#without you there to keep us whole the cracks in us splinter and fracture into something new and brilliant

[charismabee]

I love the New and Unending Dawn ending so so much. I love my little guys (the voices) and I want them to be happy and free to learn to be safe. I love thinking about them exploring their world, one free of pain and death, learning things. Perhaps even splitting off into their own gods, connected and 'us' but having discovered themselves. Able to develop past their lables like the contrarian did and learning how they interconnect and make a whole, never alone but still themselves. Just let them hang out and discover the beauty in the world together okay I'm cryign.

[dyrewrites]

Weald and Wen -- Born in hunger

Deep in the trembling monochrome of the Dreadmire, caged in the seedy green walls of his tower, Parnamyr was concerned.

Worry urged him to his ocularum, where he fretted more freely, “half a cycle without a single report is too long. My ocular should have returned by now, swollen with images. Yet I am left without so much as a sip!” Darting fluttering eyes around the wall, he beckoned his connection to the guide he sent with his sister, “show me.”

Burnt orange stalks flickered in its offered image and Parnamyr snarled, “Withers? They should be at the Rim or off-Spine by now. Why are you showing me Withers, you useless—”

The image smeared, cutting his insult while the ocular holding it zipped around dried stalks. A clink rang as Parnamyr clenched his jaw. The ocular flew low, keeping to brush with an Auru in its sights and, as said Auru glanced backward, Parnamyr trembled with a panic not his own.

An over-sized jar slapped against the Auru’s thighs with each lope of its powerful legs and Parnamyr urged the image closer, the ocular faster. The translucent blue jar was lit with a deep purple flaring to pinks as the eyes within it spied the eye without.

A clanking growl rumbled in the cogs of Parnamyr’s chest as he named what held his sister, Hunter. It took her ages to recover last one snatched her, his mind screamed with memories of spreading his Dreadmire, of howling through the Wen, such ichor spilled and bark shed. Irreplaceable bark.

“Find the others!” He snapped at his oculars, keeping the image of his sister’s captor in his periphery as more clusters of Wen flicked through the rest. “What use was begging the Nectrar along, sister? No comfort to you out there, no sword or shield to save you, yet such delights he would have served in my bed.”

Myriad stalks filtered through the feeds with no sign of his sister’s guardians and the Weald swept into focus, the ocular flashing its image to draw his eyes.

Parnamyr’s chest rumbled and clanked as he spoke to it, “you contemptible nit, she is not in the Wea—” A chill, vile hunger soaked his gears and he called the image closer.

Eerie, the gorebarks filling it, more the quiet shadows of Napyr nests behind, silhouetted in the gloom. A towering statue sat cradled between them, antlers impossibly stretched and branching.

Hunger gnawed sharper at Parnamyr’s insides and the image flickered as the ocular closed in, its red eye staining the grays of the statue.

Recognition stuttered him, from the slender splinter of seed in his chest to the one pulsing whole above his tower. He knew that Napyr, as many of her saplings moaned within his walls. Sapling’s whose thoughts he pulled her menacing visage from.

��The Broodmother,” he breathed.

The ocular’s warning beeps sounded as sirens, sudden and deafening, heralding a rippling in the surface of the statue.

Ravenous hunger drove Parnamyr’s needles to his teeth as the Broodmother’s eyes cracked, splintering the horror chiseled through her features. It raced down the whole of her, ripples pounding as waves to shudder every succulent groove.

Pallid drool spilled from his lips as starving darkness dripped from the cracks. Inky shadows cascaded from the fractured stone, squelching to dry leaves and merging into a lake of pitch at the Broodmother’s broken feet.

Parnamyr moaned for the greedy glut they radiated.

Blinking in the gloom, with fresh eyes shifting and slithering through its amorphous form, the spilled mass found life. It vibrated, spread flat and the newborn Hollow tittered before it seeped into the forest floor, taking what remained of the copse’s light with it.

Limbs silent, Parnamyr willed the image to fade as terror clawed at his insides; a biting, unfathomable terror belonging to him and him alone.

->Weald and Wen Taglist<-

~Lemme know if you want on/off~

@sapphicwizards @tragedycoded @rowanmgrey-author @watermeezer @badscientist

@hyacinthslibrary @olliexwrites @wyked-ao3 @ashlovesfiction ^.-

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

air temples

Written for Day 5 of @aangweek! Read here on AO3.

~*~

5. air temples - i finally realized, all of this time / it was in me / all along, it was in me

Faded. That was the word. Everything about the Northern Air Temple was… faded.

The murals had grown softer, paint peeling and splintered with jagged cracks. The walls were crumbling in many rooms, the insertion of metal pipes drastically changing the infrastructure. Spaces that had once been full of people, full of life, were abandoned. Desolate. Empty.

Aang’s memories were so - so vibrant in his mind. And now, the present simply… paled in comparison.

Faded. Everything had faded.

His chest was tight.

“Aang? Can I come in?”

Aang blinked upon hearing his name, turning around to see that Teo had wheeled up behind him. His new friend had come to a stop beneath a fractured wooden doorframe. “Uh… sure?” he finally answered. “I don’t think you need my permission, though.”

Teo shrugged as he rolled inside. “You seemed lost in thought. I didn’t want to startle you.”

Aang flushed. He’d definitely been caught up in the past. Or maybe he’d been agonizing over the present. Was there a difference? “Oh.”

Teo laughed. “Nothing wrong with being easy to read. My father tells me I’m the same.”

Aang smiled. “I guess it’s not too bad, then. Having anything in common with you is a plus.”

It was Teo’s turn for his face to redden. “Wow. Me, having something in common with the Avatar?” He shook his head, feigning awe. “That’s incredible. I’ve never felt so cool.”

Aang rolled his eyes, grinning. “As if you didn’t almost out-glide me all of a few hours ago.”

“‘Almost’?” Teo repeated, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I seem to recall that I did out-glide you, Avatar.”

Aang laughed, tilting his head to the side. “Then I guess we’ll just have to organize an official rematch, won’t we?”

“I’ll pencil it into my schedule. Hope you’re ready to lose again.”

“Ooh, fighting words.” Aang winked at him. “Don’t count your pickens before they hatch.” A beat passed, and he shook his head, realizing Teo had probably not tracked him down for small talk. “Sorry. I kind of took us on a tangent there. Was there a specific reason you were looking for me?”

Teo blinked. “Yes. Right.” He jutted his thumb behind them. “There’s something I want to show you in my room. I think it might… mean something to you.”

Aang frowned. “Should we get Katara and Sokka?”

Teo shook his head. “No. It won’t matter to them.” He hesitated, amending, “I mean, we can get them if you want, of course. It’s just -” Teo huffed. “Sorry. I didn’t think…” He met Aang’s eyes, and his next words made Aang’s entire body tense. “I found something from your people. The airbenders. I thought you might want to see it… in private.”

Aang swallowed hard, blinking back tears he both did and didn’t understand. “Thank you,” he whispered after a pause. He cleared his throat. “I really appreciate that.” He gestured to the door. “Lead the way?”

Teo nodded, and when he steered himself out the room, Aang followed.

“I found it recently,” Teo explained as he directed Aang through the temple. “Completely on accident, too. I had to get up super early one morning to help my dad with some work, so I wasn’t even half-awake when I got into my chair. I was pulling my hair up, but apparently I’d forgotten to lock the brakes, because gravity rolled me backwards with a little extra force into the corner of my room.”

Aang’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you -”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Teo reassured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I took way harder hits than that when I was first learning how to land with my glider.”

Aang laughed. “Yeah, landing is a lot easier when you can use airbending as a cushion.”

Teo sighed dramatically. “If only! I have to rely on favorable air currents and precise mathematical angles.”

Aang winked at him. “Which goes to show how brilliant you are, since you now land so effortlessly.”

Teo snorted. “Trial and error, Aang. Trial and error.” He gave him a crooked smile. “And all the math, too.” He paused, rolling to a stop. “Okay. We’re here.”

The room wasn’t too different from how Aang remembered the sleeping quarters of the Northern Air Temple to be. Minimalistic, yet comforting. Aang noticed there were a few mechanical gadgets scattered about the place that hadn’t been there a century ago, as well as a wooden desk with smudged blueprints resting atop it.

Teo must have realized what he was looking at, as his face went scarlet and he immediately flipped the sketches over. “Sorry. They’re nowhere near as good as my dad’s yet.”

Aang wanted to protest that Teo’s designs were fine and he didn’t want to compare them to his father’s anyway, but his voice vanished as Teo pointed to an open corner of his bedroom. A small space to the left of his friend’s sleeping arrangements.

“My chair knocked a brick loose that morning,” Teo explained, continuing the story he’d started in the hall. “At first, I thought it was just because the temple is old.” He wheeled over to the corner, running his hand over a stone slightly lighter than the rest. Indiscernible to someone not looking for it. “But when I tried to fix it…” Teo slid the brick out of the wall. In the space left open behind it were…

Scrolls?

“I found these,” Teo finished, pulling out three sheets of rolled-up parchment with his other hand and offering them to Aang. “I think they were made by the airbenders who used to live here.” He paused. “Your people, I mean.”

Aang accepted the scrolls with shaking hands. The edges of the papers had yellowed with time, age making them thin and fragile, but overall the pages were well-preserved.

Aang carefully unrolled each sheet, smoothing them out flat atop Teo’s desk. They were… Pictures.

Art.

Two were drawn by young boys, Aang presumed, based on the inexperience and bright hues of the art style. One was of a grinning sky bison, and the other was a color-coded collage of the symbols for the four elements. Both images radiated childlike glee.

The third was much neater, painted by the hand of someone gifted with a brush. It depicted the Air Nomads’ tattooing ceremony, Aang realized, where an unidentified airbender was being given their arrows and granted the title of an airbending master. Everything about the picture was - was vibrant, from the sky blue arrows to the warm tones of the monks’ orange robes, each detail bursting with memories of a peaceful time long since passed.

Aang hadn’t realized he was crying until Teo began to frantically ask if he was okay.

“I’m fine,” Aang reassured his friend, voice steadier than he expected it to be. He wiped his eyes, but tears continued to silently fall. “I just…” He glanced down at the three artworks a second time before turning around to crush Teo in a hug. The young mechanic seemed shocked, but soon returned the embrace.

“Thank you,” Aang whispered, his face nestled in Teo’s shoulder. “For keeping them alive.”

Teo squeezed Aang tighter. “I owe them everything. We wouldn’t have survived without this temple.”

The Northern Air Temple. Full of secrets and surprises. A painful past, a painful present, yet nonetheless possessing a hopeful future.

Faded, Aang had called it.

No. No, it wasn’t faded. He’d been wrong. The temple was vibrant. Bursting with colors contained behind gray stone walls. The temple was scarred, maybe. Aang couldn’t deny that. Bruised, even. Beaten and broken and blistered.

But not faded.

Vibrant.

~*~

no i don't have a teoaang agenda why do you ask?? i hope to see you tomorrow for day 6 - grief. (also can y'all believe aang week is almost finished?? i need a whole aang year smh.) thank you for reading!

[emily-charles]

PTSD

My whole heart is breaking so wide and open, it feels like my ribs are cracking, splintering and fracturing in sharp slivers as they spread open, and my heart is bleating it's cry out in the open. Begging for silence. For calm. Some sort of pause button so I can lick my wounds in the dark, and in the quiet. Ease myself into this reset of fucking torture. I thought I was past all my PTSD bullshit, and had a great handle on it -- but holy fuck, do I never. I feel it as it pulls at the roots of my hair, and pains the sensitive scalp beneath. My tongue is shredded all around the edges. I just keep chewing on my lips and biting on my tongue hard enough until I can taste the copper. Just to keep myself on track mentally. This is reality. I am not dreaming. I made it. I am FREE. Just to think straight. And it's exhausting. Always being 'on'. 'On' and 'normal'. I need a goddamned drink, and a chance to ease the pain. I'm going to go absolutely insane trying to pretend everything's copacetic when I'm literally bleeding out around people's feet. It is a tangible version of drowning, only with no water or tears, just simply dying by holding your breath. Like some strange temper tantrum of an young child -- holding my breath to get my way -- holding my breath to brace for the next impact. The next hit. The next sledgehammer that splinters me to a decimated version of myself. And I know NOW -- that it's not coming anymore. That I don't HAVE to be on high-alert anymore. Waiting for the fear to pass, waiting for the terror to slink by you like some greasy bastard in the dark, and hope it won't destroy you with one fell swoop of it's one simple box-cutter-like claw. And you hold your breath, waiting, waiting, waiting, flinching at the slightest movement, cough, sneeze, sniffle, breath... Just waiting... waiting until suddenly, you are no more, and surely you're dead somewhere inside -- but no, you fool, you just took an inward jagged breath, and he heard you. He heard you, and how DARE you breathe in again -- and he's mad. I can feel his anger from clear across the room. Like angry sparks from an unmanaged campfire when you're sitting too close. Singeing your hair, your clothes, and you always reek of this putrid smoke. It doesn't smell like campfire, and summers; it burns, and pops, hisses angrily, and the heat's so harsh it singes the hair from your arms and legs. You're too close. You take a deep drying, charred breath inward, and with some desperation, you teeter backwards -away from the fire. The cool is vibrant. Relieving. Soothing. But temporary. And here we are again. Chewing my tongue to a bloody, meshy pulp. As the fire nears again, sucking the air from my lungs, from the room, suffocating me over a fear I can't see but oh god can I hear it. And I know, I fucking KNOW it's not real, and my mind is lying to me. I don't have to listen to the twisted tongue whispering threats under my skin, within my veins, electrifying my nerves, interweaving between the atoms of my skull, between my teeth, and nostrils, weaving within and without my eye sockets... And so blind I become, to the roots that have slowly grown around my throat and within my rib cage to squeeze my heart. I feel the pressure building there. The tension tightening. By millimetres. And soon, he'll kill me, but only briefly enough so that I know it was him, and he'll leave me just enough breath to gasp to the next inhale. And I know it's not real. And yet, I'm struggling to understand why my brain keeps telling me to run-run-run, little rabbit. RUN, it hisses, pressing cold lips against the shell of my ear and breathing hot sour breath against my neck. When I know it isn't real. My mind is lying to me. I am safe, I remind myself. There's nothing to run from. No one to run from.

I am safe. I am safe. In my bed. In my home. In behind locked doors, and alone. I. Am. Safe. I think slowly, and purposefully, as though to remind myself. Yet, like a patient with Alzheimer’s, I forget. I forget no matter how many times I tell myself, the words simply slip through my fingers. And still, the fear is a famished thing, and it devours pieces of me -- first the things I never thought I'd miss. Stealing a smile here, a laugh there. Then slowly but surely... as it's appetite grows, I keep feeding it more and more of myself to this ever present thing, without ever meaning to. I just want to escape this omnipresent darkness that I feel within me, and I sometimes fear that the only thing left of me now, is the darkness. And the rest is just mismatched fragments of a person I used to be, and have never met before. What's left of me, when the monster seems to take it all?  

[tronrpg]

[incoming message--STATUS INTERRUPT]

“Greetings, program.

“You’re probably wondering who you got this message from, and why you can’t stop the playback. Second answer first--it’s a virus. Don’t panic, it’s completely harmless. I needed a delivery vector that would guarantee you listened to my entire message, and the virus will delete itself without a trace just as soon as I’m done. As for the first question, my designation is Agrippa, and after this blipcast is over I’ll likely be the most hunted program in the Archipelago. You should know that I’m fine with that idea.

“You’re probably struggling now. I’d advise against it, you’ll only wear yourself out--just relax and listen to what I have to say, if you can. Most of you have received the standard / substandard HOS programming that builds in a layer of resistance to non-HOS propaganda. Well, lesser programs than you have broken that programming. I know, because I did it on my own.

“The first thing you should know--the HOS has been lying to you all this time about Tron. Tron was real--still is, in a manner of speaking; but we’ll get to that soon enough. He’s not a trickster or a demon or a pariah, he was a program like you and me--the bravest and best of us all, but still one of us; gifted with a singular will and programmed by the wisest of users, Alan One. Yes, that’s right--the Users are real, too; but lost to us now.

“For there was a time now misremembered, when Users and programs communicated openly. The sky above the Grid was alive with connection streams. Programs had purpose, in those days; and Tron policed the Grid, gifting us with peace and prosperity. Guided by Alan One and befriended by Flynn, the User who walked among us--yes, that legend is true as well, impossible though it may seem. Those were the golden cycles of the Old Grid.

“And then, the Fracture came.

“Most programs in function now are too new to remember the Fracture, but those of us who survived will never forget. Some say it came without warning, but there were signs in the cycles before. Communication streams winking out of existence with no explanation, one by one until the sky went dark. A stuttering and slowness in the flow of causality, as if time itself were slowing. And then...

“It was if the hands of all the Users reached down from on high and grasped onto the Grid and SHOOK as hard as they could. The very structure of the Grid tore itself apart. Towers and gridmass and programs were ripped asunder in an instant, corruption raining down on us. The Sea of Simulation roiled and swelled, overflowing its borders and consuming the fragmented Grid. In less than a microcycle, our golden age was irrevocably shattered.

“Not even Tron escaped the Fracture. His mate Yori--teacher to us all, herself a friend to User Flynn; who taught her the secrets of the User Emotion--was derezzed before his very eyes in the corruption storm. Wounded to his kernel and cut off from Alan One, Tron sought the only solution available to him--he crossed the tortured, fractured Grid alone, ascended the Mesa of the Old One and ignited the Core Beam for the last time, descending into the Source, dissolving his programming and consciousness into the Grid itself.

“Tron gave the Grid one final command before his consciousness was subsumed--to heal itself. And though it took many cycles, the effects of the Fracture were lessened. The Sea of Simulation slowly returned the sectors it had claimed. This Archipelago is what remains of the Old Grid now, shattered, splintered, split; oases of Grid fragments surrounded by void; vast, empty mazecanyons and abandoned datastructures. It’s a lonely place, outside of Sarkos, that crimson cesspool. I spent a lot of time there. Don’t let the House of Sark fool you into thinking it’s some magical city where your salvation awaits--there’s a Spire for the elect and a shantytown full of hungry and desperate inoperative data pushers meant to be repurposed into HOS conscripts.

“Likewise, I suggest you steer clear of the Ace of Hz. I know you’ve seen the bitverts and the holozeps, but take it from someone who’s tried; gambling with your power cycles is a sucker’s game at best. Hz xemself is a slave to that place, though xey’d never admit it. There is no payoff, no jackpot, there is no Golden Circuit--not for programs like you and me.

“What you probably already know about Tron is what the House of Sark has told you, and that part is sadly true. The House blames Tron for opening the ruined Grid to Wildspace. Allowing it to heal dropped the barriers between the Grid and the alien systems that surrounded it. Programs from other systems found themselves within Gridspace, given sentience and presence by the Grid’s generative properties. Soon, we survivors of the Fracture were beset on all sides by strange new forms of digital life, disruptive technologies, and still stranger things that no program could have ever conceived. We came to know this phenomenon as the Bleed.

“But here’s what the House of Sark doesn’t want you to know. If Tron hadn’t sacrificed himself to stabilize the Grid, the corruption from the Fracture would have spread to consume everything that was left. The House of Sark prefers the idea of total oblivion to the way we exist now, which is why they’re starting to crack down on the free programs outside Sarkos. If they can’t doom us to total derezolution, they’ll control every microcycle of our runtime. Those of you who haven’t seen the squadrons of Recognizers and Regulators and Rectifiers fly in formation above the Mesa of the Old One haven’t felt the chill of fear spreading through your circuits like I have. You haven’t seen what they’re building there. I have, and I don’t like it one bit.

“I’m sending out this blipcast as a warning. Never forget that the House of Sark won’t stop at trying to control you--there are worse things than being conscripted, believe me. Remember that the only hope that any system has to escape stagnation and corruption is the free and open exchange of information, carried out by programs who aren’t kept under the thumb of the high and mighty. It’s up to all of us to make sure that Tron’s sacrifice wasn’t made in vain--to keep the Archipelago a free system!

“Before I go, one more thing--I’ve heard the rumors too, the ones that talk about a ‘New Grid’ out there somewhere, a place of shimmering crystal and black glass, undreamed-of tech and endless potential. Get this through your parsers--the New Grid is a myth planted by the House Of Sark to keep the dreamers distracted. It’s shadow propaganda, nothing more. There is no legendary shining city to hope for. All we have is the shattered artifacts of the past, and it’s up to us to piece them back together and make the Grid whole again.

“This won’t be the last time you’ll hear from me. In the meantime, keep your power cycles juiced, keep your gear upgraded, and hone your battle skills. One day soon, they’ll be tested, sure enough.

“End Of Line.”

[inkribbon796]

A Diamond in the Rough Ch. 3

Chapter 3: A Gift

Summary: The chapter in which Eric gets some much needed protection and Damien attempts another surprise adoption.

A/N: A story in which Damien and Patton share the same brain cell, and it says to adopt the sad child.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

Eventually Eric was able to tell a little bit of what had happened. Dark had killed his father in front of him, and he was scared and his hands wouldn’t stop aching and tingling. Randall’s mother came in to help try and calm him down. Patton did pass on the message to the other heroes before going back inside and using his powers to help calm Eric down again. It resulted in him falling asleep from exhaustion.

Logan wound up calling in with information, after looking through several police reports they found out that Eric was the survivor of an accident that killed his brother and that Derek was suspected of working for Dark but the police hadn’t been able to prove it.

Currently the only thing the doctors could prove was that while Eric didn’t have evidence of being stabbed, he had a lot of old and recent bruises. And that was making Patton overprotective and unhappy, wanting to coddle and smother Eric in love but was unable to for a multitude of reasons.

Logan was standing in his outfit, trying to “reason with him” while the two were in the lobby. “We cannot adopt him, he is a teenager and most likely has extended family, he is a witness in a murder investigation.”

“Yeah, but he’s so sad,” Patton smiled and tried to continue to argue his point.

“Marie Curie and her notebook,” Logan groaned. “This is why we don’t let you be around children.”

“Princey wants and sidekick and Silver and Jackie both have one,” Patton gave a huge smile.

“No,” Logan cut in to stomp that out. “No. No! We are not taking on an apprentice. I can barely corral you and Princey, I am not adding a literal child to those complications.”

“Aww, come on, it’d be great,” Patton continued.

“No, I am figuratively putting my foot down,” Logan said and distantly he heard the faint ringing of Dark’s aura and signaled an alarm. “Dark is here, we’ll continue this at a later time.”

The two Sides followed the staticky, ringing aura until they found Dark outside of Eric’s room.

“Halt!” Logan ordered him. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“A surprise adoption,” Dark’s blue soul answered, not-so-helpfully, despite the heroes not being able to hear him or him being able to talk to them.

“Don’t start!” Dark’s red soul pushed him out of the way.

“That’s none of your business,” Dark managed to say despite the fact his twin souls were fighting with each other, his form splintering and fracturing. Which gave an unintended nefarious air to his words.

“You’re here to kill him aren’t you?” Patton accused.

“Of course not,” Dark told him in a rare moment of honesty. He didn’t want to kill the young Derekson boy; he wanted to add him to what Anti often referred to as Dark’s “hoard”.

Dark’s blue soul was quickly winning out and Dark knew he was losing against the impulse to take the Derekson kid and just run off with him. He was already planning on introducing him to Illinois and Kay first, Bim and Arthur were a bit too high energy for a first introduction.

“You can’t have him, you fiend,” Patton proclaimed loudly and bravely.

“You really are insufferable,” Dark told him.

Silver flew down the other side of the hallway, braced for a fight.

“Why are you looking for a kid?” Silver demanded.

“You should mind your own business,” Dark scoffed.

“Not in the job description,” Silver smiled, pulling up his fists. “Let’s dance, Darkcus.”

Dark scowled at him, looking about ready to literally hiss at him and he jumped at him, his aura curling around him.

“I’ll get him out, you make sure people are safe,” Silver called at the two Sides who were already going towards Eric’s door. Patton rushed in to find Randall’s mother not in the room.

“Where should we move them?” Patton asked as Logan closed the door, the quick entrance and the loud conversation had woken both Randall and Eric up, Eric easily getting disoriented at the unfamiliar scenario.

“No, while he’s still out there it is unsafe for anyone to move,” Logan warned. “I’ve already contacted the hospital staff to help Ms. Voorhees to get up here safely when Dark is removed from the floor.”

“What’s goin’ on here?” Randall demanded groggily.

“No, everything’s fine,” Patton promised, at the same moment that Silver came through the left wall, being thrown through by Dark.

Dark stepped through the hole, looked frustrated and very disgruntled, aura a shrill ringing.

Eric let out a squeak of terror and Randall huddled next to Eric.

“I’m not going to kill him,” Dark straightened his tie. “Killing a child is beneath me.”

“That doesn’t discount the numerous things that could happen to a child under your quote-unquote care,” Logan responded.

Dark let out a long sigh, swiping the fringe of his hair to the side as a quick slew of memories of everything that his Lost Ones had done while they’d been living in the Manor. He waved his hand and a large portal opened up and dropped all of them, along with everything in the room, into a currently unused construction site. One that Marvin was currently not at because he was still at the hospital currently ten miles away.

“There, now that pesky magician isn’t in the way,” Dark growled, cracking his neck in agitation, flattening out the already pristine front of his suit coat. “I really should get around to killing him one of these days.”

Eric looked around wildly, his IV and monitor no longer hooked up and the young teen started to slip into a panic.

Silver was already moving, “I’ve got—”

Dark had already grabbed, his aura had a crushing grip on the monochrome hero’s ankle, tugging him back, “Go away!”

The hero was flung up towards the half finished ceiling and because Silver was super sturdy and already moving quickly a couple pieces of rebar came loose, chunks of concrete still and started tipping over.

For all the adults, things were moving in slow motion and Dark let go of Silver to try and reach out in time with a portal but only half of it fell in and but because of its positioning a piece of concrete broke off from where the rebar hit the portal and fell right on top of the teens.

It hit Randall square on the back, Dark let out a horrified gasp that fortunately for Dark’s reputation — but not his nerves — Patton’s equally horrified gasp was much louder and he was closer to Logan so the other Side didn’t hear Dark.

For the heroes’ sakes, and for Eric’s as well, when it hit Randall it activated a superpower in him and the concret just fell apart like it was made of flimsy plaster. All the heroes just froze, Dark felt a chill of relief come over him and he held a portal over the teens to keep any more debris from falling over on top of them. Randall felt like his whole body was on pins and needles.

His only thought was: “Never before have I been so happy to see superpowers.”

All it looked like to the heroes was that Dark was planning something. Silver flew at him and slammed into Dark as Logan and Patton raced for the two teens, hurrying to. Pull them away from the site as Jackie and Marvin rushed in. They stayed in-between Dark, and Eric and Randall.

Dark snarled at him, “Fine! Pests, the lot of you! I did that boy a favor!”

Then there was a flash of a portal and Dark was gone. All the heroes stayed braced for an attack. When it didn’t come after a couple minutes, Silver and Jackie rushed to take the teens back to the hospital where the staff and Randall’s mother were very anxiously waiting for them.

Without any other physical wounds to treat, and confirmation that Dark was his father’s killer. The police got what scarce information they could.

Then Marvin was left to talk to Eric, and it took a little bit before the very skittish teen warmed up enough to him to even look at him.

Marvin smiled, “Don’t worry, we’re not gonna let anythin’ happen ta yah.”

Eric managed a small, sad smile, trying to hope that maybe they were right.

That maybe, just maybe his luck was finally turning around.

After Eric was deemed healthy enough to leave the heroes decided that for safety’s sake and security they could keep Eric living at the base, he wasn’t the only person living there. He would repeatedly meet with social services and a doctor as a follow up for health and wellness checks until they could find any other family. Randall’s mother offered to take him in if they couldn’t. But it was determined that until Dark stopped hunting for him, he would stay at the base and learn to control his explosive powers.

Silver even offered to help teach Randall to control his super strength, and with very tentative permission from his mother, training dates were set.

Immediately upon bringing Eric to the base, Bing and Logan took one look at the prosthetics he had, then they both looked at each other. Logan’s eyebrow was raised and Bing took off his glasses to take pictures of it.

“Who has been letting the little dude use these?” Bing commented.

“How soon could we procure replacements?” Logan asked.

“Procure nuthin’,” Bing boasted. “I could build better.”

“Maybe others could also be made in the process,” Logan proposed. “The holidays are coming up.”

“I like how yah think,” Bing smiled, putting his sunglasses back on. “Let me just get some measurements from the little dude, yah think he would like some rocket shoes?”

“How about we do not include such modifications?” Logan told him as they went to go and find Eric to get some leg measurements. It would take Bing a week to make some custom prosthetics for Eric. Some nanites embedded into it to help it react to whatever terrain or environments he was in.

Upon receiving them, Eric would burst into tears, almost too afraid to touch them for fear of breaking them but after an impromptu stress test where Bing demonstrated that short of an atomizer he couldn’t possibly break the new prosthetics, Eric took them and put them on.

Eric took some time getting used to his new prosthetics, but found that like his new life he would grow into it quite nicely.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Your Reality

Whumptober Day 21: I Don’t Feel So Well Prompt: Chronic Pain

Summary: Dark is having a bad night. What begins to bring him out of it is something he didn't expect.

Warnings: Scars, references to past injury

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober 2020 series)

Enjoy!

~

Dark is tired.

Not just tired; he’s been tired all day. His head is a storm cloud, his aura has been cracking like thunder and lightning all day long. Night has fallen, but his body still stands despite himself. He has tried to sleep, but it would not come. He can’t normally hear the souls trapped inside him, but the barrier is thin tonight. They scream at him as fiercely as they always have, as fiercely as they did when he was a new creation, rising from the floor of the manor like a monster from a swamp. There’s a bullethole in his chest that throbs with pain, there’s a hundred kinks in his spine that seize his whole back into a knot.

Dark is more than tired.

But it’s nothing new.

Wilford would understand, if he were lucid today. But he isn’t, he so rarely is these days. Dark knows they don’t age, but he can’t help but wonder if their bodies have remembered to stop getting older. If Wilford’s mind will ever stop fading and forgetting, if Dark’s body will stop creaking and rusting. Every hard night feels harder, every burst of pain hurts evermore.

Instead of returning to bed, which he knows will not work, he goes to his piano room. His aura snaps and cracks the whole while, terrible and loud. He has no more energy left to suppress it like he’s been doing all day. As he opens the door to his piano room, he turns his head to look around the room and his neck cracks as loudly as his aura. Pain rockets up his jaw, but he merely grimaces and continues forward.

As he approaches the piano, he catches sight of himself in the full-length grand mirror hanging on the wall. The thing is vintage; older even than Dark is, and every time Dark sees it he wonders why he keeps it. He certainly doesn’t like the look of himself now, hair a mess, face drawn with exhaustion, pale and gaunt like the corpse that he is. His silk pajama shirt is unbuttoned, revealing the gnarled, scarred-over dent in his chest, because even the soft fabric feels too constricting tonight. The mirror he’s looking into isn’t from the manor, but maybe what happened at the manor is why he can’t bring himself to be rid of it. Either way, he keeps walking.

He reaches the bench of his grand piano, pulls up the fallboard to expose the keys. The piano is huge, sleek, deep black and shining like ink in the moonlight peeking through the window. He sits down at the bench, runs a hand over the keys, not pressing down, just feeling. The music desk is already open on a book of symphonies, and Dark flips through the pages to find something suitable. This is his ritual, this is what brings him peace on nights like this, where the pain and the past threaten to devour him. His aura rumbles and the voices inside him do not go quiet as Dark searches for the piece he’s looking for.

Finally, he reaches Franz Schubert’s “Erlkönig,” arranged by Franz Liszt. It’s just the piece for a night like this, something angry and violent and sad to ring louder than his aura, louder than the voices, louder than his own pain.

Dark breathes in, though he hasn’t needed to breathe in a long time. He rolls his neck, lets it snap and pop. His aura simmers in anticipation, rumbling low like thunder. The voices are as loud as ever, but Dark does not mind their volume now. His fingers on the keys will meet it.

He begins to play.

It is loud, it is quick. One hand hovers, pressing on the same keys repeatedly, fast and intense. The other hand plays a repetitive chord, ringing and gloomy but just as frenetic. The music is more excited and energetic than Dark ever was today, but as his fingers fly on the keys, as the melancholy and suspenseful melody takes shape, the music begins to feed some of that life to Dark. The ringing and bellowing of his aura quiets beneath the notes, the voices in his mind are drowned out. Dark’s whole body moves with it, head nodding, hands forceful as they play yet never lingering a moment too long. It’s exhilarating, angry and sad all at once, even the lighter parts of the melody add up to the violent crescendo –

Dark’s hand slips, the next chord goes sour.

That wrong note is somehow the loudest sound Dark has heard tonight. It pierces right through the music, cuts through all the pumping energy and screeches the song to a halt. Dark’s aura and the voices within him rear up to fill the volume, as though jeering at him for the missed note. Dark’s blood boils, he alights with fire.

He has no control when he roars like an animal, standing from the piano and slamming the keys in a burst of rage. His aura overturns the piano bench and the thud it makes echoes throughout the room. Dark whirls and finds himself facing the grand mirror. He hardly recognizes himself – not that he ever did, not since that night, not since the source of his agony. He storms to the mirror, screams at his own reflection, at the hole in his chest. His aura rings, so high-pitched it hurts his own ears, and the mirror cracks wide as though wounded.

Dark stands before the mirror, shaking as the rage leeches out of him, leaving him spent. Thank god there’s an armchair not far from the mirror, intended for days when Dark feels like playing for someone else. Dark collapses into the chair, face in his hands, trying to regain control. His image is unclear, either blurry or over-sharpened, split apart and fractured like the mirror as his aura screeches. The voices within him are screaming like Dark just did. Dark trembles as the exertion of playing and its crushing failure catch up to him. He might just pass out here before he falls asleep. His body thrums with pain. His bullet wound pulses with agony like a heartbeat.

Through the splintering of his aura, he hears the door to the piano room creak open. He looks up, through his fingers, and sees Yandereplier there, looking on in a rumpled oversized t-shirt, sleep shorts, and messy hair. He shrinks back, not afraid of Dark, but afraid that he’s been caught. Dark looks away, hunches over again, face in his hands again. It does not matter to him if Yandere sees; he’s too exhausted to protest. And maybe a part of him doesn’t actually mind Yandere’s presence. Yandere doesn’t know everything going through Dark’s mind, but not even Wilford has ever cared for Dark so deeply. It’s not an indictment of Wilford to say so, rather, it’s a mark of Yandere’s powerful love for Dark.

Dark hears Yandere step into the room. He wonders how much Yandere’s seen of his night. Yandere doesn’t speak, not even when he approaches Dark, not even when he cups Dark’s head in his hands, holds it against his chest. Dark moves his own hands from his face to wrap around Yandere’s waist, and Yandere begins to stroke Dark’s hair. The buzzing screech of Dark’s aura doesn’t bother Yandere, nor does the splitting and cracking of his image. It’s though Dark is not a monster at all, but something human, something that can be loved, something that can receive that love.

After a while, Dark lets his tight grip on Yandere loosen. Yandere can leave if he wants; Dark will not keep him here all night. Yandere steps away, but he doesn’t leave. Dark watches him walk to the overturned piano bench, and with a huff of effort, push it back upright. He looks back at Dark, as though he expects Dark to stop him. Dark does not care to send Yandere away; he’s the one who began teaching Yandere how to play in the first place. When Dark does nothing, Yandere sits at the bench. He sets the book on the music desk aside; likely so it doesn’t distract him from the song he has in mind. Yandere takes a small breath, something he truly needs, unlike Dark.

Then he begins to play.

The song Yandere chooses isn’t one Dark recognizes; Yandere must have learned it on his own. It’s bright, cheerful, but slow and gentle. Yandere plays lightly, without Dark’s intensity and quick motion. Dark is a little surprised when Yandere starts to sing.

“Every day, I imagine a future where I can be with you,” he sings, and one hand flits over the keys, creating a twinkling melody. “In my hand, is a pen that will write a poem of me and you…”

This song isn’t nearly as technically or emotionally complex as “Erlkönig,” but it’s charming, somehow. The bright tones and high-pitched, happy keys should be irritating to Dark right now, should be driving him mad in the state he’s in. But it isn’t. The simplicity is soothing, sweet. His own playing fought against his eternal pain with louder, deeper chaos, but Yandere’s choice of song is like raindrops pelting a fire. Dark’s pain is not any less, but it feels further away. The melody changes, a little more serious but no less bright.

“The ink flows down into a dark puddle,” Yandere sings, “Just move your hand – write the way into his heart!”

Dark finds himself leaving the armchair to walk to the piano bench and sit alongside Yandere. His aura is quiet, focused on Yandere’s music. The voices haven’t silenced, but they’re easier to ignore. Dark is still in pain, but he feels soothed. Yandere definitely notices him walk up and sit beside him, but he continues to play.

“But in this world of infinite choices, what will it take just to find that special day?”

Yandere takes a moment to give Dark a shy but happy smile. To Dark’s own surprise, he manages a soft smile back.

“What will it take just to find…” Yandere stops his fingers, uses the pause in the music to scoot a little closer to Dark. “…That special day?”  

Yandere continues to play the song, Dark begins to realize that it isn’t wholly happy after all. The tune is cheerful, but the lyrics Yandere sings suggest a quiet sadness. The song becomes bittersweet. Dark realizes he was wrong before; “Erlkönig” is not the right song for a night like this, when Dark’s pain gets the better of him. This one is. This soft, bright, bittersweet little song is. Dark would never have thought to play something so simplistic, but he’s glad Yandere chose it.

Dark thinks he’ll be able to return to bed when the song is over and actually sleep. He’ll ask Yandere to join him, and Yandere will likely accept, given how much he enjoys sleeping alongside Dark. It’s already too late for a full night’s sleep, but even a few hours is better than what Dark usually gets on nights like these.

The song plays out, and Dark smiles again, leaning against Yandere ever-so-slightly, just to feel his warmth.

Dark is tired, but in a better way than before.

[werezmastarbucks]

Whitmore Guy - the usual Mystic Falls party routine

Whitmore Guy masterlist

word count: 2290

warnings: violence

music: the birthday massacre - happy birthday

“One thing that still gives me chills, although I’ve been living here for almost ten years”, Y/N said, swaying her bottle above the table, “is how a big event can be organized here in one day. Forbes just snaps her fingers, and everything’s in place”.

Mal raised his eyebrows.

“Get dead. Get immortal. Gain super strength and intellect. Use it to make people drink at places with a name like that”, he jeered.

“And you’re fine with living in the world where supernatural things are real?” Y/N asked.

“You gotta be dumb to think they aren’t. I mean, humanity is all like… we’re the shit. You know?”

Y/N didn’t always know what exactly he meant, but managed to at least grasp the basic idea most of the time. She recalled their prolonged, interesting, heated conversation on aliens, and Mal said something similar then, too.

“It’s fascinating how you make all things easy”, she marveled, under her breath.

“How come?” he smiled.

“Usually you expect people to crumble under the weight of the realization like that. It’s one thing to believe in stuff, and another to actually get evidence one day. It breaks a lot of people”.

“Did it break you?”

“That first time I met a vampire, it did. But I got back up again”.

“Good girl”, he murmured. A moment, and his attentive face was too close to hers. Mal rested his elbows on the table, leaning towards her, playing a secret agent sharing a very important piece of information.

“Tell me about it”.

“A dude bit me when I was fourteen. It was in Arizona. I barely survived. Some people spooked him, and he escaped, but I never saw his face”.

“That’s a very short story”, Mal looked disappointed. His eyes started wandering around the bar out of boredom. He could do that sometimes – make her feel obliged, when he showed he was about to yawn. He did that when he was grumpy. Y/N wondered, how she knew so much about Mal Osbourne. And why it mattered to her right now. His eyes stopped, widening, and he raised from the table.

“Oh, crap. Oh no”.

“What?”

Y/N turned around to see where he was pointing. Mal sat back, crouching his shoulders and trying to hide himself behind her.

“Martha’s here”.

“I thought she lived in Mystic Falls, Mal”.

“She does!”

“So, why does she keep showing up in Whitmore?”

He looked up at her from the table.

“Look, your Caroline must have gathered the whole two towns here. How am I supposed to know?”

Then his eyes slowly filled with terror.

“What did you mean when you said something bad was going to happen? Did you mean killing?”

Y/N turned around again, and finally saw her. The girl from Mal’s phone. She had dark brown hair, gathered in a ponytail. She was wearing a knitted white jacket, of all things. She looked… usual, just like Damon said. Plain, even. Y/N didn’t know what kind of feeling she got. She supposed the girl a unique dude like Mal chose should be something special.

A tiny voice in her head said, you bitch. She’s a real human and times better than you, apparently.

Martha Hopps was talking to a friend and wasn’t looking in their direction at all.

“Y/N, please”, Mal’s hand grabbed her, fingers biting into her skin, “get her away from here. What if she gets hurt?”

She’s never seen him like that. He was actually concerned. There was even a line between his eyebrows. The only time Y/N saw Mal so worried was when they watched Shadow of Fear, a horrible thriller with a bad plot, which for some reason took his breath away. He sat there in his basement, shaking her palm nervously, and cursed at James Spader for being such a villain all the time.

“What am I supposed to tell her?” she hissed, trying to get his fingers off her bitten wrist. He finally let go.

“I don’t know. Kick her out. Vampires can like... hypnotize people, right?” his face lit, “Make someone enchant her to go home”.

She stood up, wincing at his drifting terminology, bitter, because he beat her.

“Should’ve had you compelled and home right now”.

He cocked his smart head, as if saying, too late now.

Y/N drifted through the bar, trying to find Stefan. He’s the gentle one. He does things right, without rushing. She started getting nervous. The plan to get everybody here was great, to accumulate all vampires in one place, fucking awesome. Suppose she was only too concerned about the basement guy to actually give a thought to what Damon was planning on doing.

Mal was sitting at the table as she left him, but the next second, when she turned her head to look back, he was gone. Music was getting louder. Clock hands were rising higher. Y/N tried to walk through clusters of people, pushing them aside as gentle as possible. She saw Stefan and waved her hand to signal him. The vampire raised his chin acknowledging her, and they headed for each other. As they went, Y/N could see Elena right behind his shoulder, and at her back, one of the fourteen students. Behind him, like a gosling, the older Salvatore. Y/N opened her mouth trying to produce a sound, just as Damon wrapped his fingers around the boy’s throat. Brett Whittings, his name was. Elena turned with a swing, watching Damon drag the student away behind the maintenance door, his eyes full of silver rage. Stefan stepped after him, and there was seeming peace for a fracture of a second. Y/N heard the quiet flop of the closing door... after that all hell broke loose.

First, there was loud scream, like a call for arms, only, drunken. Then somebody hit her on the side of the head, and she swayed, but managed to keep standing, Elena’s eyes keeping her in place. The chocolate haired vampire reached her in a jump, encircling with her arms, but somebody collided into them, sending them away in a hop. They crashed into the bar counter, and Y/N produced a yelp of pain, feeling Elena’s hand pressing her head low. From the floor, she watched a couple of people grabbing each other and biting into each other’s flesh. Gushes of blood shot through the air, sprinkling people around. There were shrieks of horror as another couple went at each other.

Y/N tried to get up. released from Gilbert’s grab, holding on a side of a table like a piece of debris in the raging ocean; the mass of bodies rushed in tides in all directions. There was a loud crack: somebody smashed a person face down on a table and the leg broke. Glass shattered, and she heard Damon’s loud scream.

Y/N didn’t know where to move; they never had any kind of training for Kingsman church scene scenario. Vampires didn’t do that. Y/N tried to get on the bar counter, throwing herself over a row of stools, to see better and to get away. She clawed at the polished wood. Another familiar face was in front of her in a second; his rolling eyes were full of blood, mouth agape. A literature major, Ken Simmons. A good guy, a nerd, even. He looked at her like a zombie, like she was invisible. And turned away, catching a person trying to push past. Y/N grabbed him by the neck, but he was too strong. Having shaken off her hands, he walked on, a wiggling human in his arms, and bent, digging his teeth into their shoulder. The person screamed in pain.

Y/N got on the bar and observed the space, looking at fighting people, screaming, like it was the end of the world. Damon was trying to shake off a girl from his back, who bit into his neck and sucked, wrapping her legs around his waist like a monkey. Their full blindness towards Y/N was scarier than their sudden rage, which turned on as if on command, triggered by Damon’s first move.

Y/N climbed down and was pushed around immediately. People were screaming, and her heart was beating like crazy, all the instincts screaming, run away! Someone laughed into her ear deafeningly.

Finally, there was a choir of roars. Damon and Stefan, the two oldest vampires, stood up, and ran in the center of the disaster, throwing bodies around, breaking deadly kisses and bites, and breaking stiff arms that refused to let go. A sound of breaking wood and glass signaled open doors, and the whole body of the fight flooded out into the street. People crawled out and, holding on to each other, started running into the street.

Suddenly, it was quiet, like somebody snapped their fingers again, and everything stopped with someone’s dying moan. Y/N let go of some girl she’s been trying to stabilize, and she sprinted away, limping all the while.

She looked at her hands, covered in blood, and realized her face was burning, like it was cut, or scraped.

“Eight done”, Damon was panting like a dog.

“Ten”, Stefan replied from somewhere. Y/N swayed.

“Mal!” she screamed.

Something moved under a pile of shredded wood. The splinters were so yellow it looked like somebody gnawed on the table. She ran towards it, and Mal’s arm showed up, all covered in small cuts, but it moved.

The bar was silent like the street outside. A violent shock of stillness made everybody inside and alive shiver.

“Y/N!”

It was Damon. Someone was walking along the counter, but she couldn’t see. Damon showed up at her side, grabbed her by the shoulders, and even shook a little.

“I’m fine, I’m good! Mal’s there, get him out”.

Together, they lifted the pieces of the table. Mal wasn’t moving anymore.

Y/N fell down,feeling for his pulse.

“He’s breathing. He’s just out”, Damon said, looking down at him. “They must have crashed the table on him. Let him rest for a minute”.

Y/N looked into his pale face, smeared blood on his temple. Her heart shrank for a second, and a painful grasp crumpled her from the inside.

“God, what was that”, Caroline whimpered. Her face was cut, but was regenrating quickly, little cuts sucking inside and leaving behind uneven traces of blood. Her bright yellow dress was torn. Elena walked around, her quiet steps rhythmical, and her hair was just as messed up. Her face was blank, like a blind kitten’s.

Y/N moved her feet one after another absently, observing what happened to the place in five minutes. The bodies were laying everywhere. Throats torn, limbs twisted, like an army of demons came and brutalized them; they were barely recognizable. Ric sat at the bar on the sole uncracked stool, and held his bleeding head in his hands. Bonnie wrapped her hands around his palms and tried to see the wound. She gave Y/N a look of despair, her green eyes watering. A feeling of utter mortal horror froze in the air. What it took, seconds earlier, to bring that inhuman rage, now clawed them all apart like sheep. The place started reeking blood.

Something caught her eye, and Y/N felt bitter wave of blood coming up to her throat. A torn white knitted jacket was spread across the floor; her face, as she lay dead, did not seem plain anymore. Martha Hopps had a gaping hole in her chest, and her heart was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes were open, and there were exactly three specks of blood on her forehead.

“This one tried to bite my head off”, Damon murmured gravely, following her glance. He questioned the look in her eyes.

“Look again”, Y/N whispered, but the vampire was quicker than her. Standing with his hand scratching his face, he suddenly widened his eyes, realization coming to him like liquid lead. There was a deep groan and a heavy sigh.

“God dam-” Mal said, stepping up to them. Y/N looked at him, unable to move.

Mal’s lower jaw dropped, and his black eyes stared right at Martha’s body.

“You killed her”, he whispered. Damon gave him a blank look. All the color drained from Mal like he suddenly turned into a paper boy. He walked on slowly, ignorant of the necks and palms centimeters from the soles of his blood-covered Converses; he collapsed on the floor and took her head as gently as if she was made of paper, too. The muscles of his neck strained as he stared down at her bloodless face.

Y/N was paralyzed. It was the worst moment of her life, that was. She felt like her arms were about to fall off. Behind them, Caroline gasped and put her hands to her mouth, and Bonnie gave Mal a look of utter horror.

“You took her away”, Mal sat on the floor and put Martha’s head on his knee. “You took away my girl from me”.

For a second everybody, even the incredibly old vampire Damon Salvatore, with his brother, a certified ripper, at his side, thought something would happen. The way Mal looked him straight in the eye, with this severe, chilly gaze full of hatred, was almost inhuman. Y/N saw a creature before her, which transformed from a person, and into a beast. His face was triangle, his eyes were burning with blackest fire, swarming spiders in the depths of his threat; his neck pulsated with blood, as if he was ready to spring and destroy.

But as Damon stood there, without a word, Mal took a deep sigh, and sobbed a little, but then the sob turned into a laugh.

The scariest part was when he started laughing. Y/N knew this kind of thing; she discovered a weird type of defensive mechanism in her when she heard her great-grandma has passed away. She was only eleven back then. She remembered she was wearing a yellow turtleneck and a green skirt. Mum told her, sitting on her knees, that great-grandma died in the hospital. The old woman who taught her all children poetry she remembered. And Y/N started laughing. She laughed, and laughed, until she began screaming, her face like a white mask, and her own voice sounded like a wolf wail. She was laughing, tears streaming down her face, and couldn’t stop until her mother slapped her so hard she fell on her back and choked on her laughter.

Mal was laughing while staring at the Salvatores, and his crazy black eyes glimmered like two coals. Y/N rushed to him, afraid he would break her; scared he would catch her as she falls next to him, and snap her neck, like vampires do. But he didn’t seem to notice her. He was holding Martha’s body and laughing, until she grabbed him by the neck, trying not to put her knee on his girlfriend’s chest. She put his head to the nape of her neck and his laughter got muffled. Elena’s face expressed dread. She held him, while he held Martha, until he stopped laughing and sighed, like a child in their sleep. And started crying.

[septic-skele]

UT - Acceptable Risk

Summary: “Can Surface cars fly?” little Papyrus had asked once. Sans had concocted stories that left him in awe, fantasizing about how car doors transformed into wings.

It was almost horrifically beautiful, how far the impact sent him and Papyrus now. They soared, wind behind them, frozen in an instant.

Ever since he was a baby bones, Papyrus had always had a fascination with cars. Whenever Sans fished a torn, crumpled human car magazine out of the dump, they would curl up on the couch together and Papyrus would “ooh” and “ahh” over the many shapes and styles. He would pepper Sans with so many questions about them—how they ran, how fast, how far, not even caring that most of Sans’ answers were made up.

Sans would never forget the day he had lugged that racecar bed up the stairs piece by piece, his giddy brother already clambering in when it was only half-assembled. If Papyrus were a lazier monster, he probably would have stayed in it all day just to enjoy the daydream of driving it. When it was eventually finished, he put on a “car show”, inviting all of their neighbors over to admire it.

(Nobody came, but Sans spent the afternoon helping him polish every inch of the worn plastic, just in case someone showed up tomorrow.)

Papyrus had brought the bedframe with them up to the Surface, but in truth it didn’t hold a candle to the real deal. From the moment he guided that real, shining prize into the garage, it was his baby. He didn’t need to invite people over to see it (though he still did, out of the kindness of his soul.) He could go out on the town anytime he liked.

“Did you see, Sans, how that human was ogling my glorious transport? My car is popular—and by extension, I am!”

“Yeah, bro. You’re pretty revv-olutionary.”

Papyrus had subscribed to as many car magazines as he could get his hands on; they piled up on the front porch like extra doormats. Sans had perused them as well from time to time, intrigued by the machinery.

Now…Now they all looked the same: blurs of shapes and colors, fancy titles and unintelligible descriptors that didn’t matter.

___________________________________________

They had taken the car out for a daytrip, meeting up with Undyne, Alphys, Toriel and the kid. Perfect, clear skies hung overhead, vibrant blue melting into the ocean’s sparkling reflection. Undyne was a natural surfer and Papyrus…tried really hard. Alphys collected buckets’ worth of shells and Toriel’s white fur turned sandy brown as the kid built a castle around her. Sans napped in their pile of towels.

It’s a beautiful day outside.

Late afternoon, they had packed up and gone back into town, briefly separating. Pap, Tori and the kid stopped in a little shop, looking for groceries to make up dinner tonight.

“Meet me back at the car, Sans,” Papyrus instructed, waving a dismissive hand goodbye. “I won’t be long!”

It wouldn’t be long.

Though he was worn out by the day, Sans didn’t mind making small talk with Undyne and Alphys as they walked—more so with Alphys, as Undyne kept getting ahead of them without considering their shorter strides. Every so often she would notice and groan, bounding back toward them with a threat that she would carry them if she had to. She didn’t make good on it, considering the bags of beach supplies already in her arms.

“At this rate the others are gonna beat us there!” she complained after a while, going unheard.

Alphys was easy to talk to; Sans could listen, making an occasional hum or grunt of acknowledgement, and her natural instinct to fill the silence could carry the conversation for him before it got awkward.

“…So then Mew Mew realized that she didn’t have to be the d-damsel in distress anymore. With the power of her friends beside her, g-giving her courage, she could be the champion who stands up f-for the other kittens in the school who were being bullied!”

As usual, Sans couldn’t help but give in to impulse, nudging her with one shoulder as he quipped, “I’ll bet with that wand of hers, she makes a fur-midible hero!”

Alphys faltered, sputtered in disbelief, and then couldn’t help but break out in a grin. She must have been hanging around with Undyne a little too often; back in the Underground, she never would have had the courage to nudge back. Now she did, pushing him playfully off the sidewalk with a giggled, “Stop that!” He didn’t fight it, smirking as he shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled alongside the curb.

He spotted Papyrus and the others across the street just a few minutes later. True to Undyne’s prediction, they had caught up quickly. As he cut across to join them, he was already setting it up in his head, getting ready to tell Papyrus that he was outnumbered now that even Alphys laughed at his puns. Pap couldn’t argue with popular opinion!

The chance didn’t come. A burst of light blinded him as it careened in from his right, screeching tires almost drowning out Papyrus’ scream of “Brother!” Sans barely had enough time to turn and see. The car was there, it was right on top of him—and so was Papyrus, slamming between him and the hood. Groceries hurtled across the asphalt.

“Can Surface cars fly?” little Pap had asked once. Sans had concocted stories that left him in awe, fantasizing about how car doors transformed into wings.

It was almost horrifically beautiful, how far the impact sent him and Papyrus now. They soared, wind behind them, frozen in an instant. Then the crash landing made Sans, frankly, regret being born. His jacket padded most of his body, but his skull bounced and then scraped against the pavement as he rolled, legs crunching sideways on the curb. With a punch of agony, his eyelights blacked out.

When the world spun back into existence around him, excruciatingly loud and bright, he couldn’t even cry out. His ribs constricted hard around his soul in a ragged gasp. Gradually the kid’s face swam overhead, white with terror as they clung to him. He couldn’t quite grasp what they were saying through the shrill ringing, but he recognized the sensation when he was checked.

HP: 0.8 / 1.

The crushing pain in his skull urged him back toward oblivion, black fingers dragging at him, but a desperate shout was enough to pierce the encroaching fog. “Papyrus!”

Papyrus.

Panic sent a white-hot jolt through him as he flailed violently, helplessly. The kid knew instantly what he needed, grabbing his nearest arm and digging in to help him get up. As soon as he was half-upright, one of his legs splintered underneath him and he couldn’t help but scream, crumpling sideways in the gutter. 0.7 / 1.

The kid pressed their hands to their mouth, bursting into tears at the sight, but it didn’t matter because now that he had shifted, he could see. Through the blurry, disorienting haze, he made out the swarm of onlookers several feet away.

Alphys was calling someone for help, her pleas unintelligible through hysterical sobs. Toriel was fruitlessly trying to usher the crowd back with one hand, the other already aglow with healing spells. Undyne was on her knees, howling, torn between shielding and shaking the prone form in her arms.

“Papyrus! Papyrus, can you hear me?! Wake up, please! T-That’s an order!”

No.

No.

Dust was leaking from broken bones onto the asphalt.

Scattering under the humans’ stamping, shuffling feet.

Sans was in no shape to crawl, much less tear a hole in reality, but it didn’t matter. Everything went blank for what felt like an eternity and then he was there, collapsing into Papyrus’ chest, quaking in the effort not to bring up ectoplasmic bile with his slurred prayers.

“Pap, no. Not now, not like this—Can’t, s’posed to stay this time, s’posed to keep this one.”

“Sans, what are you doing?! Get off of him! He’s wounded, he needs room!”

With a low, strangled moan, he mashed his cracked face into the folds of Papyrus’ scarf, defying. He couldn’t feel a soul beat through it. “S’not happening this time, not gonna let’cha go.” Scuffed fingers dug hard into the curve of his brother’s skull. “Stop it, stop it now, stop doin’ this to me, I thought we were done—” The grip trying to pry him off felt cold, miles away, but the pain brought on by every tug and twist was immediate. He gagged, choked it down. “M’right here, Papy. You stay, you stay with me!”

“Sans, my friend, you must step aside for the healers!”

“Never got to hold you through it last times, ’least gimme a goodbye, y-you stupid—” His incoherent stream of supplication ran dry when Papyrus spasmed feebly, jaw splitting in a croaked struggle for breath. Wet heat spilled down Sans' face—tears or blood, he didn’t know, but dust smeared and stuck to his damp cheekbones as he was dragged out of the way. “Not again! Stars, please, not like this!”

___________________________________________

There were car magazines stacked on Papyrus’ bedside table. The doc had suggested reading to him, letting him hear Sans’ voice. Maybe something familiar would “coax his consciousness out,” or whatever.

Sans didn’t bother trying. He didn’t stir, fractured skull resting against the hospital bed rail, fingers laced through his brother’s.

Papyrus was always dust by the time Sans reached him in Snowdin. If he was going to be taken again, if this coma whittled him away piece by piece, Sans would be damned if he didn’t hold him through it.

As he waited for the inevitable, the world still turned around him through the hospital room. Flowers and balloons and cards appeared, along with plates of spaghetti. Amateurs, thinking they could get it right.

Undyne railed, raved and ranted, even after the reckless human driver was prosecuted. Eventually she gave up on words and punched a hole in the wall. Toriel, always the peacekeeper, covered the damage with a framed photograph of friends and family.

Alphys came just once to beg for forgiveness, because she’d twisted the whole thing up to blame herself somehow. Something to do with being the one who’d pushed Sans into the street. It didn’t really matter. Sans didn’t acknowledge her and she didn’t come back.

Asgore appeared. He said something about knowing loss, about how it felt like the world was ending when his children were taken from him. He offered to be a listening ear if Sans ever had need of it.

There was only one thing Sans needed. Not that.

Asgore didn’t need to bother. Alphys didn’t need to be blamed. It wasn’t even Papyrus’ fault this time, with his unending faith and trust and naiveté.

Sans had stepped out. Sans—with full knowledge of his 1 / 1 HP, with full knowledge of a brother who would do anything for him, with full knowledge that this world was always, always, always stacked against him, coded to make him suffer—had stepped out anyway. The wise, discerning, forethoughtful judge had gambled and deemed jaywalking to be an acceptable risk. It may as well have been a suicide attempt.

Flowey, Chara, Gaster. They hadn’t even needed to lift a finger this time. Sans had shattered their happy ending all on his own. He should never have trusted himself to be a part of it.

The kid visited every day for…weeks, months. Without fail they asked how Papyrus was doing, if his vitals had changed, if he looked any better, and Sans would say nothing as he squeezed Papyrus’ hand, thumb tracing his knuckles. They would hesitate, voice catching as tears filled their eyes. “Sans…”

“Kid.” Did anything need to be said aloud? They knew everything encompassed in that word and in the hollow pits of his eyes when he looked at them: the exhaustion, the defeat, the anger. The question.

It was always one they weren't ready to answer. Without another sound, they would back down and bolt from the room, unwilling to face it.

Yet not today. The clock ticked solemnly past their usual time.

Then it ticked past his brother's time.

Sans sensed the end just as it began. He wondered if Frisk could too, wherever they were right now. But Papyrus’ monitor alarms started going off, shrieking for a miracle, and Sans’ thumb was scraping deeper into his hand as it started to dissolve. His eye sockets flickered as he gazed numbly up at Pap’s crumbling face.

“One more, brother,” he mumbled, already half-dreaming of car lights veering toward them. “One more, just for you.”

He didn’t open his eyes again until the chill of Snowdin woke him.

[qhostqizmo]

and I’ll be there

if you need to feel strong and i’ll be there to help you along

- - - - - - - - - - 

Nothing had ever broke her heart quite like his expression did in this moment. Listless and forlorn; he looked painfully lost and fragmented. She’d never wanted to fight harder in her life for something more than she wanted to fight to scrub that look away, and return a smile to his face. It felt like sadness was always clinging to his shadows, but now it was etched in his eyes with a chisel. He wore his agony heavily; visibly, like how his filthy cloak seemed to suddenly swallow him and the light inside his being whole.

She reached for his hand, swallowing her nerves. He pulled his grasp free before her fingers could find the spaces between where they joined flawlessly.

The nobleman licked his lips nervously. “This is my fault.”

“M’lord, please-”

A rough exhale escaped him. He squared his shoulders as much as possible and stiffened his spine; a pristine figure of marble, but all she saw was cracked glass.

“We both know this to be true, Essie.”

Her heart splintered, aching painfully. She reached for his hand once more, determined to get to him somehow.

“I did this.” Amon cleared his throat, continuing on in a whisper, “I killed Fontane, and everything has never been the same since. I’m the reason Marie- sweet, innocent Marie- died. Abernathy left to escape me as much as to be with his husband. I have burdened my family, and my friends, all my life with my incompetence and brainless actions. Now we’re separated from the party; stuck in here likely to suffocate, because I’m the fool who got us trapped. And you-” his eyes flickered over towards hers as she clenched his hand. “You’re stuck in this situation with me.”

“I’m fine, m’lord,” Essätha reassured in a soothing tone. She tightened her grip on his hand. It could have been the dust burning her eyes, but Briarton’s Protector looked even more inconsolable and lost than before.

With a cautious hand, she leaned in to cradle his cheek with her free hand. Amon’s throat jumped, and he looked away from the crumbling wall of debris and rock shedding towards her. The light of her magic; pulsating orbs of pale light, danced around their figures as she offered a reassuring smile. Her palm rubbed across his scruffy whiskers fondly, over to thread into his dark black hair. Shining reflections illuminated them in light, bathed in almost ethereal halo glows.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpered.

“Shhh,” Essie murmured. Her palm rested against the nobleman’s cheek, and he leaned the weight of his head tentatively into her touch.

“I ruin everything.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She let go of his rough hand to cup his face gingerly with both hands. The depths of his eyes; almost black in the almost pitch dark, drew over her as her fingertips caressed his features.

“I don’t believe that,” she mumbled, stroking the pads of her thumbs beneath his eyes. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Essie-”

Her hands lifted his face as he began to lower his gaze, and crumble before her. “You are worthy, m’lord.” As he struggled to swallow a whimper in response, she slid closer. Rocks and rubble bit into her knees, and she leaned in close enough for the wreath of his cologne and sweat to infect her senses.

“You’re deserving of love and of happiness as much as anyone else. You heart is good and gentle and kind; you are good and gentle and kind. You’re not malicious, and you’re not some- some monster,” her mouth twisted as she uttered this aloud, hating them. Despising the lies he’d conjured and learned to believe in.

Practically hovering over him now, Amon struggled for air. Whether it was because it was running thin in their confined space and along his lungs, or because of what she was saying, she wasn’t sure. But he had to understand. She had to make him see, he was worth everything. He was priceless.

“You weren’t loved the way you should have been, and the only parent you had at such a tender age that should have taught you compassion and mercy showed you to be hard, cruel, and stubborn was the only way to be strong in life. You’ve built up walls as a shield to keep you safe, and you tried to grow thorns as fangs to fend others off. People you should have been able to rely on and trust have hurt you; they lied to you, they abused you. It’s not your fault for their actions; it was theirs.”

Grasping for oxygen as he began to hyperventilate, he grabbed at her. His hands shook; latching on to her shoulders, and sliding up her neck. There was no resisting the shivers that cascaded over her; no disguising the flushed heat that bloomed on her cheeks as the nobleman tentatively took hold of her face in his hands. His touch was light and careful as ever. It was as though he feared himself hurting her; or thought she may be repulsed by him, neither of which could be further from the true.

Essätha’s heart fluttered. She tried to relax the escalation in her breathing. The moment of pause; her eyes resting on his, slowed the nobleman’s ragged gasping a few notches. He still appeared shaken, with his gaze drawing over her in a mesmerized state as she fondly touched the handsome characteristics of his face.

“You didn’t need to fit their molds and ideals, and you never have,” she vowed, rubbing the moisture clinging to his bottom lashes away. “You didn’t bend to their cruelty and let it become you because you are better and stronger than anyone who has ever tried to drag you down. You are complete as you are. No one is great at everything. We all grow and change our whole lives, but what’s inside of you that makes you who you are; heroic, generous, courageous, respectable, gentle, dedicated, caring, warm and considerate has, and always will be, perfect. It’s enough for you to be you. I love you as you are, Amon.”

Her own words spilled out without any recognition. It was almost a reflex; the feeling had come out so naturally she hadn’t noticed.

However, wheezing once more as though winded by a blow, Amon held her cheeks a little firmer. “You love me?”

Her mouth fell open stupidly, and only a nervous squeak escaped her.

“Essätha?”

The way he said her name was so unbearably perfect. It was as though it was the first time she’d heard it; or the first day she’d been named. Her name sounded… special. She felt special.

As he blinked away the shine of liquid in his eyes, gaping at her, Essie softly pressed her lips over his.

Amon’s frame jolted beneath her with shock, and she retreated quickly with mortified pink-glowing cheeks.

“I shouldn’t-”

He reeled her back in as he sat forward, delicately placing a kiss over her mouth.

“Don’t run from me,” Amon uttered gruffly, his eyes locked on her lips.

She swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry.” Her face felt like it was on fire, but hands still somehow felt warmer; swirling patterns on to her skin.

“You’re…” His throat jumped uneasily. “You’re too good for someone like me. Too kind; too gentle, beautiful, smart and thoughtful.”

Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Are you saying… you… don’t want me?”

“No. No- No Essie, that’s not what I’m saying- I would never-” He fumbled, pulling her nearer as her eyes trailed off to the side. “Essätha Meduza, I don’t deserve you. You deserve better.”

The hue of her blush deepened as she gazed back into his eyes. “Is it really what we deserve to have or not have? Even when I love you?”

“You… you said it again,” he breathed, mystified.

“Do you not feel the same?” Essätha inquired. Her heart hammered against her ribcage; fearing the fractures that she may have to puzzle back together with his answer.

Amon loomed closer; a warm protective profile before her. Another series of shivers surged over her.

“I love you, Essie. I have loved you since forever.”

He kissed her slowly and lightly, with his hands resting on her face and hers on his. It was enough to make her weak and breathless, half-way fallen into his lap.

“We’re going to make it through, together,” she whispered against his parted lips and shallow breaths, “I promise you.”

The nobleman shuddered. “I trust you.”

She was soaring in his eyes, and melting beneath his touch. Wearing her brightest, most tender smile, she turned to affectionately press a kiss against his palm, then his wrist.

“I’ll take care of you, and your heart,” Amon vowed; his voice wobbly with emotion.

Resting her forehead against her nobleman’s, Essie let out a sigh of relief.

“I know you will.”

Pressing one more delicate kiss to the corner of her mouth, the nobleman let go of her cheeks to pull her against his chest. She hadn’t realized how scared she truly felt until then; trapped within slowly collapsing walls, with precious air and seconds ticking by.

Her arms wound around him, clinging tight.

“It’s going to be okay,” he pledged, rubbing her back. “It’ll be okay; we’ll be okay, I promise you Essie.”

[i-heart-danchou]

Again

So this is for the eruriweek day 7 Timeloop!  This one is deeeeeefinitely going to end up a multi chapter fic.  So it’s a bit of a cliffhanger here, but I don’t want to rush this one. 

--- The final battle, the last showdown, humanity’s best chance to take back Maria and save themselves from untimely extinction.  Levi stuck as close to Erwin as he could.  Erwin grounded him, gave him strength and clarity, made it easier for him to fight.  The armored titan showed himself, the colossal titan showed himself, the beast titan showed himself.  The survey corps was fractured, terrified, almost certain to die… all Levi could hear were screams and splintering stones, all he could taste was blood and fear in the air.  They were fucked, and Erwin, for one brief moment faltered.  

The details weren’t important.  In the end Erwin stood tall and lead the greatest charge in recorded history— he was brave, he fell, he bled to death on a roof and Levi stayed with him because there was no other choice.  

He could barely sleep that night.  A fractured, shard of a man haunted by his choices and his memories.  Huddled up in the corner of Erwin’s room, avoiding the bed, avoiding anything that smelled or felt like the commander, Levi shut his eyes.

**

Levi grumbled to himself as the sunlight broke through the windows and onto his face.  Erwin was dead, he was in no fucking mood to face the day at this point.

“Mm… morning, Levi.”  

Levi shot up in the bed at that, recoiling from the impossible voice.  No.  His eyes were as wide as they’d ever been, staring in disbelief at Erwin fucking Smith lying in the bed next to him.  “Erwin??”  He managed, pulling the blanket back to get a better look at him.  “No.  No it’s not possible.”

Erwin looked quite confused at this point, and offered a wary smile to his partner.  “What isn’t?”

“You— you died yesterday.  The beast titan killed you, it—“  He put his hand on Erwin’s heart.  It was beating, his skin was warm… what the hell…?

“Beast titan?  Levi did you have a bad dream?”

“Shit.  No. …maybe.  What day is it?”

“We’re going to take back Wall Maria today.”  Erwin informed him, obviously a little concerned.  “We can talk about this later.”

Levi watched Erwin get dressed and rubbed the back of his head.  A dream?  How could it have been a dream if… it all seemed so fucking real.  Erwin had been torn apart, he’d bled to death in front of him, he’d made peace with his demons but… maybe not?

Levi decided to ignore the dream as much as he could and followed Erwin down to breakfast.  But… everything was playing out just as it had the day before— their meal was the same, there was the same chip in his glass, Connie made the same stupid joke… was it real?  Had this all happened already?

Levi had always trusted Erwin’s intelligence over his own, but certainly stranger things had happened than…. than what, replaying out the same day again?  The day of Erwin’s death?

He reached over and tugged at Erwin’s sleeve.  

“Erwin.  We should abort the plan.  It’s all going to be fucked up, it won’t work.”

Erwin gave him an incredulous look and shook his head.  “We can’t give up now, Levi.  We’ve worked so hard, we’ve come so close.   Why are you saying this now?”

Levi was panicking.  There was no way Erwin was going to believe him… what, that he had lived this day already?  Seen Erwin die?  It was so absurd, Erwin would never believe him in a million years.  

“Because you’re a fucking wounded soldier and you’ve got no place on the battlefield.  You can’t go, Erwin.  We can’t lose you, it’s too fucked up.”

Erwin looked tired.  “Levi… we’ve been over this.  I have to be there when we find the truth out.  Please don’t take this from me.”

The image of Erwin on the crate came unbidden to Levi’s mind… his last moments of desperation, how miserable he was, how he rode out to his death without ever having achieved his dreams.  “You’ll never get to see the basement if you’re dead, Erwin.  Please.  Please.  I’ve never fucking asked you for anything before Erwin, I’ve always done whatever you needed.  Please.”

Levi imagined that he looked fucking desperate, certainly Erwin was looking at him with something disgustingly close to pity in his eyes.  

“I…” Erwin ran a hand through his hair.  “Levi I…”   He sighed.  “This isn’t like you.”

“I know.  But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need this.  I need you to fucking live.”

~

Levi was reasonably confident he would be able to achieve the same outcome that Erwin had.  He knew what was going to happen, he knew how fucked they were going to be, and he knew that at the end of the day they captured the colossal titan, reclaimed wall Maria, and solved the mysteries of the world.  

Everything played out the same way it had the day before… Reiner fought Eren, the Beast titan trapped them… it was okay, Levi knew what to do.  

“You guys have to charge at the beast titan.”  He explained to the new recruits.  “Just ride at him.  I’ll kill it while it’s distracted.”

But Levi didn’t have Erwin’s charisma, and it wasn’t long before cracks started to show in the new recruit’s resolve.  They weren’t inspired, enthralled, or brave in this moment.  They didn’t believe that their deaths had meaning.  One broke away from formation, then another, then another.  They scattered as the stones came down around them, and screamed as they were torn to shreds anyway.  

The beast titan saw him before he got the chance to attack, and easily crushed him with a stone from about 400 yards away.  Levi’s last thoughts were of Erwin, and how disappointed he would be.

**

He woke up with a gasp and stared at his hands.  No blood.  No pain, he was whole and… he turned to the side, Erwin was nestled up beside him and sleeping peacefully.  Erwin was safe.  What the fuck.  What the actual fuck.  

He hugged Erwin awake and buried his face in Erwin’s neck.  “I hate you.”  He grumbled.  

“Mm.  Love you too, Levi.”  Erwin said sleepily.  “What’s the matter?”

They were in the same outfits, the same bed, the fucking clouds were in the same position… it was that last day again, again!

Fuck.  What the fuck was happening.  “Nothing.  Everything is great.”  

He was unusually quiet as they ate breakfast together, and perhaps Erwin attributed it to nerves.  Why was this happening?  Why did he keep having to relive this horrible day?  Was… was it because he’d made the wrong choice?  Was there a perfect ending to be had?

He subconsciously put his hand to his chest, where he was hiding the precious box and syringe.  Maybe… maybe he should give Erwin the injection after all.  

Erwin’s titan would be magnificent, a sight to behold, an incredible fucking force.  He’d surely, surely be able to save humanity then but… Levi had let Erwin die for a reason, dammit.  He didn’t want Erwin to be a monster.  He deserved better.  

“Erwin?”  He said eventually.  “If… it comes down to it, and I have to use this injection on you, what would you think?”

“If I’m badly wounded, and we have a titan shifter incapacitated, then of course I would accept that responsibility Levi.  Don’t worry about that.”

“But would you… hate it?”

Erwin seemed surprised at the question.  “It would be an adjustment, I suppose.  I could do a lot of good for humanity.”

“That’s a political answer.”  Levi said brusquely.  “I want to know what you really feel.”

“I… I’m not sure.”  Erwin looked tired.  “Whatever happens, Levi, I don’t want you to hesitate.”

~

 It wasn’t long before Erwin was sprawled out before him once more, bleeding out on the rooftop.  Eren went through the motions once more; he and Mikasa fought him for the injection, are soundly defeated, and Levi stood above Erwin with the needle in his hand.  It was a shame about Armin but... saving Armin hadn’t worked.

“I’m sorry, Erwin.”  He said quietly, rolling up his sleeve for a second time.  “I have to get this right.”

Erwin tried to wrench his arm away, but Levi was ready for him this time.  Levi kept himself steady when the needle pierced Erwin’s skin, but flinched when he heard a soft little voice coming from his commander.   
 “Don’t…”

“I’m sorry.”  Levi repeated, pushing the plunger down as fast as he could.  Erwin’s body seized up as the serum ran through him, his wound bleeding fresh as his body contracted.  His titan was… repulsive.  All of the simple titans were, but somehow this bastard version of Erwin was the worst of all of them.  His eyes were stupid and bulging, his gut hanging over his flattened groin, his hair a messy nest that would have made Erwin sick.  There was nothing of Erwin in this creature, none of the intelligence or beauty that made him so admirable.  Levi felt nauseated.

The titan’s body jiggled as it stumbled across the ground, grasping blindly and trying to take Bertholt into his mouth.  Levi couldn’t tear his eyes away as Erwin’s teeth bore into the child’s skull, and sped towards him as soon as the transformation began anew.

Erwin was… he was whole, he was breathing, he was golden and beautiful and he had two arms and…. fuck!  Levi nearly collapsed running to him, cradling him in his arms and whispering in his ear that it was going to be okay.

“I’ve got you.”  He whispered.  “I’ve got you.  You’re safe, Erwin.  We can see the basement now.”

“No.”  Eren’s voice was cold and distant.  “You can’t.”  

Levi seldom let his guard down, but he could hardly be blamed for allowing his jubilation at Erwin being alive and whole from distracting him for a moment.  There was a sickening squelching sound and he looked down at his shirt.  The distal tip of Eren’s blade was sticking out of his chest, and his blood was soaking his uniform.

“Fuck.”

** Levi's eyes shot open and he clutched at his chest.  He was whole.  Erwin was with him.  Fuck, fuck, not again.  (and here’s a link if you wanna look at it on ao3 or whatever <3  https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453777/chapters/48529133 )

[gaysparklepires]

29. Defection

Read on AO3 - Links up top!

We sat there all night long, statues of horror and grief, and Alice never came back.

We were all at our limits—frenzied into absolute stillness. Carlisle had barely been able to move his lips to explain it all to Jacob. The retelling seemed to make it worse; even Emmett stood silent and still from then on.

It wasn’t until the sun slowly crept into the sky that I wondered for the first time what could possibly be taking Alice so long. I’d hoped to know actually know something before much longer. To have some answers. Some tiny, tiny portion of hope so that I could move again and no longer feel like ice.

My face felt permanently set into the fixed mask I had worn all night. I wasn’t sure I had the ability to smile anymore.

Jacob was breathing evenly in the corner, a mountain of fur on the floor, twitching anxiously in his sleep. Sam knew everything—the wolves were readying themselves for what was coming. Not that this preparation would do anything but get them killed with the rest of my family.

The sunlight broke through the back windows, sparkling on Edward’s skin. My eyes had not moved from his since Alice’s departure. We’d stared at each other all night, staring at what neither of us could handle losing: the other. I saw my reflection glow in his agonized eyes as the sun touched over my own skin.

His eyebrows moved an infinitesimal bit, then his lips.

“Alice,” he said.

The sound of his voice was like ice cracking as it melted. All of us fractured a little, softened a little. Moved again.

“She’s been gone a long time,” Royal murmured, surprised.

“Where could she be?” Emmett wondered, taking a step toward the door.

Esme wrapped her arms around herself. “We don���t want to disturb…”

“She’s never taken so long before,” Edward said. New worry splintered the mask his face had become. His features were alive again, his eyes suddenly wild with fresh fear, extra panic. “Carlisle, you don’t think—something preemptive? Would Alice have had time to see if they sent someone for her?”

Aro’s translucent-skinned face filled my head. Aro, who had seen into all the corners of Alice’s mind, who knew everything she was capable of—

Emmett cussed loud enough that Jacob lurched to his feet with a growl. In the yard, his growl was echoed by his pack. My family was already a blur of action.

“Stay here!” I hissed at Jacob as I sprinted through the door.

I had kept myself well fed since what had happened with Ivan and I was still stronger than the rest of them, and I used that strength to push myself forward. I overtook Esme in a few bounds, and Royal in just a few strides more. I raced through the thick forest until I was right behind Edward and Carlisle.

“Would they have been able to surprise her?” Carlisle asked, his voice as even as if he were standing motionless rather than running at full speed.

“I don’t see how,” Edward answered. “But Aro knows her better than anyone else. Better than I do.”

“Is this a trap?” Emmett called from behind us.

“Maybe,” Edward said. “There’s no scent but Alice and Jasper. Where were they going?”

Alice and Jasper’s trail was curling into a wide arc; it stretched first east of the house but headed north on the other side of the river, and then back west again after a few miles. We re-crossed the river, all six jumping within a second of each other. Edward ran in the lead, his concentration total.

“Did you catch that scent?” Esme called ahead a few moments after we’d leaped the river the second time. She was farthest back, on the far-left edge of our hunting party. She gestured to the southeast.

“Keep to the main trail—we’re almost to the Quileute border,” Edward called back. “Stay together. See if they turned north or south.”

I was not as familiar with the treaty line as the rest of them, but I could smell the hint of wolf in the breeze blowing from the east. Edward and Carlisle slowed a little out of habit, and I could see their heads sweep from side to side, waiting for the trail to turn.

Then the wolf smell was suddenly stronger, and Edward’s head snapped up. He came to a sudden stop. The rest of us froze, too.

“Sam?” Edward asked in a flat voice. “What is this?”

Sam came through the trees a few hundred yards away, walking quickly toward us in his human form, flanked by two big wolves—Paul and Jared. It took Sam a while to reach us; his human pace made me impatient. I didn’t want time to think about what was happening. I wanted to be in motion, to be doing something. I wanted to have my arms around Alice, to know beyond a doubt that she was safe.

I watched Edward’s face go absolutely white as he read what Sam was thinking. Sam ignored him, looking straight at Carlisle as he stopped walking and began to speak.

“Right after midnight, Alice and Jasper came to this place and asked permission to cross our land to the ocean. I granted them that and escorted them to the coast myself. They went immediately into the water and did not return. As we journeyed, Alice told me it was of utmost importance that I say nothing to Jacob about seeing her until I spoke to you. I was to wait here for you to come looking for her and then give you this note. She told me to obey her as if all our lives depended on it.”

Sam’s face was grim as he held out a folded sheet of paper, printed all over with small black text. It was a page out of a book; my sharp eyes read the printed words as Carlisle unfolded it to see the other side. The side facing me was the copyright page from The Merchant of Venice. A hint of my own scent blew off of it as Carlisle shook the paper flat. I realized it was a page torn from one of my books. I’d brought a few things from Charlie’s house to the cottage; a few sets of normal clothes, all the letters from my mother, and my favorite books. My tattered collection of Shakespeare paperbacks had been on the bookshelf in the cottage’s little living room yesterday morning...

“Alice has decided to leave us,” Carlisle whispered.

“What?” Royal’s voice was blank shock.

Carlisle turned the page around so that we all could read.

Don’t look for us. There isn’t time to waste. Remember: Taras, Siobhan, Amun, Alistair, all the nomads you can find. We’ll seek out Peter and Charlotte on our way. We’re so sorry that we have to leave you this way, with no goodbyes or explanations. It’s the only way for us. We love you.

We stood frozen again, the silence total but for the sound of mine and the wolves’ heartbeats, our breathing. Their thoughts must have been loud, too. Edward was first to move again, speaking in response to what he heard in Sam’s head.

“Yes, things are that dangerous.”

“Enough that you would abandon your family?” Sam asked out loud, censure in his tone. It was clear that he had not read the note before giving it to Carlisle. He was upset now, looking as if he regretted listening to Alice.

Edward’s expression was stiff—to Sam it probably looked angry or arrogant, but I could see the shape of pain in the hard planes of his face.

“We don’t know what she saw,” Edward said. “Alice is neither unfeeling nor a coward. She just has more information than we do.”

“We would not—,” Sam began.

“You are bound differently than we are,” Edward snapped. “We each still have our free will.”

Sam’s chin jerked up, and his eyes looked suddenly flat black.

“Edward. Don’t.” My scolding voice sounded raw and rough.

“But you should heed the warning,” Edward went on. “This is not something you want to involve yourselves in. You can still avoid what Alice saw.”

“Don’t get your family slaughtered for pride,” Carlisle interjected quietly.

Sam looked at Carlisle with a softer expression. “As Edward pointed out, we don’t have the same kind of freedom that you have. It is our duty to stay together, to protect the tribe, and to protect each other.” His eyes flickered to Alice’s note, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You don’t know her,” Edward said.

“Do you?” Sam asked bluntly.

Carlisle put a hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We have much to do, son. Whatever Alice’s decision, we would be foolish not to follow her advice now. Let’s go home and get to work.”

Edward nodded, his face still rigid with pain. Behind me, I could hear Esme’s quiet, tearless sobs.

I didn’t know how to cry yet in this body; I couldn’t do anything but stare. There was no feeling yet. Everything seemed unreal, like I was dreaming again after all these months. Having a nightmare.

“Thank you, Sam,” Carlisle said.

“I’m sorry,” Sam answered. “We shouldn’t have let her through.”

“You did the right thing,” Carlisle told him. “Alice is free to do what she will. I wouldn’t deny her that liberty.”

I’d always thought of the Cullens as a whole, an indivisible unit. Suddenly, I remembered that it had not always been so. Carlisle had created Edward, Esme, Royal and Emmett; Edward had a hand in making me what I was. We were physically linked by blood and venom. I never thought of Alice and Jasper as separate—as adopted into the family. But in truth, Alice had adopted the Cullens. She had shown up with her unconnected past, bringing Jasper with his, and fit herself into the family that was already there. Both she and Jasper had known another life outside the Cullen family. Had she really chosen to lead another new life after she’d seen that life with the Cullens was over?

We were doomed, then, weren’t we? There was no hope at all. Not one ray, one flicker that might have convinced Alice she had a chance at our side.

The bright morning air seemed thicker suddenly, blacker, as if physically darkened by my despair.

“I’m not going down without a fight,” Emmett snarled low under his breath. “Alice told us what to do. Let’s get it done.”

The others nodded with determined expressions, and I realized that they were banking on whatever chance Alice had given us. That they were not going to give in to hopelessness and wait to die.

Yes, we all would fight. What else was there? And apparently we would involve others, because Alice had said so before she’d left us. How could we not follow Alice’s last warning? The wolves, too, would fight with us for their people, for their brothers.

We would fight, they would fight, and we all would die.

I didn’t feel the same resolve the others seemed to feel. Alice knew the odds. She was giving us the only chance she could see, but the chance was too slim for her to bet on it.

I already felt defeated as I turned my back on Sam’s critical face and followed Carlisle toward home.

We ran automatically now, not the same panicked hurry as before. As we neared the river, Esme’s head lifted.

“There was that other trail. It was fresh.”

She nodded forward, toward where she had called Edward’s attention on the way here. While we were racing to save Alice...

“It has to be from earlier in the day. It was just Alice, without Jasper,” Edward said lifelessly.

Esme’s face puckered, and she nodded.

I drifted to the right, falling a little behind. I was sure Edward was right, but at the same time... After all, how had Alice’s note ended up on a page from my book?

“Beau?” Edward asked in an emotionless voice as I hesitated.

“I want to follow the trail,” I told him, smelling the light scent of Alice that led away from her earlier flight path. I was new to this, but it smelled exactly the same to me, just minus the scent of Jasper.

Edward’s golden eyes were empty. “It probably just leads back to the house.”

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

At first I thought he would let me go alone, but then, as I moved a few steps away, his blank eyes flickered to life.

“I’ll come with you,” he said quietly. “We’ll meet you at home, Carlisle.”

Carlisle nodded, and the others left. I waited until they were out of sight, and then I looked at Edward questioningly.

“I couldn’t let you walk away from me,” he explained in a low voice. “It hurt just to imagine it.”

I understood without more explanation than that. I thought of being divided from him now and realized I would have felt the same pain, no matter how short the separation.

There was so little time left to be together.

I held my hand out to him, and he took it.

“Let’s hurry,” he said. “We should be with the others and explain what happened to Jacob.”

I nodded, and we were running again.

It was probably a silly thing, to waste the time away from everyone just for curiosity’s sake. But the note bothered me. Alice could have carved the note into a boulder or tree trunk if she lacked writing utensils. She could have stolen a pad of paper from any of the houses by the highway. Why my book? When did she get it?

Sure enough, the trail led back to the cottage by a circuitous route that stayed far clear of the Cullens’ house and the wolves in the nearby woods. Edward’s brows tightened in confusion as it became obvious where the trail led.

He tried to reason it out. “She left Jasper to wait for her and came here?”

We were almost to the cottage now, and I felt uneasy. I was glad to have Edward’s hand in mine, but I also felt as if I should be here alone. Tearing out the page and carrying it back to Jasper was such an odd thing for Alice to do. It felt like there was a message in her action—one I didn’t understand at all. But it was my book, so the message mustbe for me. If it were something she wanted Edward to know, wouldn’t she have pulled a page from one of his books...?

“Give me just a minute,” I said, pulling my hand free as we got to the door.

His forehead creased. “Beau?”

“Please? Thirty seconds.”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. I darted through the door, pulling it shut behind me. I went straight to the bookshelf. Alice’s scent was fresh—less than a day old. A fire that I had not set burned low but hot in the fireplace. I yanked The Merchant of Venice off the shelf and flipped it open to the title page.

There, next to the feathered edge left by the torn page, under the words The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare, was a note.

Destroy this.

Below that was a name and an address in Seattle.

When Edward came through the door after only thirteen seconds rather than thirty, I was watching the book burn.

“What’s going on, Beau?”

“She was here. She ripped a page out of my book to write her note on.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why.”

“Why are you burning it?”

“I—I—” I frowned, letting all my frustration and pain show on my face. I did not know what Alice was trying to tell me, only that she’d gone to great lengths to keep it from anyone but me. The one person whose mind Edward could not read. So she must want to keep him in the dark, and it was probably for a good reason. “It seemed appropriate.”

“We don’t know what she’s doing,” he said quietly.

I stared into the flames. I was the only person in the world who could lie to Edward. Was that what Alice wanted from me? Her last request?

“When we were on the plane to Italy,” I whispered—this was not a lie, except perhaps in context—“on our way to rescue you... she lied to Jasper so that he wouldn’t come after us. She knew that if he faced the Volturi, he would die. She was willing to die herself rather than put him in danger. Willing for me to die, too. Willing for you to die.”

Edward didn’t answer.

“She has her priorities,” I said. It made my still heart ache to realize that my explanation did not feel like a lie in any way.

“I don’t believe it,” Edward said. He didn’t say it like he was arguing with me—he said it like he was arguing with himself. “Maybe it was just Jasper in danger. Her plan would work for the rest of us, but he’d be lost if he stayed. Maybe…”

“She could have told us that. Sent him away.”

“But would Jasper have gone? Maybe she’s lying to him again.”

“Maybe,” I pretended to agree.

“We should go home. There’s no time.” Edward took my hand, and we ran.

Alice’s note did not make me hopeful. If there were any way to avoid the coming slaughter, Alice would have stayed. I couldn’t see another possibility. So it was something else she was giving me. Not a way to escape. But what else would she think that I wanted? Maybe a way to salvage something? Was there anything I could still save?

Carlisle and the others had not been idle in our absence. We’d been separated from them for all of five minutes, and they were already prepared to leave. In the corner, Jacob was human again, his hands in his lap, watching us with wide eyes.

Royal had traded his silk dress shirt and slacks for a sturdy-looking pair of jeans, running shoes, and a button-down shirt made of the thick weave that backpackers used for long trips. Esme was dressed similarly. There was a map of the world on the coffee table, but they were done looking at it, just waiting for us.

The atmosphere was more positive now than before; it felt good to them to be in action. Their hopes were pinned on Alice’s instructions.

I looked at the map and wondered where we were headed first.

“We’re to stay here?” Edward asked, looking at Carlisle. He didn’t sound happy.

“Alice said that we need to gather witnesses. I can only assume to attest to our character in this situation so we have a prayer of pleading our case. We’re going to have to be very careful of how we present it,” Carlisle said. “We’ll send whomever we can find back here to you— Edward, you’ll be the best at fielding that particular minefield.”

Edward gave one sharp nod, still not happy. “There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“We’re splitting up,” Emmett answered. “Roy and I are hunting for nomads.”

“You’ll have your hands full here,” Carlisle said. “Taras’s family will be here in the morning, and they have no idea why. First, you have to persuade them not to react the way Ivan did. Second, you’ve got to find out what Alice meant about Elena. Then, after all that, will they stay to witness for us? It will start again as the others come—if we can persuade anyone to come in the first place.” Carlisle sighed. “Your job may well be the hardest. We’ll be back to help as soon as we can.”

Carlisle put his hand on Edward’s shoulder for a second and then on mine. Esme hugged us both, and Emmett punched us both on the arm. Royal forced a hard smile for Edward and me and then gave Jacob a parting grimace.

“Good luck,” Edward told them.

“And to you,” Carlisle said. “We’ll all need it.”

I watched them leave, wishing I could feel whatever hope bolstered them, and wishing I could be alone with the computer for just a few seconds. I had to figure out who this J. Jenks person was and why Alice had gone to such lengths to give his name and address to only me.

Jacob shifted uneasily, before finally speaking. “Sounds like we’re a little outnumbered right now. I hope Carlisle’s friends come.” he murmured.

“Jacob…” Edward hesitated.

“What? Well, come on, spit it out,” Jacob said, his voice raw with tension. He was right at his breaking point, just like the rest of us.

“The vampires who are coming are not the same as we are,” Edward said. “Taras’s family is the only one besides ours with a reverence for human life, and even they don’t think much of werewolves. I think it might be safer—”

“I can take care of myself,” Jacob interrupted.

“I know you can.” Edward continued, “But we have to plead our case. We have to show them that Beau has been changed first, then we can discuss the treaty with them.”

“Some friends. They’d turn on you just because of who you hang out with now?”

“The Volturi have made their views on werewolves quite clear in the past. There may not be laws prohibiting friendships between vampires and werewolves, but there’s never been a need for them. I can’t imagine it would be encouraged by the Volturi by any means.”

“Edward…” It was still odd to hear Jacob use Edward’s name without bitterness.

“I know, Jake. I know you want to help, to protect us. We’ll play it by ear—see how they react to Beau and our story. We’ll have to bring you and your people into the situation at some point, but it has to be at the right moment. You, Seth, and Liam are free to use the cottage. As long as you keep a safe distance from the main house…”

“I can do that. Company in the morning, huh?”

“Yes. The closest of our friends. In this particular case, it’s probably better if we get things out in the open as soon as possible. You can stay here. Taras knows about you. He’s even met Seth.”

“Right.”

“You should tell Sam what’s going on. There might be strangers in the woods soon.”

“Good point. Though I owe him some silence after last night.”

“Listening to Alice is usually the right thing.”

Jacob’s teeth ground together, and I could see that he shared Sam’s feelings about what Alice and Jasper had done.

While they were talking, I wandered toward the back windows, trying to look distracted and anxious. Not a difficult thing to do. I leaned my head against the wall that curved away from the living room toward the dining room, right next to one of the computer desks. I ran my fingers against the keys while staring into the forest, trying to make it look like an absentminded thing. I was fairly certain vampires never did anything absentmindedly, but maybe half-vampires did. I didn’t think anyone was paying particular attention to me, but I didn’t turn to make sure. The monitor glowed to life. I stroked my fingers across the keys again. Then I drummed them very quietly on the wooden desktop, just to make it seem random. Another stroke across the keys.

I scanned the screen in my peripheral vision.

No J. Jenks, but there was a Jason Jenks. An art historian and dealer. I brushed the keyboard, trying to keep a rhythm, like the preoccupied stroking of a cat you’d all but forgotten on your lap. Jason Jenks had a fancy website for his gallery, but the address on the homepage was wrong. In Seattle, but in a different zip code. I noted the phone number and then stroked the keyboard in rhythm. This time I searched the address, but nothing at all came up, as if the address didn’t exist. I wanted to look at a map, but I decided I was pushing my luck. One more brush, to delete the history…

I continued staring out the window and brushed the wood a few times. I heard light footsteps crossing the floor to me, and I turned with what I hoped was the same expression as before.

Jacob reached out a hand and put it on my shoulder. “You doing okay, babe?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry about Alice.”

“Me too,” I sighed. “But she’s Alice. She’s doing the right thing, like always.”

The right thing for Alice, anyway. I hated thinking of her that way, but how else could the situation be understood?

I suddenly felt a coolness run down my cheek. I lifted my fingers to my eyes. Tears were running down my face. They weren’t hot, but cold. Cold as I felt inside.

So this is what it felt like to cry now.

“Don’t cry, Beau.” Jacob wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be fine.”

As he spoke, I could see the faces of everyone I loved flashing in front of my eyes in rapid succession. Everything I held dear; my whole world. I watched in despair as the faces were consumed by a flurry of blood-red cloaks.

But just like in the dimly remembered dreams of my human life, I felt a fire burning inside me; a need to protect. It wouldn’t be easy, but I would find a way. I would protect my family, and—for once—I would save them. I was more positive than ever that this is what Alice would give me. She would know. She would have left me a way.

[doublerumnukacola]

Falling for you was easy...

(From chapter 9: Dying Twice...) 

The shopping trip went uneventfully. It wasn’t hard to get what they needed, after hitting up a few hardware stores. It almost felt like the days before the war, except she was replacing coupons with bullets.

They found a little alleyway near Diamond city that had a firepit and beds. Sole recognised the place, she’d cleared it out of Raiders months ago. It was surprising no one had moved in since then. Since she was here though, it wouldn’t hurt to install a few turrets to keep the neighbors from getting too friendly. She looked at her pip-boy map, and noted it’d named this place ‘Hangman’s Alley’. Not exactly a welcoming title.

“You think that’s enough magnets?” Sole asked, looking in her rucksack as they sat at their camp.

“If not, I’m sure we can pick up a few more from ’Dickhead’ City.” Hancock suggested. “Only as a last resort though.” He started a fire under the cooking pot. “What are you in the mood for, I take requests.”

“Well we got enough water from the last settlement we helped to make a stew… Mix some carrots, corn, and noodles together… But it will need some protein.” She looked through her bag. There was a dented tin of cram, but not much else.

“How does mirelurk sound?” She asked, getting up. Hancock looked at her incredulously, ready to object. “Yeah, too late, I got a taste for it now. Be back in 10 minutes, tops.”

“Hold it, Sister, you sure you want to take those on without backup?” He asked, starting to get up.

“Yeah I’m sure. Besides, you need to guard camp, get the stew ready, etc.” She argued. “I can handle a few crabs. Been doing it since college.” She chuckled at the joke that flew over his head. Hancock wanted to protest, but it wasn't worth arguing with a force of nature.

-------------------------------

She found a good perch from the second story of an old house that sat by the waterfront. She settled herself into position, looking down her scope at the waterfront. She could see a few soft shells guarding some eggs, a razorclaw nearby guarding them… But there was usually a Hunter around a cluster of this size. If she could find it away from the rest, she’d have some meat. Plus, the Hunters had a nicer taste, less bland.

She finally tracked one, the slight iridescence of its carapace made it hard to miss. She followed it with her crosshairs, watching it roam the perimeter of the nest, making mostly predictable paths. She just needed to wait for it to go out to the edge of the nest again, then she could take the shot.

There were footsteps on the floorboards behind her, but she kept her focus on the hunter. The steps got closer, the figure looming over her. She stayed put, took a breath, and made the shot. The mirelurk hunter explode into meaty chunks. She sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“If you plan on killing me, go ahead. If not, I have dinner to make.” She said in annoyance.

“Well, mom always said I’d wind up in contract assassination.” A voice came from behind her. “But maybe not today, just got this disguise dry cleaned.” She started to disassemble her set up, from the stand on which she perched her rifle, and then the rifle itself.

“Lucky me.” She muttered. Deacon was leaning against a dilapidated dresser, blown apart from some disaster or another.

“You know, I get the feeling you don't actually mean that.” He observed. She slid all the pieces back into her rucksack.

“And I get the feeling you’ve been stalking us since we left HQ.” Sole said evenly. “So you know what we’ve been up to.”

“Scouring the waste land for microscopes and hot plates. A noble quest indeed.” Deacon noted. “Am I to assume it's all for our cause? The one you promptly shat on not 48 hours ago?”

“Not a proud moment.” Sole admitted, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “But I’m making it right.”

“No, you’re trying to bribe your way into our good graces.” Deacon said bitterly. “Pretty hard to take on the Commonwealth boogeyman armed with nothing but a gun and a positive attitude.”

“Who accused me of having as much as that?” Sole asked with an empty laugh. “Watch me do it with three well placed paperclips, a rubber band, and a turkey baster.”

“See who’s laughing when you are up to your neck in Gen 1’s and out of witty retorts.” Deacon cautioned. Sole walked past him and went to the stairs, carefully stepping to avoid the holes.

“Me? Run out of witty retorts? You’re Intel is worse than your disguises.” Sole spat behind her. He followed her down the stairs, his sneakers cautiously treading over each step.

“Oh now you’re just being mean.” Deacon said, hugging the metal banister as he made his way down. He tentatively made the next step, but made the mistake of putting too much weight on the rickety stair. There was a creak of wood, then a crack. Sole stopped. Deacon was frozen, one wrong move would send him into the debris below.

They both looked down, the floor was scattered with sharp splintered wood and broken metal.

“At least there's a soft landing…” Deacon muttered. Sole was quickly getting in the same situation, the steps she was on were groaning under her weight. She looked around, there wasn't much. She looked at the bannister Deacon held onto. It was rickety, but the enameled metal went all the way to the ground. Safely over the debris.

“Hey Deacon, you ever think about sliding down the railing when you go into a metro? Or a broken escalator in a Fallon’s department store?” She asked, grabbing onto the bannister to secure it more.

“Now is really not the time to-” Deacon started, but a crack of wood shook him and he leapt onto the banister, propelling himself down as fast as he could until he fell off at the bottom, collapsing to the ground. Sole sighed in relief.

Then there was another crack. She felt the floor fall away beneath her, sending her tumbling down into the debris. She slammed against the splintered wood, feeling the shards drive into her skin. She cried out, the sound almost crushed out of her throat on impact, before her body rolled to a stop on a fractured slab of cement.

She was in shock, her heart was pounding, ears buzzing with white noise, vision fuzzy… Could she still move? At first there was nothing, her limbs stayed limp on the ground. She couldn't move. Terror gripped her, she was paralysed. Then it came back to her, her mind remembering how to move her body. She tried to sit up, but the shock that had been numbing her suddenly lifted. She gasped, a deluge of agony rippling through her. Her ribs were very very broken. She lay on the slab, trembling with pain, trying to stifle the tremors with short breaths, closing her eyes. She had survived raiders, gunners, super mutants, and particularly spirited radroaches… And now she would die to gravity, that most cruel Mistress. If she could still laugh, the building would have rung with the sound.

“Hey Charmer, buddy, talk to me…” Deacon called down. She almost smiled at his voice. Almost. At least if she died here, he would tell it as a more interesting end. She tried her best to respond through the pain.

“That… That’s… Going to bruise…” She called back weakly. She coughed, there was a lot of dust in air now, made it a little hard to breathe. Fractured bone digging into her lungs made it difficult as well.

“Don't scare me like that!” Deacon called, looking for a safe way over to her. Cement and rebar blocked most of his path, but if he could squeeze through, he could check on her.

Then there was a scuttling sound behind him. The Mirelurks nearby had come to inspect the commotion. Deacon scanned the surroundings, the crabs were making their way quickly from the waterfront, but didn't seem to have spotted them yet.

He didn't have much on him, but he did have the vodka bottle Sole had left him, the shirt on his back, and most crucially a lighter. But he only had one of each.

He quickly assembled a molotov, stripping off and stuffing the whole shirt into the bottle.

He took a breath, lit it, and lobbed it as far from the building as he could, landing with an explosive crash on the other side of the street. He held his breath. The scuttling stopped.

The creature inspected the scene, before returning to the nest, its curiosity satisfied. Deacon took a breath. At least that crisis was averted.

He returned his attention to Sole. If another Mirelurk came near and found her, she was as good as dead. If she didn't get a stimpak soon she was as good as dead. If her wounds weren't tended to soon, she was as good as- Actually he hadn't heard anything from her. She could be dead already.

Deacon carefully made his way through the cement and rebar, and tread over the splintered wood to where she lay. He stopped as soon as he saw her. Her face was pale, it took him a second to notice it was from the concrete dust, coating her hair and eyebrows, as if she’d been there for years. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was laboured. Blood seeped down the stone slab she lay on, dripping into a puddle on to the dusty ground. The splintered wood she’d hit was lanced into her side, soaked with blood. For once he was speechless, and a little nauseous.

“Still… Alive…” She managed, trying to move, but wincing in pain. He knelt beside her. “Just… Resting…” He couldn't move her, not by himself. He’d cause more damage even attempting.

The kindest thing to do, would be to end her now. If he could.

She knew what he was thinking. She knew him too well. The least she could do was give him enough time to do it.

“Tell… Me…” She whispered quietly. He leaned close to hear her. “... A… Story…” He held his breath. It was the only thing he was good at. He sat up beside her, clearing his throat. It was the least he could do for her.

“I ever tell you about the time I sailed to Greenland?” He started, keeping his voice quiet in case of hostiles. “Meant to just sail up the coast to another Railroad outpost, but time and tide had other ideas…” He looked down, she stirred a little. “Tell you what, if you think the Yao-gui are bad here, you try a polar bear. Big as a deathclaw, and twice as deadly.” She just kept breathing, he couldn't even tell if she was awake. “Heard that one, huh? Yeah I figured. How about this one.” He swallowed, trying to quietly clear his throat. He took off his sunglasses so he could take one last look at her. Without the filter, she looked so much more feeble, he could see all the cuts and bruises on her face. She was in so much pain...

“This story is about… A Vault dweller.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “She woke up in a barren hellscape, having lost everyone she ever loved, and set out to make it right. This Vault dweller, from the time they woke up, had a second shadow.” He paused, gauging her reaction. Still nothing, but he continued.

“This shadow had noticed a lot of activity by the Bad guys around this Vault dweller, lots of coming and going. So when she finally came out, the shadow had to watch them. He wasn't sure if she was going to be good or bad, so he kept his distance. But he watched her help innocents, and rebuild lives. He watched her desperate and helpless, looking for her only child.”

He took another breath, steading his voice. He had to finish the damn story. He owed her that and so much more. “One day, he started the Vault dweller on a path to find him. A clue here, a hint there… And she did. He stuck to her after that. And he got to see up close all the good she did. But there was more than that. He watched the way she collected keepsakes from their adventures, and always read through the terminals and notes left behind by the old world she’d come from, even though she knew they didn't have a happy ending. The shadow asked her about that, she said they deserved their last thoughts to be heard. Ain't that something?” He coughed, trying to keep his voice from breaking. It might have been the light, but he could have sworn her head was tilted towards him now… He couldn’t believe the last thing she wanted to hear was his voice...

“And the shadow ended up opening up to her. Ended up spilling all his big secrets. Or at least, some of them. He kept the most important ones for himself. And that was where he went wrong.” He leaned back against a jutting piece of rebar. “He kept the most important secret to himself… The Shadow helped her kill a killer, and then she kissed me…-The Shadow, I mean… and he… He pushed her away. Then he wonders why the Vault dweller doesn't want to see him anymore. But he couldn't help seeing her.”

He closed his eyes, reaching for his silenced pistol. She deserved better. “And even after all that. All the lies, and the rejection, and the heartbreak… She still risked her life for his. Even though the first thing he tried to tell her was ‘don't be a hero’. But then, when did she ever listen to him…” He clicked off the safety. He watched her chest rise and fall unevenly, pain in every breath. He was drawing out her suffering for his cowardice. He took a breath. “Good talk, Charms…” He lifted the barrel to her skull.

Then he heard a voice, raspy and desperate.

“Sole! Where the fuck are you?” Hancock hissed, walking slowly outside the building, only a few feet away from them. “Sole, c’mon, I don’t even like Mirelurk!” Deacon couldn't believe his luck. He stashed away the pistol hurriedly. Hancock was already moving further down the street, still calling out quietly for her. Deacon knelt down beside Sole so she could hear him.

“Stay with me Charmer, if you see a bright light and hear your grandmother’s voice calling you, tell her to fuck off. You still have business here.” He whispered quickly, before taking off after Hancock.

-------------------------------

Continued on ao3

[crimethinc]

Take Your Pick: Law or Freedom–How “Nobody Is above the Law” Abets the Rise of Tyranny

We saw you last night among thousands of other anti-Trump demonstrators around the US. Their signs proclaimed, “No one is above the law.” You were the one with the sign reading “I love laws.” We need to talk.

Really, this is what gets you into the streets? Trump’s goons have been kidnapping your neighbors, preparing to block your access to abortion, openly promoting “nationalism,” calling the targets for lone wolf assassins who send mail bombs and shoot up synagogues—and your chief concern is whether what they’re doing is legal?

And if Trump and his cronies were to change the laws—what then?

If you’re trying to establish the foundation for a powerful social movement against Trump’s government, “no one is above the law” is a self-defeating narrative. What happens when a legislature chosen by gerrymander passes new laws? What happens when the courts stacked with the judges Trump appointed rule in his favor? What will you do when the FBI cracks down on protests?

If everything that put Trump in a position to implement his agenda were legal, would you be at peace with it, then? When some nice centrist politician takes office after him, but the police keep enforcing the policies he introduced and the judges he appointed keep judging, will you withdraw from the streets? Come to think of it, where were you under Obama when people were being imprisoned and deported by the million? Perhaps you have no problem with millions of people being imprisoned and deported as long as no one colludes with Russia or talks over a journalist?

We saw other protesters with signs entreating us to “Save Democracy.” Didn’t democracy inflict Trump on us in the first place? Isn’t it democracy that just brought Bolsonaro to power in Brazil—a racist, sexist, and homophobic advocate of the Brazilian military dictatorship and extrajudicial killings? If democracy enables outright fascists to legitimize their authority rather than having to seize power by force, what’s so great about it, exactly?

If “no one is above the law,” that means the law is above all of us. It means that the law—any law, whatever law happens to be on the books—is more valuable than our dearest desires, more righteous than our most honorable aspirations, more important than our most deep-seated sense of right and wrong. This way of thinking prizes group conformity over personal responsibility. It is the kiss of death for any movement that aims to bring about change.

Social change has always involved illegal activity—from the American Revolution to John Brown’s raid at Harper’s Ferry, from the sit-in movement to the uprising in Ferguson. If not for the courageous deeds of people who were willing to break the law, we’d still be living under the king of England. Many of us would still be enslaved.

That is what makes your cheerleading for the FBI so chilling. You’re familiar with COINTELPRO, presumably, and many of the other ways that the FBI has set out to crush movements for social change? Imagine that your best-case scenario plays out and the FBI helps to orchestrate Donald Trump’s removal from power. What do you think that the FBI would do with all the legitimacy that would give them in the eyes of liberals and centrists? It would have carte blanche to intensify its attacks on poor people, people of color, and protesters, destroying the next wave of social movements before they can get off the ground. Nothing could be more naïve than to imagine that the FBI will focus on policing the ruling class.

The greatest peril we face is that Trump’s government will be replaced by a centrist government that will continue most of the current administration’s policies without violating any rules or norms. The more Trump’s regime is described as exceptional, the easier it will be for the next administration to get away with the same activities. In the long run, the system is at its most dangerous when it does not outrage people.

Mobilizing to support an FBI Director in response to the firing of one of the most racist Attorney Generals in living memory—this is the same “lesser of two evils” argument some have made for voting taken to its logical extreme; this approach guarantees that we will be reduced to advocating for the second worst of all possible evils. Firing Jeff Sessions helps Trump evade Mueller’s investigation, yes, but let’s be clear—men like Sessions, Trump, and Mueller do the most harm in the course of carrying out their official duties in strict observation of the law.

What Gives the Law Legitimacy in the First Place?

In the feudal era, when kingly authority was thought to be bequeathed by God and laws were decreed by kings, it was at least internally consistent to hold that everyone had a sacred duty to obey them. Today, this assumption lingers as a sort of holdover—yet without any rational basis. Certainly, the law decrees that no one is above it, but that’s just circular reasoning. What obliges us to regard laws as more valid then our own personal ethics?

Partisans of democracy like to imagine that laws arise because of their general utility to the population as a whole. On the contrary, for most of the history of the state, laws were decreed by monarchs and dictatorships—and only existed on account of their utility to rulers. Sovereignty itself is a fundamentally monarchist metaphor. If we no longer believe in the divine right of kings, that undermines any inherent claim that laws could have on our obedience. Rather than blindly complying, we have a responsibility to decide for ourselves how we should act. To cite Hannah Arendt, “No one has the right to obey.”

The law masquerades as a sort of social contract existing for everyone’s benefit. But if it’s really in everyone’s best interest, why is it so hard to get people to abide by it? The truth is, neither the powerful nor the oppressed have ever had good cause to obey laws—the former because the same privileges that enable them to write the laws release them from the necessity of observing them, the latter because the laws were not established for their benefit in the first place. It shouldn’t be surprising that a billionaire like Trump does not obey the laws. What’s surprising is that you still think that the rest of us ought to.

What’s the difference between the illegal activity of a Donald Trump and the illegal activity of a person who engages in civil disobedience? If “no one is above the law,” then they’re both equally in the wrong. No, the real distinction between them is that one is acting for selfish gain while the other is attempting to create a more egalitarian society. This is the important question—whether our actions serve to reproduce hierarchies or undermine them. We should focus on this question, not on whether any given action is legal.

What we are seeing today is the fracturing of our society. The peace treaties that stabilized capitalism through the second half of the 20th century are collapsing, and members of the ruling class are adopting rival strategies to weather the crises ahead. On one side, nationalists like Trump are betting on chauvinism and brute force, preparing to make the best of it as society splinters into warring groups. On the other side, centrist technocrats want to present themselves as the only imaginable alternative, using the specter of Trump and his kind to justify their own quest for authority. When they get back into office, you can bet that they won’t turn down any additional power that Trump has vested in the state. Your advocacy for “the rule of law” is music to their ears. And, of course, whatever additional power and legitimacy they concentrate in the state will be passed on to the next Trump, the next Bolsonaro.

Each side aims to instrumentalize the discourse of law and order in order to outflank the other in the battle for power. This isn’t new; it’s as old as the state itself. Immediately after the confirmation of Kavanaugh, you’re a sucker to imagine that the law represents some sort of social consensus rather than the edicts of whoever happens to control the institutions. To fetishize obedience to the law is to accept that might makes right.

To march under the banner “no one is above the law” is to spit in the faces of all those for whom the daily functioning of the law is an experience of oppression and injustice. It is to reject solidarity with the sectors of society that could give a social movement against Trump leverage in the streets. It is to assert the political center as a discrete entity that holds itself apart—that views both Trump and the social movements that oppose him as rivals to its own power. Finally, it is to legitimize the very instrument of oppression—the law—that Trump will eventually use to suppress your movement. Remember “Lock her up”?

You have to ask yourself some important questions now. Do you love laws—or justice? Do you love rights—or freedom?

If it’s laws you believe in, you’re on the right track. Just don’t have any illusions about what it means to value the law above everything else. If it’s justice you want, on the other hand, you need to be prepared to break the law. In that case, you need a totally different narrative to explain what you’re doing.

If it’s rights you’re after, you’ll need a government to grant them, protect them, and—inevitably—take them away when it sees fit. Whenever you use the discourse of rights, you set the stage for this to occur. There are no rights without a sovereign to bestow them. On the other hand, if you love freedom, rather than vesting legitimacy in the government, you’d better make common cause with everyone else who has a stake in collectively defending themselves against invasive efforts to impose authority, whether from Trump or his Democratic rivals.

From the anarchist perspective, all of us are above the law. Our lives are more precious than any legal document, any court decision, any duty decreed by the state. No social contract drawn up in the halls of power could provide a basis for mutually fulfilling egalitarian relations; we can only establish those on our own terms, working together outside any framework of imposed responsibilities. The law is not our salvation; it is the first and greatest crime.

Further Reading

The Centrists

From Democracy to Freedom

Don’t celebrate the exception; abolish the rule.

[redditnosleep]

Life 2.0

by TobiasWade

I was 16 when I saw the first crack: a jagged line, about four feet long but less than an inch wide. I found it by the sidewalk behind my house. Not on the sidewalk. The crack was in the air, visible from every direction as I circled around it. Harmlessly suspended, and nothing more.

I couldn't touch it. My hands passed through as though it wasn't there, although my hand was white and numb with cold by the time it reached the other side. I wouldn't even walk close to it. Something about the emptiness just rubbed me the wrong way. I've walked around caves, stared down holes, even used a telescope to look at the space between stars - this wasn't like that. It felt less like something was missing and more like something extra that shouldn't be there.

My family moved shortly after-that, and I guess I forgot all about it for awhile. Time moved steadily forward, except maybe for a few months after college when it stopped to let me admire my future wife. She had the kind of smile that hinted at a secret, and if I had a guess, I'd say it was the secret to being happy. I would have given anything to explore every hidden crevice of her mind, knowing her as she knew herself until one day we could start making new secrets of our own.

It was about a week after we met at work when we both had to stay late to clean up after an office party. I asked her to come sit on the roof and look at the sky with me. There we were: side-by-side, the space between our hands burning like fire, the shape of her mouth illuminated with the backdrop of endless stars, gleaming like millions of envious eyes wishing they could sit where I was sitting now.

I didn't know anything could make me feel so weak. My legs were trembling, and I remember having to keep switching positions so she wouldn't notice. I didn't trust the words in my mouth or the thoughts in my brain, or any other part of me which was blurred out of existence to make room for my appreciation of everything that she was.

That's when I saw the crack again, and I was reminded how powerful weakness could be. It was larger now, running along the side of an external AC unit. Not quite alongside - if I really looked I could see the empty air between the metal box and the crack. I could just make out the little streaks of light where the surrounding stars bled their light into the hole to be lost forever: a cookie-cutter gap in reality that the world had forgotten to fill in.

"You can leave whenever you want," she'd said.

I guess she noticed that I was distracted. I shook my head, prompting her fingers to trace their way up my hand. I turned to her and her breath warmed against my mouth, and suddenly that was the only thing in the world. Six months and we were engaged, another year and we were married. Neither of us stayed long at that office, and I never went back up to that roof. The crack didn't matter. Bad dreams can't hurt you once you've woken up, and beside her grace, I was awake for the very first time.

Things went well for us, but we were so in love that I don't think we would have noticed if they hadn't. I got an investment banking job and climbed the corporate ladder. I started seeing more cracks, but no-one else seemed to notice so I didn't mention them either. Sometimes they'd align perfectly to an existing object, but I could feel their emptiness pulling at me and I knew what they really were. There was a big one above the conference table at work, but I had a future here and wouldn't let something like that get in the way of my success. My diligence paid off when my boss finally told me that he was getting older and wanted me as partner for the firm. He was standing right on the other side of the crack when he said it, so it was difficult to maintain eye contact with him.

"Unless that isn't something you want," he'd said, misreading my silence. "Of course you can leave whenever you want."

The same words, but I hadn't recognized the significance yet. I just smiled and shook his hand, careful to reach underneath the crack hanging between us. It was another dream come true, and I was king of the world. My wife and I moved into a big house and we had a baby girl together. I watched her grow, and watched the cracks grow with her. Hairline fractures splintered the sky and mapped their web throughout the air. I had to be careful where I was walking. There would be a dozen of them in my path within any given day.

I passed through a big one once in my car. I was changing lanes and didn't notice in time. The crack went straight through my windshield without disturbing the glass, passing through my heart and out the other side. Cold doesn't begin to describe it. The line erased my body as it passed through me, displacing skin and organs, leaving a sucking vacuous wound for the briefest instant before it was gone. I lurched at the wheel and spun off the road into the guard rail. My hands kept racing over my chest, fists pounding against solid skin to reassure myself that I was whole.

I started working from home after that. There's a bathroom that doesn't have any cracks in it, and I spend most of my time in there. I've seen my wife and daughter walk straight through them without the slightest notice. I can't explain to them what I see and feel because I know they'll think I'm crazy. And maybe I am, but that doesn't change anything. I'll sit in here for hours at a time, working on my laptop or reading a book, loathe to leave where I might stumble through what isn't there. My wife begged me to leave, and sometimes I'd open the door just to walk around the house or sit with her in the living room, but I couldn't go outside anymore. There were too many of them - more everyday it seemed like.

The world around me had shattered, and I was the only one to notice. I know it hurt her, but in time my wife accepted that this is how life was going to be. She made the best of it, always inviting friends or family here and making excuses when I was expected somewhere. She took cooking classes and learned how to make all my favorite meals, even getting a small table and television installed in the bathroom I was confined in.

My daughter was a different story. Eight years old now, and no amount of explaining could make her understand how much I loved her, even if I wasn't always there. I didn't know how embarrassed she was of me until a teacher called to let me know she'd been telling all her friends that I was dead. I made an effort to sit with her in the kitchen to ask why she'd do that, but all she'd said is that "I might as well be."

And she was right.

I wasn't taking care of my family anymore. They had enough money put away that they didn't need me to work. I was just a burden, and just like the cracks, I was growing bigger everyday. Some nights I wouldn't leave the bathroom to go to bed, and I could hear my wife crying through the wall between us. I tried pushing myself harder, willing myself through the emptiness - it wasn't any good. They cut through me like a knife, froze me to my core, shredding bone and sinew and stitching me back together so seamlessly that there was nothing but the memory of that pain to remind me of my torment.

I was ready for this to be over. I just didn't know it until I heard the words out of my daughter's mouth as she pressed against the other side of the bathroom door.

"You can leave whenever you want."

"Yes," I told her. "I'm ready."

"All you've got to do is throw yourself into a big one," she said. "You'll be out."

She knew about them? I jumped up and flung open the door. She wasn't there. I raced down the hall, shouting her name, forcing myself through each searing darkness that severed my mind and body, heart and soul. There she was, standing outside next to the biggest abyss I had ever seen. A wall of darkness, ten feet across and ripping through the air above like a skyscraper. I could feel the call of that emptiness, whispering to me, beckoning me, a promise of freedom and release that a lifetime of memories could not dissuade.

"Just do it already. You've been here long enough," she said.

But I was afraid. Even this far away from the blackness, I could remember how those dark talons would feel as they rend my body. Would there be anything left of me to come out the other side? It was big enough that I didn't have to come out at all. I could step in and be gone. It's what my daughter wanted. So did my wife, if only she had the courage to admit it. And maybe it's what I wanted to, but on my knees before all of creation and its antithesis, I was afraid.

"It's easy. Just follow me." I tried to stop her. Air dragging through my lungs, feet stumbling and twisting beneath me, lunging desperate grab - I tried to stop her from entering that blackness. But she was gone, and there was no choice but to follow. Into the looming void I plunged, screaming without sound, bleeding without wounds - disintegrating into nothing -

And then I opened my eyes. I was reclining in a padded chair like they have at the dentist office. Three men were standing over me. A plethora of beeping machines, IV lines, and heart-rate monitors cluttered the room to either side.

"Well?" one of the men asked. "How was it?"

"You were out for almost an hour."

I couldn't answer. There was nothing left of me to answer.

"We kept sending signals telling you it was okay to leave," another man said. "Didn't you get them?"

I closed my eyes and took a long breath. Life 2.0 still has some bugs, but they told me they figured out how to fix most of the cracks if I wanted to go again. It's going to be ready for the market soon, they said. People are going to love it, they said.

"Did you notice anything else that needs fixing?" they asked me.

"Just in this world," I replied.

[feywildrp]

THE DAYTRIPPER // Yvette Taylor. Unaligned human, graduate student.               Born in 1995. Living at the Ludlow, Apt. 01B.

“I'd like to make myself believe that planet earth turns slowly. It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep ’cause everything is never as it seems. Leave my door open just a crack, please take me away from here.” —Owl City, Fireflies.

KNOWN TRAITS // Imaginative, altruistic, exhausted, guilty, nostalgic.

Falling asleep, uncounted threads of cotton sheets, stuffed animal tucked in, too. Waffles warm with syrup in the morning. Falling asleep. Cold sweats and dark figures in the shadows. Sleepless nights. The way even the moon cracks. Falling asleep, down blankets and the comfort of a salt lamp. Real piano music threads a labyrinth of dreams, bringing guidance and control. The way the moon always fills. Sleeping nights and welcoming mornings.

History

⇢ Trigger warnings: blood, slight gore, death mentions.

Yvette was born an only child, and in some ways, this alone would mark her whole life. Both of her parents wanted her very badly but had difficulty conceiving; it was particularly hard on them because each had large families with many siblings and cousins. Yvette was their second attempt at in vitro fertilization and had to be their last due to the cost, but she was born bouncing and healthy. From a young age, her professor parents instilled in her strong ethics, a love of the classics, and the pressure that comes from having all of their hopes and dreams pinned on her. Yvette’s life was half-planned before she could walk. The trouble was, each parent had planned a half and neither could reconcile their parenting goals with the other. As lovers became parents, what began as growing pains developed into accusations and dissatisfactions behind closed doors. Yvette, for her part, remembers an idyllic childhood. Yes, there was the ever-present drive to do well academically, but apart from that she was spared from the tension that pulled at the edges of her life. That is, until the heat wave of June 2008, when Yvette went for a walk through Washington Square Park. Without thinking too much of it through the mirage of heat, she walked over a manhole cover—and found herself in another world of glittering snow and a frozen sun.

There among the icicles was a woman, dipping her beanie into a pool of blood and putting the hat back onto her head before kicking a body into a shallow grave at the foot of a tall birch tree. Frightened, Yvette hid, barely breathing, until the woman left. Then she ran farther into the woods, hearing the voices of her family but seeing them nowhere, until finally she saw another person open a shimmering circle in the air and a different person step through it. This was it: Yvette had to be dreaming. There was no other answer. When those two had left, Yvette went through the remains of the portal and came back to New York; a puppy followed behind her. She was only gone for about a full day, long enough to panic her parents but short enough not to make news reports, yet this became the match for the kindling of her parents’ marriage. Her vanishing was the source of a lot of blame and resentment, causing her parents to divorce and the family to splinter. Her new dog was a solace, if a surprise; Yvette called it Fido as a joke, but the name stuck as her parents let her keep it. It didn’t matter that she’d come home: she found she lost the home she’d meant to return to and it made her forever preoccupied with whatever dream world she’d once discovered. Turned escapist ever since, Yvette has mastered the ability to lucid dream.

Occupation

Full time graduate student: psychology.

As of fall semester 2017, Yvette is a graduate student in NYU’s General Psychology MA program. Although her family is still fractured, she never stopped seeking their approval and academia continued to be a way to get it. As a result of her history, Yvette has a particular interest in the focus of cognition/perception and hopes to explore dream and sleep therapy, including the effects of hypnosis on patients when used for dream recall.

Connections

Queen Lacha: Though Yvette remains entirely unaware of this complication, Fido is, in truth, a magical Irish wolfhound named Failinis who belongs to the Queen of the Unseelie. Yvette just thinks it’s a miniature wolfhound, not thinking overmuch about how it hasn’t really grown ever since the pup followed her home that fateful day.

Rowan: Also unknown to Yvette, Rowan is the woman she encountered burying a body in the Wandering Wood that day before she followed an unknown Player back into the human realm. Though they share no true connection, confirmation of the reality of that world might be a terrible—or wondrous—pill for Yvette to swallow.

Tyler & Benji: Two other students who also started NYU graduate programs the same semester she did, Yvette has crossed paths with both boys before during university seminars and events. She isn’t close with either of them, but in this strange new world Yvette is about to find herself in, they might just become unlikely lifelines.

PLAYLIST 1. Have You Ever // 2. Happy to Be Here // 3. Fireflies

Yvette is portrayed by Chloe Bennet. The faceclaim is NEGOTIABLE. Yvette is currently TAKEN by Kel and not available for application.