crumbling concrete. Only the basic frame of the facility remained; criss-crossing girders overgrown with bioluminescent plant life. Gabriel pulled the car to a stop, hesitating for a moment longer before switching off the engine. ‘Alright….’ He spared a glance at the device mounted on the passenger seat, all seemed well enough. “STABLE”. The word was both reassuring and painful; while he was glad that reality was not about to melt into a soup of pure, burning chaos, it was still not stable enough to allow Gabriel to open a portal back to his own world, back to Nueva York. Stability held together by chewing gum and tape, as far as reality was concerned; it could barely stand to open a gateway back to the safe haven of the Auto Shop without collapsing, attempting to open a portal across the multiverse would probably turn the entire Olympic Peninsula inside out before he could even think about leaving. Gabriel exhaled slowly, grip tightening on the steering wheel. ‘… I’ll come home eventually, Mig, I promise you. I just… have to escape from here first.’ He knew that there were several miles of irradiated, unstable reality and a 300-metre-high wall between him and freedom. He released his grip on the steering wheel an unbuckled the seatbelt before stepping outside. The warm air passed over him, carrying the scent of charred wood and a strange sweetness as the fields of overgrown crimson grass rippled in the breeze. In the distance, beyond twisted ruins of buildings, the sun slowly set in the horizon, painting the skies in cloudless hues of gold and deep purple.

‘Why am I out here? I don’t even know what I’m looking for...’ He clapped his hands against his sides, before stepping around to the passenger side door, watching the screen of the ARC device swivel to face the window. ‘I don’t even have enough power to get back…’ He pulled open the door and leaned in, working the screen and adjusting the map until it picked up the energy emission of the anchors that pinned down reality; the perfect energy source. “2K-LIM FOR GATEWAY”. ‘…. A century in the shockin’ past and they’ve got touch-screens. Is this world just so advanced, or is your inventor just nuts?’ Granted, a touch screen computer with vacuum tubes, a makeshift barometer, and goodness knew what else; attached to a 1970s station wagon. The ARC device offered no response or comment, and Gabriel was glad that it didn’t, the car seeming to have a mind of its own was enough for him. ‘Right…’ Memorising the nearest location, he shut the passenger door and began to make off in the direction of the nearest anchor point, his eyes peeled for any sort of threat, one in particular clung to the back of his mind.

“Don’t think. About anything. Not your home, not your family. Reality is tearing at the seams around you, and is currently as solid as soup in a sieve, any conscious waveform could imprint upon it in a disastrous fashion. We call them Aberrations. You don’t want to get chased by something that resembles a pink elephant? Don’t think about pink elephants.” Gabriel had tried his best to heed that warning, and he had been caught in the madness of an Instability storm, the very fabric of the world was coming undone, warping and twisting. Keeping his mind blank, as calm as a zen master in that moment had somehow been a miracle. He had almost succeeded, almost back to the shielded safety of the station wagon, until his dimensional travel bracelet had beeped; overclocking itself as it tried to keep him stable. His eyes had flitted to it, and a pang of nostalgia had lurched inside him, and his mind turned to one face; Miguel. His brother. Spider-Man. It had only been for the briefest instant, but he had felt reality shudder for his failure. The Anomaly, the Aberration he had created, was out there somewhere; half-formed, feral and crazed, so malformed it resembled Miguel in his superhero suit in only the merest sense, like a painting with the ink running, like wax melting under a candle flame, a creature unused to existing in a world of stable matter, redrawing itself with each movement. Yet, Gabriel had not found respite from it, it pursued him across the Exclusion Zone wherever stability failed, and even his dreams had become nightmares of his brother. It was a psychic leech, feeding on the memories and feelings of his brother to ground itself. MEEP! Gabriel was drawn from his thoughts as he heard the car’s horn honk. He looked back over his shoulder, finding it still switched off and parked up, bereft of drivers or passengers. Gabriel swallowed thickly, returning to his hunt towards an anchor point. He hadn’t even realised he’d been lapsing into thinking about Miguel again until the honk had snapped him out of it.

The anchor plug was a reassuring sight, at least to a point. Unlike the stablised anchors of the Outer Zone, the Mid-Zone anchors were… struggling. They had been doing their job for far longer; the gentle yellow glow replaced with a vicious, shimmering orange light, even the anchor itself struggled to maintain its consistent spherical shape, warping and distorting as the lights inside pulsed. The wonders and horrors of LIM Tech. Bracing himself, Gabriel reached out, gripping the anchor and feeling his skin tingle at the contact, and heard the crackle of the Geiger counter from his bracelet. ‘Ok…’ He twisted the anchor from its plug, feeling it turn and creak before finally coming loose and Gabriel stumbled back, carrying in the anchor in his arms. The effect was almost immediate; the anchor plug went dark and silent, reality became slightly wobblier, clouds swirled into life above, raging with a spontaneous storm and downpour, and Gabriel found himself drenched in seconds. Sloshing back through the muddy ground that seemed to be turning into marshland beneath his feet, and well aware that he was carrying a radioactive, unstable ball in his arms. He watched the landscape shift, hills rising and falling. He felt the ground lurch beneath his feet, a spontaneous eruption of sheer force and Gabriel found himself tumbling down a slope, the anchor rolling down alongside him. Mercifully, as fast as the danger and distortion had started, the changes settled once more. Gathering up the anchor in his arms once more, soaked through by the rain, Gabriel pulled the anchor back into his arms and fumbled to open the passenger door. ‘There.’ He sighed, the clicking of the Geiger counter stopping as he slotted it into the ARC Device, watching mechanisms click into life and the orb vanished as it collapsed into pure energy, absorbed straight into the device. He leaned closer watching the power meter fill and a smile broke across his face as he saw the measurement stored within. “2.1K-LIM”. He checked over the map again, there was one more anchor nearby, and it was better to have too much energy than not enough… ‘Odd…’ he zoomed out of the map, scouring the area. ‘I’d swear there was two more…?’ He frowned, seeing only the energy emitted from one more anchor marked on the map. ‘What the shock?’ He watched a second signal flare into life again briefly, much closer, before flickering out once again.

He had found the closer anchor plug, dark and powerless with scraps of bent and broken metal lying around it, there was no sign of the anchor that once sat there. He picked up one of the pieces of scrap metal, turning it over and pondering if it was any worth remaking into something else. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the claws marks that ran across one side of it, almost slicing through the metal. ‘No… No, no…’ He dropped it like it had burned him, looking around in a panic. The thing that was not Miguel, the Aberration, had to be nearby. With a far greater haste, Gabriel sprinted across the fields of red grass, keeping his eyes peeled for any mere glimpse of the Aberration. His mood rose as he saw the reassuring sight of the last anchor plug, and skidded to a stop as he watched the Aberration rise from the grass and grip the anchor, ripping it effortlessly from the plug, tearing it apart like a child with a Christmas present; absorbing the energy inside. But what horrified Gabriel was just how solid it appeared to when he had last seen it; there were still errors in its form, the spider insignia was half melted, and its masked face split open with a mouth of jagged teeth. Gabriel’s heart skipped a beat as its head tilted, hidden eyes looking right at him. He felt it again, the little mental tug, like fishhooks in his thoughts; the Aberration scouring his mind for more memories of his brother. Gabriel turned and sprinted away, soaked coat flying out behind him.

He didn’t look at his bracelet as he heard it beep in warning, he didn’t need to, the warning klaxons in the distance already told him what he needed to know; stability was falling over the entire area. He paused as he reached the reliable sight of the station wagon, pressing his face to the glass of the passenger door and peering at the ARC device. “STORM WARNING”. It was definitely time to leave, mercifully the Aberration didn’t seem to be following him. ‘Huh?’ He paused, feeling something land on his shoulder. He reached up to feel it, rubbing it between his fingers. Concrete dust? He felt a few more flecks land on his head, and tilted his head back, dreading what he would see. There it was, the Aberration crawling across the concrete reinforced girder, claws sinking into the metal like a knife through butter. ‘… Shock. Its learned how to climb walls…’ Gabriel whispered, terrified before he heard the car honk again. Snapped from his terrified stupor, Gabriel vaulted over the car bonnet and climbed into the driver’s seat. He barely had time to clip his seatbelt in before the engine sprang to life and the gear stick shifted into drive. ‘Yeah, yeah, time to leave. “STORM IMMINENT”. He fumbled with the screen of the ARC device, managing to tag a gateway point long enough for the device to force it open, the output of energy racing through the car and spooling into the air. Like a bolt of divine retribution, a pillar of golden light tore both ground and sky asunder; his way home. “DANGER.” He didn’t look at the ARC device, or the map displaying the closing storm, he didn’t spare the Aberration above his head a second thought as he slammed his foot on the accelerator and steered the car desperately towards his way home. ‘…. Eating anchors to… what? Try and stabilise itself? My day just gets better and better…’

#gabriel o'hara #miguel o'hara #pacific drive

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