#does he recognize something in it even in his own hallucinations and paranoia?

[fix-me-sixteen]

sotr spoilers

is he looking at the flint striker? is he. looking. at the flint striker? is he looking at the flint striker? is he looking at the flint striker? is he looking at the flint striker? IS HE LOOKING AT THE FLINT STRIKER? IS! HE! LOOKING! AT! THE! FLINT! STRIKER!

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Spencer Reid / Uncertainties

Prompt: Kissing tears away 

Summary: Everyone is afraid of the uncertain, but no one more than a man of facts and statistics -- Dr. Spencer Reid.

Word Count: 1,870

Warnings: Angst + Fluff, comforting, Spencer’s headaches, this man deserves love, mentions of mental illness (schizophrenia), I make a doctor who reference lmao

Spencer Reid was a man of many thoughts. And that was a clear understatement. 

A lot of his thoughts were spoken — facts given freely, statistics that spewed from his mouth, and certainties conveyed without a bit uncertainty. But these were facts, facts he had surrounded himself in carefully constructed walls, buildings, and bridges, until it became a labyrinth. A perfect solitude of his own making — certainties were certain, unlike most things in his life. 

Including you. 

"Spence, can I sit with you?" His eyes flitted up from the book he was reading, finding you sitting before he even had a chance to open his mouth. 

"Doesn't look like I have much of a choice," but he smiles, and your eyes twinkle at his teasing. 

"Why wait when I know the answer is yes?" 

And you were right. The answer was always yes when it came to you — that much was certain. At least according to Morgan and Garcia. 

"Why aren't you in your office?" You crossed your arms, brow creased in frustration. 

You sigh dramatically, "Penelope brought her boyfriend by and now they have completely taken over my space," Pout, as you rest your chin against your hand, "it's fine because it's Pen, but it's just a little nauseating to be around a couple that often. I think he’s spent more time there in the last week than I have in the last month." 

He snorts, "I didn't know love caused nausea," the corner of his mouth twitches, and you roll your eyes. 

"It does when you're painfully single," you sigh dramatically, shaking your head, “Side-effects include nausea, fake vomiting, and contemplation and eventual purchase of noise canceling headphones. Only cure in my case — a date.” 

"Then get a date?" He offers. The words left his mouth without a second thought, ignoring the twinge in his chest at the thought of you with someone else. 

You raise a brow, "You offering, Doctor?" 

He blinks, a heat climbing his neck, and he's all too painfully aware of how your eyes linger on the blush that's undoubtedly spread across his cheeks and the graze of your teeth against your bottom lip. 

"I-I-" but you wave him off. 

"It's okay, Spence," you begin to get up, but the question remains very much in the air, an albatross wrapped around his neck, squeezing and squeezing. 

"Wait," he says your name, giving you pause as he licks his incredibly dry lips, "I am," he manages, heart beating against his ribs, "offering that is." 

The indelible tension becomes even more unbearable as you blatantly stare at him, becoming more and more difficult not to tug at the collar of his button up — regretting the choice of a sweater vest combo with how unbearably hot its become. 

But then your face lights up, eyes wide and lips broken in an unabashed grin, "What time?" 

Maybe he shouldn’t have offered. Maybe he shouldn’t have listened to that small voice in the back of his head, that sounded awfully like Morgan, to take a chance. Because then he wouldn’t have learned that you majored in Linguistics and English Literature. He wouldn’t have learned that your undergraduate thesis was on the parallels of  Beowulf and Tolkien and the meaning of brotherhood. He wouldn’t have learned that your nose wrinkles very adorably when you try a new dish. He wouldn’t have learned that he liked how your voice got louder when you were passionate. He wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. 

But he was, he realized one morning, as your fingers carded through his thick curls one afternoon, hoping that the dreaded phone call wouldn’t come and interrupt your dinner plans tonight. You hummed and gasped appropriately as you listened to him read a new book you had picked up (as it was your turn to choose a book for the two of you to read this week). And it was when you had plucked the book from his hands, peering down at him, his head against your legs, with a soft smile and wide eyes, he realized that he didn’t remember a single moment of his life that had felt so right. 

Until it didn't. 

He knew the symptoms. Sensitivity to light. Persistent headaches. An inability to focus. Irritability. Hallucinations. And he knew the odds. His leg bounced up and down in the waiting room — the one time facts did not play to his advantage — eyes squeezed shut. Soon, he would begin to forget things. Become confused or delusional. And he would lose one of the only things he felt that had some control over — his mind. Pain splintered through his head, as yet another doctor called him in for his results. 

Inconclusive, again. The fifth doctor to have run a litany of tests on him: physical, emotional, and psychological — but no cause. 

He doesn’t remember the doctor’s name, her introduction stymied by the red hot throbbing in his frontal cortex, “Do you have anyone to support you during this time?” his fingers dug into his forearms. 

“I do,” he manages, and he can almost feel your touch, your presence, as if you were here. Your arms wrapped around him, chin pressed into his shoulder, but your eyes — eyes full of pity. He still hadn’t told you. 

But it didn’t mean you hadn’t noticed. 

"Spencer," you wave your hand in front of his face, and he looks up from his book, "I've been calling your name for five minutes." 

"Sorry, I was reading," he murmurs, sliding his bookmark into his book, shutting the book in his lap, "what's wrong?" 

Your brow furrowed, arms crossed across your chest, "I should be asking you that," 

"What is that supposed to mean?" He knew he was wrong — he knew he had been short, that he had been angry, that he had been silent, but he didn't care. He couldn't find the energy to. All he could think about was the dull ache in his head, the echoing in his ears, the fear thrumming through his body, possibilities running over and over and over— 

"Spencer," you ease the book through his fingers, "I know you — you would have blown through this entire book by now, but you've been reading the same page for the last half hour." 

He snatches the book from your hand, hardback clattering against the floor, "You don't know anything," 

"Spencer—" 

"No, no—" he holds his voice steady, holding the fracturing pieces of his facade together, "just leave." 

"I'm not leaving you," your voice cracks, not bothering to hide your hurt, "not until you tell me what's going on." 

He looks up and sees your gaze waver. And he hates himself. He hates himself for hurting you. He hates himself for allowing himself to love you. He should have learned his lesson. He should have learned when his parents separated, when his mom’s delusions and paranoia turned her from the woman who read him stories of knights to a woman who barely remembered her own name. He hates himself for being too weak to break up with you.

“Do you know what it’s like to be afraid of your own mind?” he whispers, the dull ache in his brain quelling for a moment, the tightness in his chest replacing it.

You blink, eyes glassy, sliding in place beside him, his eyes falling to his lap, “Why would you be afraid of something so beautiful?” 

“Because I don’t know what it’s going to become,” he cradles his head in his hands, “I’ve been having headaches. Consistently. I can’t focus. I can’t sleep. I am...hearing things that are not there. I—” 

“Spencer,” you whisper, “why didn’t you tell me before?” 

He laughs, the sound hollow in his chest, “What is there to tell? Doctors can’t tell me what this is. They can’t tell me if it’s—-” he breaks off, and he refuses to look up. He refuses to see the pity in your eyes — the fear. 

“Baby, you don’t know what this even is right now, we—” 

“What else could it be?” he snaps, ringlets of pain coursing through his head, “I know the chances. I’ve known the chances since I was seven, when I found out my mother had schizophrenia when I overheard my parents arguing again. I’m the same age as she was when she first started showing symptoms.” 

Schizophrenia. The word hangs over the conversation like it has hung over him his entire life. A part of him thought maybe, somehow, if he was smart enough, even if he had it, he could outsmart it — maybe he could overcome it. But a few weeks of these headaches any delusions of grandeur — except for the ones yet to come, “Spencer, even if it is schizophrenia, it is treatable. It is manageable with medication and proper treatment. More importantly, no matter the odds, no matter what this is, I’m going to be there—” 

“Until you’re not,” 

“Spencer,” 

“You don’t know what it’s like,” His words are soft, as he remembers the warmth of his mother, curled up beside him, her soft voice reading stories of Arthur and his round table, “to watch someone you love become someone else — someone you don’t even recognize anymore. Someone angry, someone paranoid.” 

“I don’t know what it’s like, Spencer, I’m sorry, but I know I’d never leave you. Even if you become someone else, even if I lose you altogether — I love you. For who you are, and you will become,” you reach for his face, but he turns away, licking his lips, “I always will.” 

“Nothing is certain,” he sighs, running his hands down his face, “But I know I can’t make you do this—” 

“Spencer, please,” you lean down, prying his fingers away from his face, and forcing him to look at you — tears running down your cheeks freely, your nose wrinkling as you sniffled, “shut up.” 

“I—” 

“I know nothing is certain — nothing ever is. But this is how I feel right now, in this moment,” you draw closer, and he allows you to — taking solace in your closeness and warmth. Your lips brush against his forehead,  “We will figure this out, together.” 

A tear slips down his cheek, and he squeezes his eyes shut, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to—” 

“I don’t have to do anything,” you press a kiss to his cheek, right as the tear rolls down, “and I never do anything I don’t want to,” the corners of your mouth tug at your lips, “remember the Doctor Who convention?” 

“I remember compromising my choice,” you laugh. 

“And I remember you being the cutest David Tennant ever,” his fingers brush away the streaks of tears left behind on your cheeks, “I don’t need to have a Tardis to know we are going to get through this.” 

“Well, actually—” you raise an eyebrow, and he smiles. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too,” his hands cup your cheeks now, breath fanning against your lips, as he kisses you. Tears roll over his fingers, as your fingers rest over his own, “and that is a certainty.”

[wherevermyway]

beside you in time // seungbin // horror // 16+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

⚠ POTENTIAL TW: READ WITH CAUTION! ⚠ pairing: seo changbin x kim seungmin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: major character death, mental instability, paranoia, insomnia, suicide, character study.  word count: 2,148 also on AO3

originally posted: 17 february 2021

"Come back to me."

Things always got bad from hours twenty-four to thirty-six. From thirty-six to forty-eight, however, was more akin to running a chainsaw through an industrial-sized tin of diced tomatoes.

There was always one person that kept Changbin grounded, however.

"Come back to me, Changbin."

And that person was Seungmin. Seungmin was always there to guide him back to some semblance of normalcy.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are  interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do  not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of  the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable,  please stop reading now.

“Come back to me.

I just want you to come back to me. Not this shell of you, but the whole you.

The entirety of you. The old you.

Come back, Cha—”

31 October 2005 Monday

—

It was Monday. Monday at midnight. Changbin stared at the bright red of his alarm clock, staring the 00:00 directly in between the empty spaces of the square zeroes.

It was the staring contest he had every night.

Right on schedule, he lifted himself out of bed, sliding his feet against the cold wood of his bedroom floor, careful to not make any noise so that he didn’t disturb his boyfriend. Quietly, he slipped his way around the floor, out of the open doorway and into the kitchen. He flipped the switch on the wall, the halogen lamp flickering four times exactly before its sickeningly bluish rays illuminated the off-white kitchen walls and the grey cabinets.

Changbin took a step forward: the sink on his left-hand side, the stove on his right-hand side. He stared at the white wall in front of him, his expression empty as he stared at twenty-nine red Xs marked through each day prior. His left hand reached out to the drawer, not breaking his gaze from the calendar as he rummaged through until he recognized the way the red permanent marker felt in his hand. He continued to eye Sunday, as if it was prey, and his permanent marker was the hunter.

He licked his lip, biting it as he removed the cap from the marker, taking a few steps forward until he was face-to-face with his archnemesis: the constant reminder that time was limited, that he couldn’t even fucking remember what day it was without the stupid fucking calendar staring at him in the face.

Two diagonal lines from end-to-end of the damned square.

The 30th of October could join the twenty-nine days prior in hell.

Changbin paced around the living room, his footprints brushing over the rug in the middle of the room, leaving worn treads in its fabric. This was his routine as he waited for Seungmin to come home. He wasn’t able to focus on anything for too long before—

Time, time, time.

“Would you fucking shut up? I just told you to leave me alone.”

Before the voices came back.

Changbin knew he sounded unstable as he shouted to himself in the empty living room. He couldn’t stop it, though. The words always left his lips before he could stop himself from saying them.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Things always got bad from hours twenty-four to thirty-six. From thirty-six to forty-eight, however, was more akin to running a chainsaw through an industrial-sized tin of diced tomatoes.

“Just stop, just fucking stop.”

He knew eyes were watching him, he could feel the stares boring into the back of his skull, eyes running all over him. Changbin gripped at the tops of his shoulders, repeating to himself that he wouldn’t turn around — he couldn’t turn around.

“Go away,” he whispered into the crooks of his elbows as he embraced himself, “go away, just go away.”

Why are you here? Fade away, Changbin.

The creaking of the floorboards startled him, unsure if it was his mind lying to himself, creating something that wasn’t there.

Tick—

“Changbin.”

But there was someone there. The energy that came from the words was different, warmer than the way the other voices that circled his mind. The voices floating in his head were never so—

“Come back to me, Changbin.”

There he was, right in front of his face. Seungmin was tangible, unlike the hallucinations in his head. Changbin hadn’t slept in days, yet Seungmin somehow looked far more fatigued than him.

“I’m so sorry, Seungmin, I just—”

“I know,” Seungmin sighed, gently dancing his fingertips against Changbin’s clammy skin. He was gentle as he pulled the shaking man into his arms, and even gentler as they sank to the ground together. “We need to get you back on your medication. Get you back to who you used to be before everything got bad again.”

“No,” Changbin shook his head against the younger man’s chest, “you know what happened the last time they put me on those fucking pills. I can’t lose myself again.”

Seungmin gently stroked the top of Changbin’s head, shushing him and rubbing small circles in between his shoulder blades. “Okay, okay,” he relented, his voice quiet and calm. “We can talk about it more later. Does that sound okay?”

Changbin nodded once, grabbing at Seungmin’s woollen sweater, hiding his face away from the world. “I just don’t want you to leave me because I’m losing it.”

A quiet chuckle came from Seungmin before he pressed a quick kiss to the top of Changbin’s head. “I’m never gonna leave you, baby. I love you. I’ll be here with you until the end of time.”

“You promise?”

“Always.”

14 November 2005 Monday

—

Until the end of time. Always.

Seungmin’s voice was soft as it echoed in Changbin’s head, pulling him from the darkness.

It was Monday. Monday at… nine in the morning?

Time, time, time.

Changbin rubbed his eyes, starting to hyperventilate as he stared at the clock. He turned to the side of his bed, expecting to see Seungmin there, but there was nothing but wrinkled sheets in his place.

“Work,” he muttered to himself. Seungmin had to be at work. It was Monday, which meant that Seungmin was back in the clinic. His breathing calmed down as he mentally prepared himself for another day. He would get through the next few hours until Seungmin got home.

Changbin haphazardly made his way to his feet, his footsteps padding against the cold wooden floor. His footsteps were so loud, echoing against the empty walls of his apartment. He flipped the light switch at the entrance of the kitchen, letting the halogen lamp flicker four times before it steadied itself.

No.

Changbin’s eyes went wide as he stared at the calendar, red Xs missing from the days prior. He stared over the entire month of November before he ripped the calendar off of the wall, rapidly flipping through every page of every month, trying to check for the marks through his days.

Nothing.

From January to November, there were no marks, not a single mark through any of the days he had lived through.

Tick, tock.

Changbin dropped the calendar, letting it collide against the floor as he ran to the landline they kept in the living room. Seungmin would reassure him that, yes, the marks were on each day, that this was just his brain playing tricks on him yet again.

His fingers trembled as he entered seven digits into the phone, the number of Seungmin’s clinic the only thing he could keep memorised after all of these years. Changbin called him at least twice a day whenever Seungmin was at work, often many times more.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

“What?”

Changbin shook his head, staring down at the phone as a dial tone filled the air. It was possible he had made a mistake, sure, fumbled with the wrong numbers since his hands were shaking, but—

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

It had to be a lie.

The number you have dialed is no longer in existence.

The tick you have tocked is—

He threw the phone at the wall, the cheap plastic shattering as it collided against the drywall. Changbin screamed at the top of his lungs, tears falling from his eyes as he tugged desperately at his hair.

Why wasn’t Seungmin’s line working?

He needed Seungmin, but he couldn’t—

“I love you, Seungmin,” his own voice echoed in his ears, the voice trembling and shaking like a small child.

“Seungmin, come back to me.” Changbin blinked once and saw a wrecked car in front of him, blood splattered against broken glass.

He stared at the accident, the car totalled up against a brick wall, another severely damaged car in the distance. The car he was staring at was familiar, the shouting of the voice haunting him as he approached. With his breath hitched in his throat, he stepped closer and closer to the front of the car, each step allowing him to make more and more sense of the wreckage behind the spiderwebbed windshield.

“Come back to me,” the voice pleaded again.

Changbin’s voice. Changbin’s very broken, raw voice.

“Seungmin, please, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—”

Blood. There was so much blood all over the inside of the car, all over Changbin and all over Seungmin. He stepped backwards, nearly colliding against the asphalt as he recoiled in terror, the memories of that day flooding his head.

Can’t go through this again. Can’t.

Changbin looked down to his hands as he shook in fear, his hands caked in rapidly-drying blood that was turning from crimson to brown. The scent of copper lingered in his nostrils as he shook his head, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Again.

Come back to me, Seungmin.

Let me go, Seung—

Changbin blinked his eyes rapidly until he was back in his apartment, warm arms wrapped around his torso. He stared at the broken plastic littering the floor and simply felt nothing, like the switch to his emotions in his brain had been turned off.

“Come back to me.” Seungmin’s voice was so gentle, so soft in his ear. “It’s time for you to wake up and come back to me, Changbin.”

The switch was ripped off of the wall, there were no emotions to feel anymore.

“Let me go, Seungmin,” he weakly whispered, reaching up to the arms that weren’t there, yet still felt so real.

“Come back to me,” the voice was louder as Changbin lifted himself up off of the floor, haunted by the way that the ghost of Seungmin’s touch lingered on his skin.

He slid his feet against the bare wood floor, unable to register that the smooth texture was cold, only recalling it in memory. Like an empty shell of a human, he drifted into the kitchen, where Seungmin stood in front of the wall, calendar in his hands.

“It’s Monday,” he whispered, pointing at the date. “The thirteenth of November. You wondered why there were no marks, right?”

“Leave me alone, Seungmin,” Changbin’s voice was weak, his voice expressionless as he stared forward.

“It’s time to wake up, Changbin. It’s not 2005.”

Can’t go through this again.

“You know it’s not 2005. You’ve been wading through this year like it didn’t exist.”

Life and death, teetering on the edge of it for a year straight. It was ironic, really, that Changbin only slept on the anniversary of the day that he killed Seungmin.

It was an accident.

“It was an accident. You should have been on your medication again.” Seungmin repeated, as if he could hear Changbin’s thoughts. “But every action has a reaction. You know this. You cost me my fucking life.”

Changbin snatched the calendar from Seungmin’s grasp, ripping each page from the calendar and letting them scatter about the floor. Alone he stood, like some fucked up sculpture in the midst of chaos — the chaos of three hundred and sixty fucking five days staring right back up at him, laughing and taunting and driving him insane.

“Come back to me,” Seungmin took a step forward, grabbing the sides of Changbin’s face and pulling him in to kiss his forehead. “Wake up and come back to me, Cha—”

Changbin reached his right arm out, until his hand wrapped around the handle of his chef’s knife, pulling it from the block.

“Make it all stop,” Seungmin taunted. “Come back to me, be with me forever in time, right where you belong, and it’ll stop.”

A tear rolled down Changbin’s empty face as he stared forward, at the empty wall. Seungmin wasn’t there, but it felt like he was there. “I’m so sorry, Seungmin. I loved you so much, I loved you and I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

A cold hand wrapped around Changbin’s hand, helping him bring the knife to his own throat. “I know you are,” his voice was soft, soothing. “And I still love you. So, make it stop. Your time is running out.”

Time, time, time.

“Tick, tock, Changbin. Make up your mind.”

Sweat started to bead in Changbin’s palm as he whispered endless apologies. Tears streamed down his face, his eyes clamped tightly shut as he quickly undid the flesh of his throat with the knife in his hand.

Come back to me.

There was a thud.

Come back to me, Changbin.

The white wall of the kitchen was stained in splatters.

Come back—

The days of the calendar were finally marked in red.

“Changbin—”

Keys fell to the floor.

[the-family-fortune]

Earlier today Cali asked me quite possibly the worst thing you CAN ask me

And boy howdy did I have some thoughts. 

idk if ive mentioned it here before or not but I have a lot of feelings about the idea of redemption in psy2. I LIKE the idea that no one is beyond redemption, that people can be good and that we are all, at our core, just hurting. and those are the themes that psychonauts plays with. mental illnesses that are seen as "scary" like the inmates (though the inmates themselves are rarely presented as scary, with maybe the exception of Edgar because he's just. huge.) - bipolar mood swings with inexplicable rage, Edgar's anger issues and sheer strength combined into an intimidating figure, and the stigma of multiple personalities like how Fred acts meek one second and then on the warpath the next when he "switches". All of these oooh scary mental illnesses are literally just people grappling with trauma. Edgar's OCD and the trauma from high school, Fred's... weird genetic memory issues, and Gloria's inner critic and the death of her mother. These things are like, Normal People Problems (sorry fred idk what the fuck is up with u buddy ur on another level all together) and really contextualize the inmates' mental illness in a way that emphasizes the main theme of empathy. 

I intentionally leave Boyd out of this because while the root of his mental illness is schizoaffective paranoia, his ROLE as the Milkman and in fact his entire mindscape is the product of Oleander's hypnosis.

So like, I VIBE WITH THAT, its a really really interesting take on the conversation about mental illness and how these things do not make people inherently bad or scary!!

But I feel like, BASED ON WHAT WE KNOW RIGHT NOW, that the Galochios - or, at the very least, Zalto on his own - fall into a different kind of category.

The Galochios from the start are jealous people. They're jealous of the Aquato's fame and think that they deserve more recognition which in and of itself isn't a bad thing per se - wanting to feel appreciated and recognized and seen is just a basic human desire, I think. But jealousy isnt a mental illness. Jealousy is a natural human emotion that we, as rational and empathetic people, must make the conscious choice to deal with in healthy ways. The Galochios don't, and they let that consume them from the start - where they allow themselves to hate the Aquatos for their fame, where they allow themselves to ostracize Marona, where they drive her out of the family and where they attempt to drag her back, it's not the product of mental illness destroying relationships like someone in Edgar's position might experience, but pure pride and jealousy directed towards the Aquato family.

And like from there its just all downhill

And I could argue that from this point things compound to create a mental landscape that maybe isnt the picture of health in the Galochios, because grief can really, really fuck you up, and regardless of how they acted, losing a daughter or a sister when Marona died, could not have been easy.

But I cannot read "the Galochios crowded around the tank to gleefully watch Lazarus's decapitation" and be like "aw they're just hurting 8(" because mental illness is not synonymous with undue cruelty.

Like the Galochios at every turn are presented with A Choice and by god they're determined to make the wrong one. Whether or not this is motivated by grief or jealousy or whatever doesnt matter, because even when you are mentally ill it is still the bare minimum to not gleefully watch someone you dont like get decapitated, u know?

That is, I think, them consumed by jealousy and hate and seeing nothing wrong with it because it benefits them and hurts people they dont like. Thats. that's not mental illness that's just being an asshole

So while I absoLUTEly vibe with Psychonaut's theme of empathy and compassion and understanding that mental illness isnt bad or scary, and that we're all struggling with something, I think that narrative has two sides to it, and the same way that "we're all struggling with something" lends to the idea that we need to extend compassion to others, the Galochios being so stubbornly cruel as to be irredeemable in the narrative of psychonauts two lends to the equally important theme of "but you can not sacrifice yourself for people who do not WANT help"

Because of the nature of the things the Galochios have done (and perhaps, are still doing, as we move into the secrets behind the RoR and Psy2 narrative) I think that it would take a LOT. A LOT. for the writing to pass off a Galochio redemption in a meaningful and complete way, because of the nature of the choices they make. From what I know about them right now, these are not the actions of people who are... hallucinating grandeur or some greater purpose who believe in some hidden agenda like Boyd. From what I can gather and what we already know about the Galochio backstory, this is just the kind of people they are. 

 Now, taking into account Zalto specifically, I can without a doubt see him having some major psychological damage. Like I said earlier, grief can really, really fuck you up, and Zalto experienced more grief than reasonable, all at once, with the tank accident. He was already not the most stable person. ("But Daisy!" I hear you cry, "Augustus lost his entire family in a year and didn't snap like that!" True but look me in the eye and tell me you think he's coped with it in a healthy manner. Augustus experienced unreasonable amounts of grief and as a result his ten year old thinks he wants him dead.)

So if that turns out to be the case, and we see a level where we actually do deal with that grief in a healthy way (which imo would be very interesting to see the trauma of grief treated the same as mental illness - even though we all experience grief at some point, sooooome of us dont quite take it as well as others, whoops!) we could see the baseline path to a Zalto redemption.

But really it all boils down to responsibility for their actions and how they handle their trauma and the fact that eight Aquatos were murdered does not automatically become sympathetic because Zalto was dealing with grief. I personally, would be really interested to see the Galochios as villains end the game as villains and for that stubbornness and unwillingness to accept empathy or help be shown as their downfall, because irl its incredibly unhealthy and self-destructive to refuse help or refuse to SEEK help when you very clearly know that something is hurting you, and that you are in turn hurting others.

I also REALLY don't want them to be given the Oleander treatment.

As much as I love Oleander, I feel like a lot about his character was mismanaged, and he was turned into comedic relief in RoR.

like. A lot of my thoughts on the psy2 narrative as a whole relies heavily on the li-po document of course but the story that we were given IN psy1 vs the story that we are told in the document are so STARKLY different.

"Oleander wants to take over the world because he's angry at tall people from that time from that time his dad killed his bunny, which traumatized him" is NOT the same as "Oleander spent his formative years FIRMLY BELIEVING that his father saw him as a burden because he was small, thought he was nothing better than pig slop, and witnessed the death of an animal that he had a psychic connection to, after which he spent his entire life attempting to make his father proud only to be rejected by every branch of the military. By the time he was finally a Psychonaut and felt he would be able to make his father proud despite his stature, both of his parents died horribly in a meat grinder accident while he was away training." 

 NOT THE SAME HOLY SHIT.

Oleander had so much POTENTIAL but he was kinda shoehorned into a very two-dimensional role. Idk if it was because of budget or time or what, because the production of psy1 was very..... not great. But its absolutely a SHAME to see such a heartbreaking backstory reduced to "short and angry about it"

And it absolutely cheapens his redemption, too.

The fact that Oleander's story was so heavily pruned COMBINED with the fact that - while it's hinted at in game, its honestly INSANELY difficult to put two and two together imo because of how its presented, Ford outright tells us that Oleander's assignment to whispering Rock was the cause of his mental break (the camp sits on a motherload of psitanium. It makes psychics more psychics, and unstable people more unstable.")

that's never once brought into the resolution of Oleander's character arch and the processing of his trauma and how the psychonauts directly contributed to his deteriorating mental state that led him to try and take over the world because they so deeply misunderstand psitanium but decided to build a kids summer camp training facility on top of it

thats like... early experimentation with nuclear materials before we understood the dangers of radiation. Not to stay topical or anything, but its a clearly dangerous substance that the Psychonauts treat very blase.

But to get back on track there, I really hope that if the Galochios DO receive a redemption arc in psy2, which seems likely given the overarching theme of the games themselves even extending to Loboto of all people... I hope they don't butcher it like they did with Oleander's. Given that they've had five years and a LOT more experience with this genre and its storytelling conventions (plus the fact that they're just excellent storytellers to begin with) I have a cautious optimism that whatever happens with the Galochios it will at least be a satisfying conclusion. (For comparison, Oleander's butchered redemption is still kinda held together by the satisfying conclusion of the game, in which Raz actually becomes a Psychonaut so that isnt to say that psy1 didnt have a satisfying conclusion) 

and at this point im sure you're regretting telling me to talk as much as i want because if there's one thing you ought to know about me by now its that i never shut up about the Galochios and honestly I've had a lot of thoughts about them and the themes of Psychonauts and the general structure of storytelling in the Psychonauts games overall.

As for the Galochio family themselves, I'm fascinated to see exactly who survived and what the power structure of the remaining Galochios is. If Zalto makes the final cut, I want VERY badly to know how he treats his family and if his anger has kinda pervaded what was probably a long time ago a relatively tight knit family. I want to see the individuals involved in this, how far they're each willing to go and where that lies in relation to Zalto. Like everyone has their moral limits, and if Zalto is utterly consumed by his goal to either obliterate the Aquatos or resurrect his family (shudder) his tolerance for atrocities may be much higher than that of his family members, which would automatically sow dissonance within the family when one by one people start deciding this is too much, this is too far, we cant keep doing this.

[mimicksyou]

a little drabble for @5minutetorture 

Weary   bones   ache   for   some   form   of   rest   as   body   continues   to   run   on   fumes.   One   foot   after   another,   feet   ache,   shoes   soaked   with   gore   of   the   devout   of   the   Walrider.   Miller   is   certain   his   companion   shares   his   sentiment.   A   silent   understanding   that   they   couldn’t   go   on   like   this,   and   even   if   they   could,   they   didn’t   want   to.   A   hushes   tone   erupts   the   tense   silence   as   he   scopes   out   a   room,   slips   his   fingers   between   Jeremy’s   own   as   he   meanders   along.   The   buck   guiding   the   wolf,   gently.

“--This   way.”  

Eyes   catch   something   with   ease   in   the   flush   of   darkness   that   swallows   them.   Something   to   be   barricaded,   a   heavy   metal   barred   object,   seemingly   previously   pressed   in   front   of   the   door   to   secure   another   inside.   A   new   lock   for   a   moment   of   reprieve   that   they’ve   more   than   earned.   They   take   what   they   can   get.   Still,   Miller   pants   softly,   struggling   to   catch   his   breath.   The   sorely   missed   meals   and   memory   of   the   slop   taunting   him   as   his   body   aches   for   anything   to   eat.   Knowing   full   well   he   will   find   nothing   of   interest   in   the   room,   save   for   the   bed,   he   lurches   forward   slowly   and   slumps   to   the   mattress.   Relinquishing   the   hand   of   the   other   in   the   process,   and   feeling   the   heat   leave   his   hand   with   a   softened   pang   he   smothers.

The   tiny   bed   creaks   in   protest   as   he   settles   upon   it.   Not   a   word   spoken   between   them,   they   know   the   routine   already   and   there’s   nothing   to   say.   Paranoia   plays   upon   the   shorter   man’s   nerves   as   his   fried   mind   fumbles   for   meaning   through   the   hysteria   of   the   situation.   Itching   and   pulling   at   the   back   of   his   mind,   a   burning   in   his   bones   like   the   buzz   of   a   drill   against   marrow   or   static   in   his   flesh.   Only   stilled   by   the   feeling   of   the   bed   dipping   with   the   weight   of   the   wolf,   mirroring   his   own   position.   Yet,   unlike   Miller,   he   seems   disinterested   in   lingering.   A   cast   glance   over   his   shoulder   and   grey   eyes   try   to   make   out   his   form   in   the   dark,   eyes   flickering   and   fumbling   as   they   adjust   quickly.   It   seemed   there   were   a   few   benefits   to   the   engine,   at   least.

With   all   their   running   through   dark   corridors,   they   had   to   depend   upon   trust   and   be   guided   by   one   or   the   other.   Gave   way   to   silent   conversations   shared   with   subtle   glances   and   the   heat   that   remained   undisturbed   beneath   the   fronts   they   offered.   Both   seemingly   recognizing   it,   yet   ne’er   straying   further   than   the   loop   they   had   started.   Around   and   around   they   went,   one   never   noticing   how   he   strays   ----   or   maybe   it   was   because   they   both   were?   The   words   snarled   by   the   groom   narrowly   avoided   echo   in   his   mind   :   NOBODY   LOVES   YOU,   NOBODY!

With   a   sigh,   he   lays   his   head   down   onto   the   pillow,   trying   not   to   think.   Squeezes   his   eyes   shut   until   he   sees   stars   and   begins   to   relax,   hoping   the   hissing   in   his   mind   would   settle.   Greives   his   loss   of   whatever   sanity   he   had   left,   and   for   the   absence   of   someone   he   could   bay   to   for   reprieve   and   perspective.   He’s   not   sure   how   long   has   passed,   his   sporadic   thoughts   and   drifting   off   before   abrupt   auditory   hallucinations   waking   him   back   up   made   it   difficult   to   determine   how   long   they’d   been   lying   there   together.   Or   how   long   he’d   been   asleep.   Once   more,   eyes   open   and   he   finds   himself   greeted   by   the   unmoving   reminder   of   their   situation.   Had   he   not   been   so   tired,   he   may   have   wept.   All   at   once   all   further   thoughts   had   been   stilled   and   stifled   as   the   mirroring   body   rolls   over,   his   hand   slipping   around   Miller’s   midsection   and   drawing   him   near   with   a   content   exhale   from   his   nose...   Which   is   promptly   buried   into   his   shoulder.

And   he   stills…   Like   doe   in   the   headlights,   he’s   tense,   uncertain.   Yet   his   surprise   was   not   any   sort   of   prudish   behavior,   or   sign   of   his   lack   of   experience.   Heart   thrums   harshly   in   his   ears,   his   face   spreading   warmth   from   cheek   to   ears.   Pale   skin   marked   by   his   own   shock   at   his   hunger   to   relinquish   himself   further   into   his   grip.   Moments   pass   and   he   listens   to   the   soft,   steady   breathing   of   the   other,   feels   the   tender   heat   of   his   breath   against   his   skin.   A   shudder   erupting,   but   not   out   of   lust.   -------------   (   GOD,   HELP   HIM   )

Finally   dares   to   exhale   the   breath   he’s   held   unknowingly,   and   it   comes   out   as   some   shaky,   uncertain   noise,   the   kind   of   sound   that   betrays   how   much   it   meant   to   him   to   be   swept   into   his   arms   with   such   ease.   Knot   forming   in   his   throat,   he   feels   so   light   and   yet   so   heavy   at   the   subtle   realization   of   his   predicament.   The   foolish   doe   did   play   too   long   with   the   wolf   and   now   sought   to   be   more   than   just   a   plaything.   (   BUT   HE   ALWAYS   LIKED   TO   PLAY   WITH   FIRE.   )   Storm   grey   eyes   flutter   closed,   from   one   darkness   into   another   and   he   tries   to   quell   the   rising   tide   in   his   chest.   Another   inhale…   and   then   exhale,   still   quivering   and   slow,   as   if   afraid   to   wake   him.   Breathing   grows   steadier   the   longer   he’s   held,   now   unafraid   of   rousing   his   companion   as   sleep   finally   welcomes   him.   A   final   thought   as   he   drifts   off   at   how   much   this   was   bound   to   hurt.

[mail-me-a-snail]

A Heavy Burden (of Fangs)

Chapter 1: The Burden Tag list: @starl1ght-child tw for: eye horror, mild blood, swearing

Another blot of ink splatters the rim of the bathroom sink. Drip, drip, drip. A drop falls onto his lips; it’s a sickly sweetness, like rotting fruit. That is what has become of Rezyl Azzir, hero of Six Fronts, Twilight Gap, and of the people: he is rotting inside out. His eyes hurt. He’s slept, at most, four hours in the last two days. The breath in his lungs rattles like a ping-pong ball in a tin can. His hands are now unsteady, unable to grip the edges of the sink because of the slick black sludge that coats his fingers.

When he had thrashed his way through his latest nightmare to consciousness, the front of his shirt had already been stained black and the world had tasted just a bit more like rotting pumpkin--that poisonous sweet--than it had usually been when one of these...attacks happened.

He doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror. His eyes, once a hopeful green, have lost their vibrancy. They’re just as grey as the circles under his eyes. Rezyl wipes off as much as the black sludge he can with his calloused knuckles, but it doesn’t go away. It never goes away. It smears and stains--it boasts its permanency. In the first month post Luna, it had never been this bad. His eyes had ached like hell but it had been nothing compared to now.

Now, he couldn’t control it. He couldn’t go outside, not like this. It screamed corruption, just as the tattoo sleeves on his arms do. Once, they had been empty outlines. It being comprised of long, flowing shapes and roses, Rezyl had always thought of it as a river, with roses floating down it.

He’s not sure what to think of it now, when it’s all been filled with a pure black, as if every time these nightmares happen the tears only come so that they fall from to fill them. The roses are gone, choked by the muteness of the color. They’re nothing but blobs of ink now. He had only realized his tattoos were filling when his Ghost had pointed it out. Rezyl had tried to explain it away by saying he spent a bit of glimmer to fill them in--being all too aware of their emptiness and wanting something solid--but that explanation had fallen through when the Ghost had questioned why a half the shapes had been only half filled in.

Rezyl had learned then that his tattoos had become measurements--how much of him was now Theirs? He knows the answer, and has known it every time he takes his shirt off and sees the patterns on his back and arms completely filled in.

He returns to the mirror with reluctance. He glowers at his reflection. His hair is a ghostly white, with the last strands of black standing their ground at the roots like Rezyl had had at Six Fronts. He brushes it out of his face. Every day, the black blot around his eyes and nose spreads bigger and bigger like a Rorschach. The one tonight looks like a rotting tree trunk.

Underneath the grime are the features of Rezyl Azzir: the long nose, the three scars--two arched across his nose, and a smaller one on his temple--the scruffy beard that still retains some of its original darkness, but is slowly fading too. Underneath this smothering burden is the same hero everyone knows and loves.

So, why isn’t it him staring back from the mirror?

You are who we made you to be. Who you wanted to become. Let go, Rezyl Azzir. Let go of this city, of this name--there will be nothing for you here.

“No, no--” He shakes his head, flinging tears this way and that--”I can’t...I won’t.” From an outsider’s perspective, it would seem to them that Rezyl has finally lost it, after two City-wide battles and countless years under the Traveler, to Luna. He speaks to no one in particular, no one that anyone else can see. They speak back.

And he listens and hears:

We are the only ghosts you will ever need.

Someone--something--knocks on the door. He jerks around, the Rose already in his grip, though can he really call it the Rose anymore? What was once silver and grand is now a charred husk, slowly growing to look like it was carved out of sea-weathered stone. Bones adorn its chamber. “Who’s there?” He hisses, leveling his trophy. The pain in his eyes is unbearable--as if he’d go blind at any second.

We are the only eyes you will ever need.

He dares to closes his eyes, just for a moment of respite. “Hold it together, hold it together...” He mutters this mantra under his breath, a prayer he has worn out every night he doesn’t sleep. His prayers often reach the wrong sort of deities.

“Reyl,” the softest mechanical voice says, and yet Rezyl doesn’t falter. He keeps his aim true. “It’s Aster. When I woke up, you were gone. I was worried. Are you alright?”

He lowers the gun. It’s just his Ghost. Of course. He wants to laugh at himself, but it just doesn’t come because of that eternal what if? Logically, there would be no one else in the apartment. It really is just him and Aster most days. What little flings he’s had with Guardians here and there had never truly stuck. It’s more him than them, but that’s neither here nor there.

Of course it’s his Ghost. Is it? It is. It is. It couldn’t be anyone else. No other speaks to him with such bare worry. But this isn’t the first time the Ghost has spoken to him with that kind of tone. The other week, the Ghost had confessed his doubts--how what he has become is not what the Traveler wanted. He had continued confessing, but it had been a little harder to understand him when he had begun talking softer and softer.

When he had asked Aster about his confession the following day, the Ghost hadn’t known what he had been talking about. That was realization number two, and the underlying cause of his paranoia. The conversation had been a hallucination. A nightmare. The point being: it had never happened.

“Are you truly Aster,” he demands, “or is another...another sick manifestation?”

“I--of course I’m Aster,” the Ghost scoffs, but his chirps are concerned. “Rezyl, I’m as real as you are. As that gun is. The Darkness coming off of it--I can’t tell if it’s the gun’s or yours. You have to open the door. Please, let me in. Let me help you with this...this thing you’re fighting. A Guardian can’t fight without his Ghost.”

Rezyl falls silent. His heart beats in his nape and he coughs; it come’s out wet. An ugly, putrid mix of bright red and ink. He kneels and the Rose clatters to the tiles. He is sick and tired and strained and he knows as much, if the blood is anything to go off of. He has to keep it together. He cannot falter so soon, to a sickness of all things.

“Rezyl?” Aster continues, “I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately; you’ve rarely slept or eaten; you take patrols hours at a time without telling me; you don’t talk to me or the Vanguard anymore, let alone other Guardians; you’re obsessed with the Hive. Ever since you adorned their fangs like trophies, you’ve become someone else entirely--”

He coughs again. Each little puff that racks his body makes his head pulse and throb. The fluorescent lights in the bathroom are much too bright. He can’t believe he hasn’t replaced them yet, despite living in this apartment for years. The blood, though it seems too sweet to be called blood, drips down his chin and neck and stains his shirt.

He is dizzy; the room doesn’t stop spinning, no matter how much he begs it to in his head. His heartbeat is erratic, but distant, as if it’s not the heartbeat of the great Rezyl Azzir, who kneels on the bathroom floor, lips and teeth black and tasting, unfortunately, of licorice, a result of the sickness festering in him. It had entered his veins; eventually it would reach his heart...

...and it would beat no more.

“--Rezyl? Are you there?”

The Guardian huffs, shakes his head, then wobbles to his feet. He wipes his mouth. He spits into the sink and turns on the faucet, watching it all go down the drain. He gargles. The tears have stopped. They left behind black lines on his cheeks. He rinses it off, but he knows it’s futile in the long run. They will come back.

But now it is quiet, and Rezyl savours the blessed silence, even if his heart is in his throat. He composes himself. He might be sick, but he is not weak. He is goddamn Rezyl Azzir, champion of Six Fronts, of Twilight Gap, and of the Crucible.  He picks up the pieces and puts them back together.

“I am Rezyl Azzir,” he mutters to himself in confirmation.

You and I both know that isn’t true. He isn’t sure if it’s his thought--or Theirs. He flicks the lights off. He takes the Rose with him and opens the door.

Aster, named for the flower of the same name, has the color of one; a gentle purple. His shell lacks shine; Rezyl hasn’t polished it in weeks and the Ghost can hardly apply it himself. Aster reels back in surprise as the door swings open.

“Good Traveler!” he exclaims, then comes back forward cautiously. “You look...”

“...like shit,” Rezyl closes his eyes briefly. It’s not as quiet anymore. It’s raining. The window in his room back down the hall rattles loud enough for him to hear. “I’m alright, Aster. I just need to sleep.” These are the most words he’s said to the Ghost in two weeks.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” the Ghost sighs, “I was going to say--” he does a double take, then floats right up to Rezyl’s face--”Are your eyes glowing?”

He grunts, then walks past Aster into the hallway. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he growls, too tired to tolerate this.

The hall is dark, with the only light being the occasional flashes of lighting that dance across the floor, flecking the hardwood with the silhouettes of raindrops on the windows. He’s intimately familiar with the halls of his own home, so he can make it around just fine despite the low visibility. Aster follows behind, sputtering.

“You don’t get to just shrug me off,” the Ghost spits with vitriol, “after weeks of not telling me a single damn thing. You know how many times I’ve seen you, Rezyl, in those fourteen days? Once; you were asleep.”

“So for not very long, then,” Rezyl snorts, shouldering his way into his room. The rattling is much louder. His bed is as messy as he left it. Aster’s charging port is on the desk, though it’s more of a nest than it is a machine, comprised of soft cloths and blankets. The Guardian sits down on the edge of the bed. The Ghost hovers, shell twitching anxiously.

“I can’t believe you think this is funny.”

“It isn’t funny.” Rezyl shrugs.

“No, it isn’t! What if you had gotten into trouble and I wasn’t there to help you?” He darts this way and that, a Ghost’s way of pacing. “It’s just like the bloody Hellmouth on Luna all over again. Every day that you brought me there and left me at the precipice to pursue the Hive, I never knew if we were going to leave together.”

“I didn’t want you to see the things I did.” Rezyl leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “The fury of the Hive is not something anyone should witness. This is my burden to bear, Ghost, not yours. Leave it at that.” He turns over, towards the window. The drops that strike the window are relentless. The lights of the City blink in the blue.

“You are my burden to bear, as your Ghost.” Aster covers his view of the window. Rezyl can tell he’s angry; his shell is tighter than Vanguard restrictions. “Nothing has changed that. Not even two weeks of complete silence. Besides, you wouldn’t know the sort of things I saw before I met you. I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself If you died, much less you for leaving me alone in the first place.” Aster leaves that hanging in the air. Thunder rumbles above them.

It isn’t like Rezyl is lying. He really hadn’t wanted the Ghost to be enveloped in so much Darkness. Though, now with the Rose and his slow deterioration and the whispers, it doesn’t matter. There will always be Darkness, as long as there is Light. And that is the problem, the root of poison: Light. This cursed existence, to make friends and enemies only with other immortals, to cut ties with the Lightless.

It’s not as if Guardians perceive themselves as superior; it’s just better for both parties involved. Their immortality isn’t guaranteed, either. Such high power is tangled in the many strings attached. What’s the point of it anymore?

Rezyl is grateful to be alive. Grateful to the Traveler. But he is not satisfied just yet. There are things in this city, in this world, that have to be fixed. Monsters to be slain. People with powers they don’t deserve that needed to be cut down. He’s seen it everywhere. Luna, Earth, anywhere the Fallen or Hive or man have planted themselves; there is no peace where they run rampant.

He knows in some small part of himself that it’s no way of peacekeeping--enforcing it through fear and blood--but for once, it will have to take the wrong form of ideology to get the job done. He’s tried the Traveler’s way and it only postpones the battle for another day.

No more. There will be peace. Nothing like Twilight Gap or Six Fronts or the massacre on Luna will ever happen again.

Then and there, lying on his back in his bed, listening to the distant thunder and his Ghost rambling on, Rezyl realizes what he has to do and vows to himself this: I will listen this time.

Aster returns to his charging port with a huff. Rezyl turns his head, rustling the sheets, to watch the Ghost’s path.

“Aster?” he says to the Ghost. He says nothing to his Guardian, understandably frustrated with his silence. The Guardian frowns and decides not the badger at him any more than he has already.

He turns his head back to the ceiling. What Rezyl doesn’t know is how the little Light will factor into this new plan of his. What would he even say to his proposal? Would he try and dissuade him, tell him that it’s a fruitless endeavour? It wouldn’t matter. Rezyl is the Guardian; Aster is the Ghost. Rezyl says what goes. He closes his eyes.

I’m ready to listen, he thinks, sending it out into the black expanse behind his eyelids. He falls asleep to the sound of the storm, looming and inevitable, and it, in turn, listens to him.

Chapter 2 coming tomorrow night.

[gothvergilstan]

Alternative Reality.

Part 2 to What If which is just a prologue. Yes, this is Yandere Jongin (I know how original). I don’t know where I’m going with this but yeah.... Enjoy!

You woke up, clutching your chest, breathing hard and shallow.

You the same nightmare again. Of a man covered in blood, a knife in hand, cooing at you about how much he loved and needed you. It freaked you out.

Why did you keep having the same dream? What was the point of it? Was it a warning from some God or was your mind simply playing tricks on you? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Sighing, you got out of bed and went to open your window, the heat from the radiator causing you to sweat. Closing your eyes at the rush of the cool winter air that met your face, you began calming your breathing.

Once you were calm, you opened your eyes, planning to go out to the kitchen for a cup of tea only to tilt your head as you noticed a shadowy figure staring at you. Your breathing became faster again and you gulped nervously.

Was it a demon? You have been off of your antipsychotic meds as you were simply to lazy to go out to your pharmacy to pick them up so it wouldn’t be a surprise to you if this was another psychotic episode you were having.

“Hello?” your voiced squeaked out. You knew it was a dumb idea to do that but you couldn’t help it, you weren’t thinking straight.

The shadowy figure then turned around and, in your eyes, seemed to have floated away once it heard your voice.

Shaking your head, deeming it a hallucination from not being on your meds, you made a mental note to pick up your medication in the morning.

~~

Once again you woke up, this time not from a nightmare. Yawning, you got out of bed, scratching the back of your head as you walked to your body length mirror to look at yourself. You had gotten top surgery 2 months ago and oh boy did you love your new chest. Your scars met in the middle of your chest but you didn’t mind. It still amazed you how much your chest looked normal in your eyes, how it looked and felt right.

After admiring yourself for a bit, you went to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

You took a shower, brushed your teeth, did your hair, took your antidepressants and your hormone shot and went back to your room to get dress. Once you were dressed, you decided to grab an apple and bottle of water as you were too lazy to even make a bowl of cereal and left your apartment to go to school.

It was your 3rd year of college and you were happy that your college journey will soon be over. Though you were thankful to be going to school for psychology, you hated waking up in the morning everyday but you had to do what you got to do if you wanted to succeed in this life.

As you walked, you bit into your apple, taking a look into your scenery. Ever since you’ve been having that same nightmare, you’ve been paranoid that someone was watching you. You told your therapist but all she suggested was taking a different antipsychotic medication which you didn’t want to do.

You sighed in relief once you made it to the train station. Swiping yourself through the turnstile, you waited patiently for the train to come when suddenly a young man walked up to you.

“Umm, does this train go to Hunter College?” he asked nervously.

You nodded your head.

“Yeah. Do you go there?” “Y-yes. I’m here from Korea. I’m an exchange student.” “Really? That’s cool. I go to Hunter too.” “Is that so? What are you majoring in if you don’t mind me asking?” “Psychology. I wanna become a psychologist in a prison and work with criminals.” “Wow… Um uh, my name is Jongin but my American name is Kai.”

“Oh, I’m y/n. Nice to meet you Jongin or Kai haha!” you laughed, sticking out your hand out to give the tall man a handshake.

Jongin smiled, taking your hand into his and shaking it. You noticed how warm his hand was. You also noticed how handsome he was too.

“So uh, Kai. What is it you’re majoring in?”

“Dance.” “That’s pretty cool. I’m not really much of a dancer.” The train soon pulled into the station and the two of you got on, continuing to talk and getting to know one another.

Kai was two years older than you and was an exchange student from South Korea. After taking some years off to think deeply about his major, he started college later than most. You asked him why he chose Hunter instead of Colombia or NYU.

He shrugged.

“I don’t know to be honest.” “If I was you, I would’ve chosen NYU but I’m broke as fuck. It’s why I went to a CUNY school instead.” He laughed a bit before asking, “What’s a CUNY?”

You two talked as the train went to the college, pausing the conversation once the train got to the destination.

Walking to the school, you noticed how immediately comfortable you were with him, forgetting all about your paranoia.

“Hey y/n!” you heard and turned around, recognizing the voice.

“Johnny! What’s up?”

“Eh, the usual.” Johnny glanced at Kai.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“This is Kai.” you said. “Kai, this is Johnny.”

The two exchange hellos before Johnny tagged along, starting up a conversation with you.

You noticed how quiet Kai became but chalked it up to him being nervous with being new and all.

Then you heard another voice call your name. This time it was your other friend Chittaphon or Ten.

“Oh? Hey Kai.” Ten said, surprise in his voice.

“You know him?” you asked and Ten nodded.

“Yeah. Remember that day I had to go to school? It was because my dance teacher wanted me to show him around campus.”

“Ah.”

“Hi Ten.” Kai said and soon the two strike up a conversation of their own.

“So y/n… You think Kai’s cute?” Johnny asked loudly causing you to choke on your water.

“Why would you ask that?! And loud at that!” you coughed out.

Both Ten and Kai laughed as you playfully punched Johnny’s arm.

“Ow! I was just asking a question!” “Well.” Ten started “Do you find him cute?” “Uh… why are y’all putting me on the spot like this? It’s the first day of school goddamnit!” you whined, pouting. You turned to Kai. “I do find you handsome and really nice.” you then looked at both Johnny and Ten. “There, are you guys happy now?” you huffed out before speed walking away.

“Y/n, wait up!” Johnny yelled out, catching up with you.

Ten shook his head.

“My friends are idiots…” he said sighing, “But I love them.” He turned his head to look at Kai. “Come on. We’ll walk to class together.” he smiled.

~~

Kai’s P.O.V.

Kai heart fluttered as he thought about what had happened that morning.

You called him handsome.

Him.

He felt his cheeks heat up as he thought about you. You were on his mind all day long, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

He bit his lip, trying to contain his grin.

You didn’t remember him but he remembered you.

You see, when you were 12, you made yourself an account on some random penpal website, wanting to make friends. Kai came across your profile, this was when you were still a girl, and started talking to you, thinking you were really cute. He didn’t know much English and you didn’t know a thing of Korean but somehow, with the power of google translate, you both talked and got along. Kai felt his heart speed up whenever you would message him. Whether it be talking about something good or bad, he loved talking to you.

Then one day, you deleted your profile and Kai was devastated and he did what any cat who was too curious for their own good would do. He searched you up. He remembered you say you had a Facebook account your parents didn’t know about and searched you up there.

Low and behold he found you but instead of making an account himself and talking to you once more, he instead opted to watch you. He watched you grow and changed, figuratively and literally and as he watched you on more of your social media, he noticed how in love he was with you.

He wanted to hold you, protect you, love you. He wanted you… So when you decided to go to Hunter College he set out a plan to get you, studying English the best he could, preparing for the day when you two would finally meet in person.

You didn’t remember Jongin and to him, that was okay because in the end, it will be easier for him to have you all to himself

[andersunmenschlich]

Episode 8: Burned Out

Okay! So tonight I get the story of an Ivo Lensik, a contractor. (I sense a haunted house story.)

He gets called in to take over a wiring job for a guy who had jury duty, and decides to take the job and do it in the evenings since he has another job going during the day. So far, so good.

The house is on Hilltop Road, which apparently is a very quiet road with not a lot of people living on it. This means Ivo Lensik is going to be in an unfinished house in a secluded location as night falls, doesn't it? I like that. That is nicely spooky.

Let's see, the house has two floors, doors but no locks, and no windows.

...Why are they putting electricity into a house with no windows? It might just be me, but that seems like a good way to get a short.

Oh, and there's a big old dead tree in the yard.

I quite like trees, especially big ones, but the dead ones are only really good to look at since if you climb them the limbs have a tendency to break at inconvenient moments. This tree sounds particularly aesthetic: apparently it casts nice, clear, dark shadows even on overcast days. I don't know why, but I really like the sound of that.

Anyway, the third evening of this job, there comes a knock on the door. Ivo Lensik goes and opens the door (and takes a hammer, in case the knocker is unfriendly), and oh, look! It's a man in a tan jacket.

No word on a suitcase filled with flies, though.

The man in the tan jacket introduces himself as Raymond Fielding, the owner of the house.

And this is evidently not a crossover, since our statement-giver seems able to describe him quite easily: young, white, maybe mid-twenties, clean-shaven with shaggy chestnut brown hair. He produces the deed to the house, which says yep, a man named Raymond Fielding owns the place.

So Ivo Lensik lets him in, which is something I don't entirely understand. I mean... sure, he's got a deed saying the house belongs to Raymond Fielding, and sure, he says he's Raymond Fielding, but what proof is there that he is?

But our story-teller lets him in.

Raymond Fielding (self-proclaimed) heads over to an empty window and stares out into the backyard, which is weird but I guess doesn't get in Ivo's way, because he goes back to work. Then there's the smell of burning hair, and when Ivo Lensik looks for the man in the tan jacket all he finds is a smoldering patch of floor in front of the window.

...That's some extreme spontaneous human combustion, right there.

And the floor! Is that coming out of our Ivo Lensik's paycheck? I mean, how's he going to prove he didn't char the floor?

Oh. Apparently I was worrying about nothing, because when he takes a couple seconds to grab a fire extinguisher the smoldering bit goes as cold as the rest of the floor, and then the ashes turn out to just be sitting on top of the wooden flooring, which is fine once it's cleaned up.

That's surprisingly thoughtful of... Mr. Fielding, I guess, or whoever burned him.

Anyway, I approve.

Ivo cleans things up and then, as the situation sinks in, begins to panic because he thinks he's losing his mind. It seems his dad went a bit loopy later in life, and Ivo's worried it'll be him next.

Ivo's father, it seems, was obsessed with fractals. Big into mathematics, which I can understand. Math can be really fun, when you're not being forced to do it. But the older Mr. Lensik also developed this idea that some mysterious person who can be recognized because "all the bones are in his hands" was stalking him and trying to stop him from finishing his fractal work, which would definitely be stark, staring, unmoored-from-reality paranoia in our world, but since this is the world of The Magnus Archives, well... who knows?

Aha, and then one day he turns up dead in his locked(?) study with deep gouges along his wrists and arms (made by something the coroner can't identify) and a look of fear on his dead face, surrounded by drawings of fractals (not in blood, though, in pencil, mostly on paper but also on the walls). And this is called a suicide, because of course it is.

"All the bones are in his hands"?

I have no idea what that means, but dang it sounds creepy.

I'm picturing a kind of boneless man with giant hands full of all the bones the rest of his body doesn't have, dragging the squelching, wet, oozing part along like giant, bony spiders trailing a partly digested corpse.

In any case, Ivo's so worried about losing his mind that he loses his balance, slips on the just-cleaned floor, and hits his head.

Whereupon he loses consciousness.

Head wounds do have a marked tendency to bleed awfully. So when he wakes up, dizzy and bleeding, I'm sure it's quite dramatic. In fact he's so dizzy that he can't drive, and calls an ambulance instead. It comes and takes him to the hospital, and yes, he's got a terrible concussion, which I suppose means he can't be alone for a while, either.

At least he probably won't end up at the apartment of a strange man who eats notebook pages... but, then again, who knows?

He tells his doctor everything and asks if he's losing his mind.

His doctor says no, probably not—it would be very strange if he went that nuts that quickly, normally you have to sort of work up to full-on hallucinations, and Ivo is reassured.

Meanwhile, an eavesdropping nurse (an older lady) seems very interested in the story, but (like most eavesdroppers) doesn't hang around to be talked to. Just before Ivo's discharged, though, he sees her again. Actually it's her job to give him the final check, so they get to talk! Which, it seems, she wants to do.

She wants to know if the man in the tan jacket really called himself "Raymond Fielding."

Ivo says yes, he did, and he had a deed to the place with that name on it, too. This information seems to give the old lady a need to sit down. So she does, and explains that her family's among the few living on Hilltop Road, and they know that house.

Apparently there was a house there in the 1960s, and it belonged to a man named Raymond Fielding, who used it as a halfway house on behalf of the local diocese.

Having a bunch of juvenile delinquents around didn't make the neighbors happy, but everybody really liked Raymond so nobody said anything. And then one day Agnes showed up. She was eleven at most and might have been Raymond's actual daughter, and she was also kind of creepy, always standing in windows staring at people. But she didn't cause problems, so....

Oh, and then the delinquents slowly stopped causing problems.

Actually it looks like they slowly started vanishing.

And then there was no one living there but Raymond and his maybe-daughter Agnes... and then there was just Agnes, who by this point was a quiet young woman of 18 or 19.

Okay. Something's definitely up with Agnes.

People ask where Raymond went, and she just says he went away and the house is hers now. Which apparently is the case—the house has been legally signed over to her, and there's certainly no sign that Raymond's been murdered or anything. So she lives there, all by herself, which sounds lovely except I do wonder how she gets the groceries, and what happens if a pipe leaks or a drain gets clogged or something?

Maybe she knows how to handle all that sort of repair on her own, but if there's one thing I know it's that you can't buy groceries without money, and it's very difficult to get money without leaving the house unless you work from home somehow, which Agnes doesn't seem to do.

Ooh, and pets in the area tend to vanish, so people learn not to keep them.

...And it looks like small children aren't exempt from vanishing, either. So long, Henry White, five years old.

A week after little Henry goes missing, the Fielding house burns to the ground. No one calls the fire department, because Agnes creeps them out and they figure she might have had something to do with all these disappearances—which, frankly, seems like a pretty reasonable assumption to me, but that still looks like a fire hazard to the whole community, doesn't it, unless someone's come up with a way to prevent neighbors' houses from catching fire when something like this happens?

Well, maybe the Fielding house is set far enough away from the other houses (and the air's calm enough) that it isn't a problem. Who knows.

Anyway, there's no sign that there's anyone in the house at all, and when the fire finally gets put out a burned body is found inside—but it doesn't belong to Agnes. No, it's the skeleton of Raymond Fielding, missing its right hand. Huh. I wonder if that's the hand that signed the house over to Agnes....

Then people cleared up the rubble and had some confusion over who the land belonged to now, and finally they figured it out and someone started building.

That new house is where our Ivo Lensik is putting in wiring.

So the man in the tan jacket was a ghost. Haunted house! Called it.

Ivo Lensik, recovered from his concussion, decides to do his wiring work as much during the day as possible, and he does pretty well; but whenever he finds himself alone in a room, or things get quiet, he thinks he sees little Agnes's brown pigtails whisking around corners, or thinks he smells burning hair.

Funny, he didn't see anything to do with Agnes before, and... would she be dead now? I don't think she died in that fire, anyway. Maybe he's imagining that, now that he knows the story.

He does pretty well at working only during the day when there are other people around, but as they're finishing things up apparently he works later and later, and one night he looks up to find the sun's set and he's completely alone. Whereupon he starts sweating.

He thinks he's just freaking out at first, but no—he's legitimately burning up. Like fever, except more so.

Now, I'm usually cold. I live in the desert. On average it gets up to around 93 degrees Fahrenheit come July, and that strikes me as a bit warm but much better than winter, because my internal heating system basically doesn't work. That said, this doesn't sound great. I have no objection to lying around like a lizard on a rock, surrounded by heat that seems to melt all your muscles to useless, cozy goo... but this kind of heat sounds unpleasant.

Ivo takes off his coat and his hat and it doesn't do any good at all. He can't even breathe, he's so hot. He's collapsed to the floor (dying, I think) when there's a knock on the door and suddenly he's fine.

He climbs to his feet and answers the door, and it's a Catholic priest.

...Well, that was unexpected.

Oh, apparently the nice old lady from the hospital sent him (and apparently her name's Annie). Aw, she was worried about Ivo so she sent him an exorcist. With suspiciously good timing, too!

Father Edwin Burroughs wanders around and takes a look at the house while Ivo explains what's been happening, and then he tells Ivo to go hang out in the backyard while he runs through some prayers and things and sees if he can't do for ghosts what's typically done for demons.

In the backyard, Ivo suddenly develops an herbicidal mania and attacks the already dead tree with a crowbar.

Which seems... really weird to me.

And then the tree starts bleeding! Like, actual blood!

I wonder what kind of blood it is. And if it's human, would it be any good for transfusions? Could they just go tap the, I dunno, B- tree instead of asking for donations or going to the blood bank? Blood trees could be really handy so long as they didn't, you know, curse anyone who got their blood! ...Actually, depending on the curse, certain types of people might think it was worth it anyway.

Oh, and the tree's got old scorch marks at its base. Which I guess makes sense: it's an old tree, it would've been here when the old house burned, right?

Ivo decides to chain the tree to his car and drag the thing out of the ground, for reasons which are not well explained and make me think either he's got some kind of supernatural intuitive sense, or something's reaching into his head and using him as a tool to destroy the tree.

He drags the tree out of the ground.

The bleeding, surprisingly, stops.

Looking into the hole where the roots used to be, Ivo notices something in the dirt and climbs down to get it.

It's a six-inch-square wooden box engraved with patterns that remind me of that table from episode three (which, after the concussion, is the second thing in this episode to remind me of that one), and it's got a nice, fresh, green apple inside. Looks like it's just been picked.

When Ivo takes it out of the box, though, the freshness shrivels away, the skin splits, and spiders just pour out of the thing.

He screams and drops everything. The apple hits the ground and turns to dust.

Ivo backs off and waits for the spiders to leave before he goes back and wrecks what sounds like a perfectly lovely box, which wanton destruction I'm coming to expect from this particular statement-giver, and chucks the splinters into a trash can.

Not long after Ivo's finished trashing everything, Father Burroughs comes out of the house and, ignoring the tree, tells our guy that he's done his prayers and hopefully it'll help and here's his card.

Ivo works on the house for another week.

There are no further interesting incidents. Job done, he leaves and never goes back.

Jonathan Sims seems to blame the man in the tan jacket on the concussion that happened later, or else on the genetic disposition to mental problems that the doctor said probably weren't happening. That... it seems like he's really reaching here. Maybe it's less that he's an actual skeptic, and more that he really, really doesn't want to know what's actually going on?

That would make a kind of sense: it's a sort of self-defense. He only believes horrible things when he's forced to. Otherwise he's skeptical, sarcastic, and dismissive.

Oh, neat—Father Edwin Burroughs gave a statement, too!

I'm guessing the fact that it's mentioned means we get to hear it later.

Unless this is the kind of show where they taunt you with stuff you never get to know, but that's unusual and so I figure I'll be hearing that one eventually. Should be fun!

And apparently Ivo Lensik was the only contractor who got haunted by the house they were all working on, which is interesting. I wonder why? Was it just because he was the only one who stayed late? Or maybe he was the first one to stay late, or the only one to let in an ID-less stranger waving an old deed and claiming to be Raymond Fielding, or...?

Who knows.

Mr. Sims's assistants have apparently done a ton of work in research, as usual.

Martin couldn't figure out who built the old house, but the earliest records it turns up it show it being bought by Raymond Fielding's grandfather (Walter Fielding). Then it was inherited by his father (Alfred Fielding), and then by him. But there's no record that it was ever an official halfway house. Maybe he was running it illegally. Maybe that record got lost. No way to know.

Tim got an interview with the nice old nurse, Anna Kasuma, but didn't get any new info.

One of the residents of Hilltop Road did provide a photo of the old house in flames, which means that while nobody called the fire department, at least one person was taking pictures. This strikes me as extremely human.

The obit for Raymond Fielding said he worked with juvenile delinquents, and died in a house fire, but didn't give any real details.

Mr. Sim's little team down at the Magnus Institute apparently can't turn up any proof that Agnes ever even existed, which makes me think that something's definitely going on with her.

...Ooh.

And on the same day Ivo Lensik uprooted that old dead tree, a woman named Agnes Montague was found dead in her apartment.

Apparently she'd hanged herself, and there was a severed human hand attached to her waist with a chain—a right hand, one that the coroner time-of-death-ed at the same time Agnes Montague died, which makes no sense from a natural perspective but suggests some interesting things from an unnatural one.

What do you want to bet it was the ghost of Raymond Fielding that made Ivo Lensik uproot that old tree?

Oh, and Agnes Montague passed as only 26.

You know, if you're going to tie your life force to something, maybe don't pick a tree? It's as bad as a secret painting that you have to hide in a secret room of your house to prevent people from seeing how old and evil you're actually getting.

What would I tie mine to? Uh... hmm. I think maybe entropy. A painting never ages, sure—a tree loses life a lot more slowly than a human—but the entropy of a closed system never decreases over time. Tie your life to a painting and it'll age instead of you, to a tree and you'll get all its life, but if you tie your life force to entropy, well! That's a force that'll never run out, and if it should happen to decrease a bit... would that be so bad?

In any case, two more families lived in that house since this statement, and nothing weird happened to any of them, either.

Looks like Raymond got rid of Agnes and they both finally died.

This is a really good story! I like this one. It's very tidy.

[a-king-alone]

Ghostface (DBD) x gender neutral reader pt.2 | pt. 1

Your eyes flutter open, blurry dark vision greeting you. The branches far above you begin to come into focus. Crackling noise of fire eating wood fills you with a bit of the comfort of warmness and safety. Your face feels far warmer, but you knew it was because of a different reason.

As you sit up slowly, you see your fellow survivors are sitting around the source of light, trying to keep the dull warmth to stay in their bones. They can tell something is off with you, your prolonged silence and avoidant behavior was unusual.

They ask if you're feeling alright, you coin some bull about feeling overly guilty for messing up, that you felt horrible over the fact that it was a critical moment, but you had failed, resulting in your teammates deaths. It wasn't completely untrue, it just wasn't ate away at you.

Of course they went on, attempting to reassure you that fault didn't fall solely on your shoulders. Sometimes there were trials that killers dominated and there wasn't much anyone would be able to do once it reached that point. You said, yeah, sure, somehow irritated by the concern they offered, but it was because of your dirty little secret.

You felt like you didn't deserve their concern.

You breathe in deeply, turning away from the fire toward the thick of the woods. "Going for a walk," you said tiredly. No one questioned you, only their worried stares watching your back as it disappeared behind the foliage.

As you aimlessly wander, your mind keeps replaying your encounter with Ghostface, how he maliciously stabbed you and then held you captive in his lap as you were dying. You still felt it, the way his lips and tongue were all over you, every detail back to back inside of your brain. It played out behind your eyelids when you tried to close them.

Bile welled under your tongue, a tightness in your throat as you felt you were going to vomit when you remembered words he had said to you. Your throat closed itself for a moment, causing you to gag profusely into a series of dry heaves for a few seconds behind a tree before you could catch your breath.

You wiped your mouth weakly. Just... Why did he have to look so... normal? If he were  another grotesque creature, you could deal with it. But he wasn't. He was hot. Stupidly hot. Hotter than anyone you'd ever seen in your life, not that you could remember much from your past, but much more attractive than any of the survivors. The overwhelming shame you felt with your shallow perception seemed like it might consume you entirely.

You wanted to sleep for days, to let it all fade away, to escape from not only this horrible realm you loathed being trapped in, but from your memories that plagued you nonstop. As you returned to the campfire, your friends noticed you and smiled, but they left you alone and gave you space. You were thankful for that.

You eased yourself onto the ground, laying on your side and adjusting yourself until you found a sufficiently comfortable position. Your heavy lids drooped closed. Every time his face manifested, you tried really hard to think of anything else. But there was nothing else to think about.

Even in your dream, his image cursed your nonsensical visions. Cornering you, forcing his kiss on you, his hands all over you. You wake suddenly as you shot upright. Your hands covered your face with your frustration, how you wished so desperately that it'd go away.

But it doesn't.

You feel as if you -belong- to him and you -don't-. You belong to yourself and only yourself, no one else. Certainly not some pushy delusional psycho. A pushy delusional psycho with eyes for you. And apparently, for you only.

And every moment between, you felt nothing but dread. You dreaded seeing him again, him finding you again. What would he do? You didn't want to think about it. Would it be worse?... Your gut said yes.

He had no problem with forcibly holding you down and kissing you. Kissing was something long forgotten about in a world like this, for you. And you hated how your body had reacted to it against your will, because that's a normal thing that happens when you're stimulated after a long period of time of stagnancy. You hated that you admitted to yourself that it felt really, really good, to receive that kind of attention.

You felt utterly disgusted with yourself. You actually preferred it when he did nothing else but used you as a catalyst for his ugly sadistic desires, not this. Not this creepy obsession and possessiveness.

You couldn't say for sure if his obsession was new or a recent development or something that was there from the beginning. Physical contact wasn't something experienced here, in the Entity's world, as far as you knew. At least, not for you. It was scary and you hated it being forced upon you, even if you kinda shamefully liked it.

The only thing that was ever on your mind was trying to survive death and escape immense suffering. To find some way out. Not finding a fucking boyfriend. Who in their right mind would ever think of something as stupid as that in a place like this?

You were well aware that some survivors did find that type of comfort in each other. But you didn't participate. You found it to be a liability, favoring someone over everyone else over measly physical touch, therefore, making mistakes when the one you enjoy becomes the item of torment for a killer. You'd seen it happen.

But you didn't blame them, nor did you look down on them. That was just your own personal opinion on the matter. Survivors only had each other for comfort. It was natural that something may bloom into something further. Everyone respected each others privacy and never meddled. Consenting adults could do as they wished. If weird relationship problems arose, you ignored it and let them handle it.

You just stayed out of it. People were complicated and the last thing you needed were more complications. But you couldn't deny your envy that they were brave enough to be vulnerable.

All you wanted to do was forget everything. To maybe actually die next time and not return.

You found your next trials to be ultimately relieving, even when you were killed. Each time you were summoned, you were scared out of your mind until you knew who the killer was. And you breathed a sigh of relief when it wasn't him.

But you couldn't focus.

You were mangled in ways you never thought possible because of your mistakes. You were stabbed to death. Your skull was caved in and your fingers were sliced off as a stolen prize. A horrid creature devoured the entire upper half of your body, leaving the rest to decay. But you didn't care. The pain was nothing new. You didn't mind if you died over and over and over again, as long as you never had to see him again, nothing else mattered. You told yourself you could handle it all.

That paranoia never left you. He wanted you to look for him. And you hated that you did, every single time.

Your friends looked at you pitifully whenever you all finally returned to the soft glow of the campfire. They could tell that something was off with you, but they never pushed it. Existing in this place was hard enough sometimes. But they commented that they were glad that you were back in one piece. You could only give a hollow smile. You didn't feel like talking.  Being eaten half alive skull first was something you never thought you would prefer, despite how completely terrible of an experience it was.

It wasn't long before you felt the tug of your summoning, pulling you away from where you wished you could stay, to another unknown destination for the same old story with different flavors.

You recognized this place as you looked around you, the tall cement walls enclosed all around you. The Meat Plant, a place where you hadn't been to in such a long time that you struggled to find your way around. You started off alone and wandered as quietly as you could, dropping down through an open hole in the floor down into a dimly lit bathroom in the underground, a generator close to the only entrance.

You put your attention on fixing the machine in front of you, lost to your thoughts because of the stillness and near silence around you aside from your repairs. It felt eerie and a bad feeling sunk into your stomach as you were closer to completion.

A scream from your teammate startles you with a jolt, it was close to your position. You gulped and continued, frantic to get it going. Another horrid cry of pain came muffled further beneath the ground. The basement. The generator lights flashed on in your success, automated doors opening a new path way once rushed with power.

Out of the several lockers, you picked one closest to you and tried to hide inside without making too much noise, feeling no presence and that alone was making your fear spike considerably. The nausea surged when a black cloaked individual silently crept through the entryway and your breath caught inside of your throat.

He was slow in his steps as he passed each one, an upbeat tune lightly coming from behind that mask and you prayed you were hallucinating. The knife twirled between his fingers, the edge tapped playfully against some lockers he wasn't looking directly at as he approached nearer to yours.

You try to quell your escalating panic when you heard his his voice come out in a dangerously low tune, "Where are you~?"

You can't breathe, trying to rationalize by telling yourself that he definitely did not see you in this room and he does not know that you're here, at all. You hoped it would stay that way, your legs trembling. And then, in your limited view, you saw him standing there, only the doors between him and you.

A soft whimper catches in your throat. You couldn't think. You didn't know or care if it was audible enough for him to hear it. He was going to find you. He doesn't move at all when one of your teammates crosses the wrong wires, igniting an explosion loudly right up the stairs from you. He's completely still.

And suddenly, he turns and walks away from you, his pursuit now on the possible locations of your team and a shaking breath left you. All you had done was prove to yourself that you weren't prepared for the worst. You didn't even want to leave the locker, on the verge of hyperventilating.

If there was a chance that your presence was still unknown to him, you planned to escape the trial without being seen by him. You felt horrible giving into your cowardice, knowing that your team needed you if they wanted a better chance at success. But you don't want to know what he's going to do to you when he finds you. Because he will. That was the only thing you were certain of.

If he saw you, he would hunt you down.

You open the locker door cautiously, peeking out to get a clear view. It seemed you were alone, so you gathered your courage and went toward the hallway leading toward the basement. You could hear your friend Meg down there, groaning in the searing pain she was in, struggling for her life. You were the closest, you had to rescue her. It wouldn't be right to leave her.

You do your best to remain extremely quiet if not soundless while descending the stairs toward the darkness. When you reach her, you grunt as you free her from the claws of the Entity and she thanks you roughly, coughing from her exhaustion. You tell her to run as far as she can, to find someone to patch up her wounds. She nods, making her escape as you return to another locker, toward the back corner.

You hated the idea of using Meg for bloodtrail bait, but you couldn't handle it. You couldn't face him.

But to your horror, you heard Meg's shrill screams very close by, your hearts pace quickening, more and more. All you could hear was her trying her best to get away as it grew closer. A piercing cry from going right back onto the hook, instantly devoured by the starving Entity. And then silence.

That same upbeat tune is near you as he's whistling it this time. Your arms wrap around yourself in a fruitless attempt to calm your tremoring body. He couldn't possibly...

"I know you're here~"

You hear his voice through the slits of the locker right as the doors burst open, you, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. He sharply inhales. Your mind goes blank. All you see is Ghostface standing there, blocking your only exit, and you're completely cornered. He's unnervingly still.

You can only imagine that awful grin beneath the mask.

He closes in on you immediately as you flattened yourself as far back as you can go, but it was no use. His body pressed against you, hearing his hoarse whisper when he invaded your space as his bloody glove caresses against your cheek, leaving a wet red streak from his touch, "What a surprise..."

Your face falls with disgust as you glare at the floor, visibly shaking in your fear, uncertainty and anger. Why won't this creepy fucker just leave you alone? This torment was more suffering on top of the base suffering of this hellish nightmare and you have to put up with being relentlessly harassed by this sicko.

"Mmm, you're trembling~ You want me that badly~?" he sighed lowly with his hands slowly roaming your body freely even as you recoil from it, gritting your teeth at his gross fucking words. It pushed you to your breaking point. With all your strength, you shoved into his chest enough to send him stumbling backward.

Enough room for you to dash past him and make a run for it, but all you hear is him laughing wildly at you. You're halfway up the stairs when your arms get locked to your sides as he grabs you from behind, clutching into you with excessive force when you started to kick and scream.

Gravity becomes your enemy as he threw you back down the staircase, laughing at you as you tumbled painfully until you smacked the flat below on your stomach. You moaned from the impact, feeling aches all over you, wincing from it as you leered to where he loomed above you. At the top of the portal, he's standing there with his head titled down.

"You really think that you can get away from me?"

He didn't sound amused, his tone heavy with the promise of fulfilling his threats if you kept being difficult. It was far worse than the stupid little cheerful act he paraded. Slowly he goes down each step toward you as you tried to get back to your feet, strained because of the pain you felt.

"You can't run. You can't hide," he said calmly, matter-of-fact like, when he reaches you as you managed to stand upright, your hand against the wooden boards to keep yourself steady. You're on the defensive, ready to make a reckless try once again, but his dark tone make you freeze.

"Don't make me hurt you."

You knew that he would. Less of what he'd done recently paled in comparison to the horribly disgusting things he did in the past to you. You didn't want to be on the receiving end of the extent of his full cruelty because he was more than willing, more than capable. And eager. So eager.

His hand rises directly in front of you and you flinch, only for him to softly touch your face. Tears sting your eyes as you glower with contempt.

"You want me to," he rasped as you furiously shake your head to deny it, your eyes wide with your fear of how unpredictable the situation had gotten. Ghostface responds with a drawn out guttural hum before he grabs your hair, yanking the back of your skull when he pushed you against the wall. Pleasured groans rumbled from him in response to your pained cries.

"Dangling yourself in front of me, whimpering for me," he whispered dangerously close, breathing heavy as you struggled against his grip. "Waiting just for me."

You felt utterly sick to your stomach over his detailed delusions, painting the picture perfectly clear for you. How could he possibly mistake you purposefully avoiding him as a ploy to get his attention?! What a fucking lunatic!

His knife is against your throat and you go still, glancing pleadingly with an emotionless mask tilting at you. You'd rather die than to be subject to his games. You hated pain, you hated how much pain you had to constantly endure and pretend that it doesn't affect you, but you'd rather be cut into ribbons. How could it get any worse? He was going to do whatever he wanted whether you liked it or not.

A generator came to life somewhere far away upstairs, but Ghostface doesn't pay any mind to it. You hadn't realized that at least one or two of your teammates could possibly be alive while the killer played around with you unbeknownst to them. You thought he would've gotten rid of them as soon as possible. The clatter of metal hitting the floor jarred you and before you could react, his hands were around your throat, choking off your airway.

You thrashed wildly against him to no avail, you were no match against his strength.  Your conscious began fading fast, unable to breathe against the force over your neck. Soon, you were enveloped in darkness.

When you woke sometime later, your head was pounding and you felt dizzy. There was a cloth stuffed into your mouth, covered with tape. You realized your hands and ankles were bound together as you grew more alert. You were inside of a locker again, sitting on the floor of it with your knees upright. That son of a bitch choked you out and tied you up. You were furious, thudding your shoulder against the doors to see if you could open them.

The door swung open to your surprise and you gathered that you were still in the basement, but now there was blood splattered all over every surface, fresh liquids and pieces of meat dripping off of the hooks in the center. It felt so much more dark now as you saw the aftermath of violent demise. Ghostface was crouched in the corner opposite of you, his jaw propped against his palm. His mask was gone. His face was covered in blood.

"That's a good look for you," he said softly, meeting your gaze with that dumb,  affectionate smile. Apparently he was in a much better mood.

Your muddled reply was incomprehensible through your gag, but you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. He merely chuckled at your struggle, rising before he came closer to you. Kneeling down, he cut your bonds with his knife, freeing you. That was unexpected. You took the liberty of ripping the tape too quickly off of your face with a hard gasp as you spit out the balled up fabric.

He looked pleased. A thoughtful look crossed his face before he opened his arms toward you, his fingers gesturing that he wanted you to come to him. You glared as you reeled back to spit at his face. It landed on his cheek, next to his mouth that spread with a grin. The tip of his tongue lapped some of it away with one motion and he beckoned you again.

"No second chances," he warned. He was giving you a silent ultimatum; go to him willingly or submit to his torture. You hesitated. You didn't want him to get psychotic, you wanted to just leave and it appeared that the quickest way to get to that was to play along with him. Again.

Your eyes fall to the ground as you inched toward him, settling against his chest as his arms closed around your shoulders, holding you lightly. His sigh of content grazed your bruised neck and you grimaced.

"You know what I want," Danny murmured into your ear as you tilted your head away from him, but he took it as an invitation to drag his tongue against the length of your exposed flesh. You made an audible 'ugh' and he chuckled.

He leaned back from you just enough to gaze at your unhappy expression, all the while he just smiled faintly while never breaking his gaze away from yours. "Kiss me."

Now you were watching him incredulously, but he just rose his brows as his grin deepened.

There wasn't any other way. You couldn't deny him of his demands because he would draw this out as long as possible. Your distaste and hatred burned inside of you, but you closed the distance between your lips and his, only a peck against them, but his gross smile told you everything you needed to know.

It was that fucking look. You loathed it, the fact that he had an expression of longing, looking so infatuated, desperate for your attention, any little bit of it. It was so hard for you to understand.

He hurt you. Physically, mentally, he damaged you over and over again without remorse, with every opportunity that he got. The memories you had of him apart from the recent all involved various degrees of sadistic torture.

You knew what it was. It was all intentionally thought out, to force you to come to him. He confirmed with his actions that he would use any means necessary.

Danny moved closer to you, invading your space until he was up against you, he couldn't hold himself back anymore. His lips were against your ear, whispering sweet nothings that a lover might say, disgustingly sweet words that you felt were more like poison, saying how much he dreamed of you calling his name every time you were apart. Moaning it. Screaming it.

Those hands eventually roamed over parts of your body that were sensitive to the touch, places that were long forgot. It stirred some kind of feelings within, but you tried to swallow them, to not show too much reaction to anything. You wanted to hate it. A part of you did, swelling into tears that poured from your eyes, a soft sob escaping from your tired grasp. You were tired of holding on. You were so tired of it all.

And he shushed you, gently wiping your tears away when he pulled back enough to do so. You hated that he looked so concerned for you when it was his diabolical plot that lead you both here.

"Please don't cry," he breathed, but it only made the downpour escalate in your cascade of horrible emotions. He continued to catch your tears onto his gloves with a gentle smile. "I need you."

All you can do is stare at him, at his face, the perfect portrait of an ideally beautiful person. A twisted perverted psychopath. That face of yearning for your touch, for you kiss. You could tell. The corners of his mouth rose just slightly as he leaned closer toward you, glancing from your eyes to your lips, eager to claim his prize but visibly forcing himself to go slow, to enjoy every single second of it.

His breath shook as his lips met yours, only brushing against them. He wants you so badly and you can feel it, his excitement for a moment he had waited so long for. His lips drew back barely an inch before you murmured, "Why me..?"

And he smiled with a huff, those dark eyes piercing into yours. No semblance of light reflected there. "I thought I told you that you were mine."

That didn't answer your question.

His lips captured yours again, more fervently although restrained, grasping your body tightly as a gloved hand found its way into your hair, pressing you into him harder. A sharp, sudden pain makes you gasp. He had bit into your lip, not with a lot of pressure, but your reaction appeared to rile him up even more, moaning unabashedly into you. Even the slightest of noise that you made seemed to electrify the blood in his veins.

You found yourself forcing yourself to get lost in your own head to ignore any pleasurable sensation while his needy tongue filled your mouth. You felt like you might have understood why he never molested you or at least you had a theory. He could have. He definitely could have sexually overpowered you long ago, but he never did. You guessed based on what you has observed that maybe he had an overwhelming desire for you to be the one to initiate it. And you knew he liked to have things his way.

Your arms hesitantly returned his embrace as your arms slithered around his torso, lightly pushing your body against his despite the nausea from touching the blood clinging to him. You felt him tremor with a slow groan reverberating deeply from his throat. You now knew of two things that made the Ghostface weak to you. He made it easy to see how badly he ached for you.

His kiss became rough against you, pushing into you until you were on your back in the pool of guts and blood all along the floor as he hovered above you. He broke away only to look down on you with his lustful gaze. You knew what he wanted.

You decided in the heat of the moment to indulged him, breathing his name just to see what his potential reaction might be out of your morbid curiosity but you regretted it as soon as it left you.

You failed to realize until it was a second too late to take it back that implying that you might want him of your own volition would become your biggest mistake. You had solidified his fantasy into his reality. The way you had said it, the tint of blood rushed in your cheeks, your voice low and hushed, showing just the very slightest of  acceptance. In that moment, you had appeared as if you visibly wanted him right in front of his face.

And Danny was laughing. Short, breathy huffs kept leaving him, seemingly torn between  confused but utterly overjoyed.

"I knew it," he uttered breathlessly and in the overwhelming horror that devoured you as your soul turned into an ouroboros swallowing its own tail, you couldn't understand what he meant for a split second.

"You love me."

His tone sounded almost hysterical, too overly excited even in just a whisper. Somehow his grin appeared entirely evil to you, euphoric and malignant.

It all came rushing back to you. Every instance. One single moment was all it took, because no matter how much you protested, no matter how much you rejected him, in his mind, he had only one thought and one thought alone. You -did- want him. And he only needed one thing to make it real. Anything that could be interpreted as a signal from you. In his perfect fantasy, he wanted you to be the one aching for him, to be the one craving his touch, begging for more, begging for him.

And you gave him a taste.

It felt time stopped around you and you were watching yourself from far away, watching yourself succumb to your permanent psycho boyfriend. You fucked up. Now he would never leave you alone. Never. He would never stop coming after you.

You were his world and he intended on making himself yours.

"Th.. That's not..." you began, but fell short as he leaned closer toward you.

"Not what?"

For some reason, fear constricted you. He was looking down at you, expecting an answer, but the one you wanted to give was stuck in your throat.

"Not true?"

He was smiling, but it looked wrong. You blinked rapidly, unsure of what to do or even say. So you closed your eyes tightly, pulling him by his neck into a kiss and it took all of two seconds for him to melt into you with a gratified hum. He really was easy...

It couldn't get any worse, you thought. Surely there was nothing you could do now to make it worse. But then he's shrugging himself out of his leather as you're frozen still as your face flooded red. His upper body is bare for you, lithe but muscular, which was nice to look at but you only had a strange thought that it looked weird how he wasn't caked in blood.

"I love it when you can't take your eyes off of me~" he purred with a low groan to your chagrin as you'd been staring pretty hard, your eyes casting to the side.

He's on his knees, straddled over your middle, bare fingers hovering over your lips before he pushed them between. Noises escaped you when he shoved his fingers further inside, filling around your tongue and gagging you slightly.

His other hand produced that familiar digital camera, which you recognized immediately and felt your fury simmering at the sight of it, but you didn't want to put up a fight anymore. He snapped memories of his fingers roaming over your tongue as the flash made stars float around your vision. You heard him making soft comments to himself about the details of certain ones, marked as favorites.

They were finally withdrawn once he was satisfied, only to be replaced with his thumb running over your bottom lip. You watch as he brings that hand to his own lips, licking you off of his fingers with a brief but a jubilated breathy laugh.

"You don't know how long I've waited," he sighed with bliss, bending closer to you to show you the photographs he had taken, pressing a button for one to go to the next before your eyes.

The slides went past the recent ones he had just taken, showing older photographs. You recognized each one, because you were the subject in every one that passed to the next. Images of your body, mangled and brutalized, your bloody meat, you tied up in uncomfortable positions, your crying face, your chest lined with several stab wounds, selfies with only your dead body, kissing your corpses lips.

And he didn't stop. He studied every shocked emotion that crossed your face with a criminal grin as you saw all of these various pictures that he had taken, many you couldn't even remember because they were just pictures of you doing random things in trials long before you were subjected to his torture rituals. It wasn't even close to a third of the way through the gallery.

What exactly did he meant by "how long he waited"? He pulled the camera away, smiling down at it lovingly before placing it safely on top of his bundle of meat soaked leather.

"How... long..?" you managed to utter out half of your thought, your mouth and throat dried in fear of the answer he may or may not give. Drawing his attention onto you, his elbows propped his body just above yours as he titled his head closer to your face to brush his lips over your own. Yours quiver.

"So, so long..." he whispered against you. "And now, you're finally all mine."

Horrifying. Terrifying. These were the only words that could come close to describing the intense trepidation and horror violently swirling within your mind coming to the realization that Danny was a truly insanely sadistic stalker, an obsessive mentally deranged freak, that was, for some reason, madly and hopelessly in love with you. So much so that he followed you around long before you even knew of his existence.

And his love was cruel, vicious and savage. He told you that you would learn to love the pain. Yet he was more than capable of being gentle, being tender, when he really, really missed you.

The new photographs in his private collection detailed that night, his favorite night, down in the Meat Plant basement, zoomed in shots of his hand around your throat to force your eyes to the camera lens when he was filling you, your open lips caught in a scream when his thrusts were erratic and violent, blurring the image. Your meshed bodies covered in sweat and blood. He wanted to keep every moment, hundreds of new additions that he'd look at when he was far away from you.

And he'd smile in his wait for the next time he could have you.

[izzyovercoffee]

Prompt number: 12. “What if I don’t see it?” Fandom: Republic Commando Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if need Summary: Bardan can’t sleep, but he’s quick to learn this isn’t much better. Notes: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ dear etain come home everyone misses you and bardan’s developing some neuroses from seeing you floating indefinitely thanks

##. or maybe he’s just hallucinating

  It lurks at the corner of his eye. 

He turns, and it’s gone. A trick of the light. A trick of his mind. The paranoia and the anxiety that permeates the ground Kyrimorut’s built within creeping into his blood, maybe. Louder, still, at night and in the dark, where his eyes find difficulty to adjust and he relies more on … other … senses to guide him, much to his chagrin. 

A friend of Mereel’s once took one look at him and laughed. 

“It’s hard to be haunted, no?” they said, after. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and thought he sounded convincing. 

Certainly he hadn’t been, for they said nothing in reply. Just smiled, knowing, and walked away. 

Bardan breathes in the bite of cold air as he crosses the snow---over the tracks that have worn away at the fallen evidence of winter, packed down the cold and the dirt to forge a path just shy of “safe” to walk in the night. 

It occurs to Bardan, suddenly, as his hand lands on the wall panel to the makeshift medical bay on-property that Mereel has a suspiciously long list of friends who all, it seems, are equally as haunted. If that is, indeed, what haunted means. 

The door cycles open under the scan of his palm, and he’s met with a figure that chills his blood before his eyes.

He blinks and it’s …

Gone. 

Leaving only an open hall, lit as well as their off-grid power can afford to offer alongside the regular heating. 

He steps into the hall, and waits for the door to cycle shut behind him. He removes the outer layers, hanging them up on a rack to the left of him, and leaving him in sparse armor---casual wear, if mandalorians could be said to have them. 

He walks down the hall, down past the open door connecting the lab to this hastily built structure connecting multiple points of necessity to a centralized power. The voices of Mereel, and Dr. Uthan, blur together with the gentle hum of power in the walls as he passes. 

Still talking, still working, long, long past the end of daylight. 

He stops at the end, at the door to another room---empty. Lighting as sparse as everywhere else in this medical station, he feels a pressure lay on his chest he hadn’t at the door. The hairs at the back of his neck rise, and he’s reminded, suddenly, of when he was a child in the temple. Of wandering the halls, past curfew, and feeling the weight of being watched by one of the Knights that walked the halls. 

They had watched him in silent curiosity, and later he understood what he didn’t know then.

So long as he behaved, he would find no trouble. 

He can’t imagine, now, why he’d begin to court trouble in here, in this very room, in this very place, at this very day, but…

Hell.

Maybe there is something to calling their gifts a haunting, rather than a gift. 

“What do you think, Etain?” he asks as he enters the room slowly, hands out of his pockets and hanging at his sides. 

She says nothing---simply floats there, dead to the world, the galaxy, the universe---unresponsive and barely better than the night before.

Worse, he knows, than Fi had been. 

He wants to wonder what the point of maintaining a corpse might be, but the weight of the watching is nowhere near as threatening as the grief welling up in his chest at the thought.

“You’re right,” he says, “I can’t give up hope.” 

He sometimes thinks he wants to. Isn’t it easier to entertain the grief, and the tragedy, and the world-shattering weight of losing her over the unending pain of uncertainty? Of hanging in this limbo of not knowing if she would ever recover?

Her vitals stable. Her body mending, slowly. But… nothing. Unresponsive. 

If not for the …

But he can’t explain that to anyone who asks. Only defend the maintenance of the bacta tank, and his periodic attempts to reach her, through the glass and the distance of…

No one ever spoke about this, before. 

And as much as he had distanced himself, broken off and separated himself, from the Order and everything it had once stood for before it was cut down brutally in its hubris, he still struggles, now, to piece together broken and painful memories to find an understanding---some kind of way through this nightmare Etain’s trapped in. 

But as the days drag into weeks and into months, he finds himself more, and more, desperate---more, and more, fiddling on the edge of frustration, and fury. Fury at himself, for being unable to do what he should have been able to do, easily. Fury at the universe, for aligning in this way, to strike out at them at their heart, and nearly succeed---and, if she never improves, then ‘nearly’ becomes certainty. 

And fury at Kal, for calling her back to the core, for no reason that Bardan could guess at, could understand or make sense of---when she could have easily rendez-vous with the rest of them, at Kyrimorut. They didn’t need her in the city. She didn’t have to come back. 

And Ordo knew it. And said it. 

And yet Kal.

Didn’t listen.

One of the vials to Bardan’s right shatters. Glass sprays, everywhere. 

Bardan takes a step back. Like peering through a curtain, he can see, and feel, his desperate anger as a separate creature from himself. Like a thing of its own mind, and own being, though it lives inside of him. 

It takes effort to unfurl his fists, and even more to understand what he stares at is broken glass of an empty vial from the counter against the far wall. 

And yet he can’t be sure if it’s him who’s responsible. 

A different version of himself might say it’s no one’s fault. A different person with his face and his voice and his name, from a different time, might try to find the middle ground.

But here, and now, with Etain so close to them and yet on the edge of being lost forever, and him being unable to find the path to her, to bring her back---

What middle ground could he justify, that he could not before to stay with the Order? What middle ground could he create to explain his willful blindness, that would not have been just as senseless, and hypocritical, and of help to no one?

He’s supposed to be a healer. A healer heals. 

A healer mends a wound, but a wound can only be mended when it’s recognized for the damage done. 

“But what if I don’t see it?” he asks, and receives nothing in answer. “What if I can’t see it?” 

Something moves in the dark, and he spins to face it---and finds nothing. 

A crack of something sounds down the hall. The lights go out.

The dark seizes his shaken heart and for a brief moment it’s fear, and grief, that roots him to the spot. All that lights the room is the single bacta tank and Etain’s near-lifeless, comatose form floating in the fluid. Though he knows, logically, that her medical supports are hooked up to numerous fail-safes, panic still grips him.

The backup generators grind to life, and the emergency lights blink on, lighting the room in red. 

It’s less than comforting. 

He finds his frustration and gathers it back down in his chest, and leaves her without a goodbye. He passes the lab---noting Mereel and Uthan still worked despite the outage---and stops only to gather the outer layers he needs to survive the bitter cold. 

The door opens under his press to the wall panel.

A dark figure stands in the snow. 

A sharp wind bursts across the clearing, throwing snow and ice in every direction, and as it passes---so does she. There and gone, in a breath and a breeze.

He wants to say the pressure is getting to him. The anxiety, the frustration, the failure. 

But he knows better.

And that knowing only weighs heavier on his heart.

[dead-inside-mcgee]

Controlling a marionette Part 2

Edited by: @blog-griffin-me <3 <3 <3

Summary:  Robbie sleep like a rock through out the rest of the day and the night. Chase on the other hand did not.

After yesterday, Henrik looked much better. His hair and nails were cut, and Marvin must have used a spell of some kind because all the bruises and scratches on his face were gone. He was still skinner than a rail but at least he didn’t look like he was about to die.

 He was wearing his usual doctor outfit and a surgeon's mask.

 “Hey, doc. You doing alright?” Chase greeted.

 “I’m doing better.” He pulls him into a small hug.

 “You heading somewhere?”

 “I’m going to introduce myself to this new doctor.” He growls a bit under his breath, letting go of him.

 “Well good luck with that. Oh, by the way, have you seen Marvin?”

 “I think he said he was going to a graveyard or something,” He said before disappearing up the stairwell.

 Chase gulped. So he really was serious.

***

“Why are you being so cryptic?” Chase asked, following the magician around. He kept shoving books and other things Chase didn’t want to know about into his arms without explanation.

 “I’m trying to explain just follow me.” They navigated the cemetery carefully, trying not to bump into or knock over any grave markers.

 They stopped in front of one of the gravestones. Chase recognized the name on it.

 “Robert McLoughlin.” They read in unison.

 “Why are we stopping here? And will you tell me why we are here again?”

 Marvin grabbed the book from the top of the stack Chase was carrying and opened to a ribbon bookmark. “Well you know with Henrik’s return and JJ’s appearance we’ll need more protection, right? Like a guardian of sorts.”

 “And you plan to raise the dead to protect us.” Chase said, not liking how the dots connected.

 “Attaboy!” Marvin cheered.

 “Where do I even start.” He places the books on the ground.

 “You can start by standing back, when I cast a spell.”

 He steps back, slightly ducking behind a tombstone. “Why do you need so many books, if the spells in that one book?”

 Marvin hums. “If this spell doesn’t work I can try one from one of the other books.”

 Everything goes eerily quiet as he begins reading. His eyes glow, his long hair floated around. The wind blew harder, swirling around them, knocking Chase’s hat off and carrying it away.

 Once he finished, everything settled down. There was a long silence, only broken by Marvin clapping his book shut and tossing it on the pile.

 “Welp, next book it-” He didn’t finish. The ground rumbled, and a greyish purple hand shot out of the ground. Chase screeched, Marvin laughed.

 Both of them backed up, the magician grabbing the others arm to keep him from bolting.

 A second hand popped up and out crawled a small, almost child sized zombie. He was wearing a striped sweater, with long stretched out sleeves. In his hand he held a small, worn down teddy bear.

 They were both dumbstruck.

 “D-did you check how old Robert was when he died?” Chase questioned.

 “I-it seems I didn’t…”

 The zombie looked around, looking scared and timid. They both knew they couldn’t just leave him there and neither of them were going to put him back into the grave.

 “This changes some things,” Marvin mumbled, keeping a nervous smile on this face.  

 “What are we going to do?”

 “Take him with us, hope no one asks too many questions and hope Anti doesn’t try anything.” He half-sighs half-groans.

 The zombie finial seemed to talk notice of them and jumped backwards, tripping over his own gravestone. He let out a wail, and started crying, triggering Chase’s parental instinct.

 The father rushes forward. “Hey, hey, Robbie. It’ll be okay.” He pulls him up, patting his head.

 The magician couldn’t help bursting into laughter. “One- one second ago you were terrified of that thing-” he pauses, trying to gain control of himself, “-and the next you’ve adopted it!” He wheezes.

 He scoffs. “Please, I wasn’t terrified, just a bit startled. And I haven’t adopted him!”  

 “Please, that’s what they all say. You give him a nickname in the first three minutes of his existence.” He whips a tear from his eye.

 “I give a lot of people a nickname in the first three seconds of their existence! You gave JJ’s his after only a minute and-a-half.”

 “Come on, Jameson Jackson, JJ was just common sense.”

 Robbie glanced between them multiple times during this this exchange. Clinging onto Chase.

 “Okay this argument is stupid, let’s go home,” Marvin said, swooping up his books.

 “Agreed, let’s go.”

***

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly depending on how you look at it, no one noticed or mentioned Robbie. Guess when you live with this group of weirdos nothing surprises you anymore.

 The only person who even reacted to Robbie, besides JJ who just seemed very confused, was Henrik, and that had more to do with germaphobia than the fact that Chase had a zombie clinging to his arm.  Speaking of Henrik-

 “OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYE!!??” Marvin dumped his books on the floor and ran to explain the clear black eye the doctor had. “What- what did you do?”

 “Calm down! I just got into a fight.” He attempted to brush it off, but Marvin wasn’t having it.

 “Who did this! I’ll kill them!”

 Robbie filenched and hid behind Chase. He gave the zombie a sympathetic look.

 “Hey Marv, aren’t you overreacting a bit? I means he’s a full grown man.” As much as he worried about the doc, he knew how powerful he was.

 “You stay out of this!” Marvin nearly hissed.

 “It was Dr. Jack. He was in my chair, I shoved him, he punched me, it grew from there.”

 “I knew it, we should’ve never trusted that little shit! Did he hurt you anywhere else?” He growls under his breath. “I swear I’ll kill him.”

 “As much as much I’d love for you to kill that poor excuse for a doctor, he’s still one of us. And no he didn’t hurt me.” He grabbed onto the magicians waist before he could run off and do something stupid.

 “Chase, go find a place for Robbie to stay. Henrik, you’re staying with me till I figure out how to fix that bruise.” Neither of them fought with him.

 Chase supposed he could make a makeshift bed out of the bean bag he had and some blankets. He opened the door and jumped back in shock.

 Jameson was standing there, snooping around. He jumps back as well, looking a little irritated.

 “What are you doing in here?”

 “I got a little turned around and walked into this room. I was trying to figure out whose room this was.” He grinned nervously, a second smaller slide appeared, simply reading: “Sorry.”

 “It-it’s okay dude.”

 Robbie stared blankly at the slides.

 JJ stepped out, still looking embarrassed. Chase looked around, nothing seemed out of place so he pushed any suspicion he had aside.  

 He pulled out an old green bean bag and set it in the cleanest corner of his room. With a few blankets and a pillow it looked like a big nest. Robbie curled up into it and passed right out.

 Chase chuckled to himself. If only his own kids would go to sleep that easily. Though he did worry, sense it was still the middle of the day, that tonight he’d have to deal with a fully charged zombie child, but that was a problem for future him.

 He tried to make a mental note of where everyone was currently. Robbie was in his room. Greyson was in the kitchen and from what he knew Jameson was heading to his room. Dr. Jack was in the clinic, Henrik was with Marvin. Everyone was safely inside.

 He knew that, no one would he stupid enough to leave the house at a time like this. Still there was a growing paranoia in the back of his head. Maybe he is just tired or hungry or just on edge with the appearance of two new egos and the reappearance of Henrik.

 He was snapped out of his thoughts by the feeling of someone's eyes on him. He turns to see JJ standing behind him.

“Get lost again?” He asked jokingly.

 He shook his head. “I feel like something bad is going to happen and soon. I want to stay around you.”

 The hair on the back of his neck raised. “Well I’m sure there are better, stronger people you could stick around.”

 He shakes his head again. “No I has to be you. I trust you.”

 Any fear of mistrust he felt toward Jameson vanished in that insenint.

 H̵̢̛̠͈̟͍̐̆̀͞ơ̸͕͙̳̙̣͙͇̜̞̈̈̐͢͠w̧̢̡̛̛̺͓͉̯̩̎̀͆̕ f̛̯̥̻̖̙̤̈̓̍́̅̾̅͞ȏ̬͈̠̺͈̣̂͆̆͐̀͢ͅọ̷̯̦̤̙̀́̔̅̑̈́͘̕͟l̷̖̟͎͇̳̯̩̫̇̏̔̽̆̽͠ͅį͇̙̹̪̫̼͔͕̈̏͗̿̒̉͋̾̚͞s̷̢̢̞͖̺̰̏͐͋͆̃̔̃͠͡͠h̷̙̥̣͈͙͚̾̿̄̇̚͘͞.̧̻̪̼̲̱̟̀̂̿̍̀͆

***

Robbie sleep like a rock through out the rest of the day and the night. Chase on the other hand did not.

 Nightmares were a common thing among the septic household, but this one… Something about it stuck, like it wasn’t just a dream.

 He was stuck in a very cold room, his arms chained above his head. The room was silent; deadly silent. Three figures stood in front of him.

 Henrik, Dr. Septiceye, and… Anti, the cause of every nightmare the septics have ever had. Henrik’s kidnapper and the reason Greyson hasn’t gotten a full night's rest in three weeks.

 Chase had only ever seen the demon once and he’s still not entirely sure it was real. He never mentioned that encounter with anyone else, still believing that he was hallucinating at the time.

 The three of them stood there stock-still, like mannequins. They don’t breathe or blink or show any emotion on their faces.

 He suddenly finds that his arms are free. Carefully and sneaks past them, none of them move or even to notice he’s there. Next he finds himself walking down a hallway covered in doors, It takes him a second but he recognizes the hallway. He’s at home.

 Stumbling a bit he opens the door to his room, except it’s not his room. It’s completely black.

 Something behind him shoved him down. He falls, but it doesn’t feel like falling, more like sinking through cold water. When he landed he found himself in a hallway bathed in red light.

 “I remember this place.” He whispers.

 There at the end of the hallway stood Anti, facing away from him and looking into the room at the end. His kids are in there, he doesn’t know how he knows that but he does.

 “Carmelia! Samuel!” He calls, not sure what else to do.

 The figure turns around, but there’s something different. His eye doesn’t glow nor does his body glitch. He looks sad like he doesn’t want to be doing this.

 He stalks forward; Chase is frozen in place, but unlike the original encounter something changes. Anti falls to his knees looking disdained.

 “J-jack?” Chase stutters. The man shakes his head and points the his left.

 There's a dark room there that wasn’t there before. The red hallway disappears and he’s back in that room he started this nightmare in.

 It sounds like there’s a fight happening somewhere in this room. He can faintly see the outline of two figures but he can’t make out any details.

 There’s a loud grunt and something skids into his view. A dark blue button about the size of his eye. He swoops down to grab it without thinking.

 As soon as it touches the palm of his hand he jolts up in bed. He’s in his room, Robbie curled up in the nest he made for him and the clocking reading three am.

 The dream wasn’t even that scary, not scary compared the the dreams he usually had, he he couldn’t calm his heart beat or steady his breathing.

 He was about to lie back down and try to go back to sleep when he noticed something warm in his hand.

 A dark blue button.  

[wiseabsol]

WA Reviews “Dominion” by Aurelia le, Chapter 10: Rescue

Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6383825/10/Dominion

Summary: For the Fire Nation royal siblings, love has always warred with hate. But neither the outward accomplishment of peace nor Azula’s defeat have brought the respite Zuko expected. Will his sister’s plans answer this, or only destroy them both?

Content Warnings: This story contains discussions and depictions of child abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, and incest. This story also explores the idea that Zuko’s redemption arc (and his unlearning of abuse) is not as complete as the show suggested, and that Azula is not a sociopath (with the story having a lot of sympathy for her). If that doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, I would strongly recommend steering clear of this story and my reviews of it.  

Note: Because these were originally posted as chapter reviews/commentaries, I will often be talking to the author in them (though sometimes I will also snarkily address the characters). While I’ve also tried not to spoil later events in the story in these reviews, I would strongly recommend reading through chapter 28 before reading these, just to be safe.

Now on to chapter 10!

CHAPTER 10: RESCUE

Diving right in, the author’s note. “Ozai’s objective was twofold. To train Azula to keep her head about her in the act”—so no getting distracted by thoughts of romance or sexual pleasure, then—“and to make her skilled enough (and convincing enough) that she could effectively distract her partner and/or make him compliant to her will.” So also heteronormative assumptions from Ozai, then. We also know that this had to be happening after Zuko was exiled but before Azula was sent on her mission, so this training was taking place when she was roughly eleven to thirteen years of age. That is um…well, pedophilic, for one, Ozai, but also far too early for Azula to be mature enough for that, either physically or psychologically (not that any of this would have been “better” if she was older, because it’s traumatizing regardless). However, grooming like this starts early, so sadly, this is truth in television.

Ah, there was a Dai Li agent in the asylum staff. I did not catch that, but it does explain how the Earth Kingdom learned that Zuko was missing that night, in addition to Azula breaking out.

Anyway, on to the chapter itself. Azula is incognito as a peasant, which is probably a cute look for her. Azula is pretending to be Rai’s cousin, which isn’t a bad plan on Rai’s part, even if Azula snootily think they look nothing alike. Then we get a mention of the late Lu Ten with his “sleepy eyes.” I wonder if that’s a dig at his Earth Kingdom features, or if Lu Ten was legit always tired from war training. Given that this is about the physical appearances of relatives differing, I’m guessing the former.

Azula shows some paranoia about the pirates possibly recognizing her and planning to turn her in for a bounty, but she dismisses the thought quickly. And really, why would they recognize her at this point? They don’t know that she escaped from Ember Island, barely anyone has seen her for four years, and Rai gave a reasonable excuse for her presence on the ship. I’m sure the pirates are too caught up in their own affairs to give Azula much thought, but I’m sure that Azula, who was rather used to being the center of attention, might have some trouble believing that.

Rai, though, definitely knows who Azula is, given that she treats Azula with “grating familiarity” and “deference by turns” and knows how Azula likes her baths.

“She had deliberately avoided looking in any mirrors when she left the house on Ember Island”—nice callback to her hallucination in the show! I’d be spooked of them too in Azula’s position.

“Her split lip had knit almost completely in the intervening days, to a tender pink that Azula knew from experience would not scar”—so Azula has had her lip split enough times to know if this will leave a lasting mark. Given how much lipstick she wore in the show, this suggests that Azula probably does have a scar or two on her lips.

“She never used to bruise so easily”—there are also some awful implications here, but the more pressing point is that Azula’s health has taken a hit from her time in the asylum.

“Leave it to her clumsy brother to injure someone during sex, Azula reflected wearily. Sometimes she wondered how Mai put up with him. But he was probably a lot nicer to Mai, since he cared for her at all. Azula thought that probably made a difference, when people had sex.”—That Azula has to guess this is heartbreaking. Also, this means that she never once felt loved while having sex. I wouldn’t expect her to, but it’s a painful reminder that her only experiences with it have been violent.

Azula then second-guesses herself, in this case about why she bothered to put on makeup at the house. My guess is that it made her feel more like herself, which she must have needed after those years in the asylum. She admonishes herself for, essentially, questioning if she should have done things differently. Like many abuse victims after the fact, she is policing her own thoughts here, reminding herself that her abuser—Ozai—wouldn’t like seeing her so “weak.” She also thinks that he would be “right” to hate her for it, when really, this is the normal response to getting hurt. Azula has a lot of lessons to unlearn. We also learn that Azula used to see hallucinations of Ozai, too, which is upsetting.

Rai, when she walks in on the still naked Azula and sees the bruises, comments on it: “With men like that, it never stops. No matter what they promise.” However, I doubt that Azula is ready to face that realization about her father—that no matter how much she gave to him, he would never stop hurting her, because she would never be enough. “That was not the first indication Rai had given that she escaped an abusive relationship, and believe Azula had just done the same. She was content enough to let the cook keep thinking that”—except that it actually is true for Azula, given how Ozai and Zuko treated her.

We get an interesting bit of characterization after this. “It was the respect Rai afforded her . . . that made the princess truly wary. If she were the same breed of royalty as Zuko, she might think this a natural consequence of her noble bearing, and no more than she was due. But Azula was second-born, and she knew that it was not enough to be owed obedience, loyalty, or love. You had to exact it. You had to earn it. It would not simply be given.”

Three out of four of those makes sense. However, love isn’t something that anyone should have to “earn.” It should be freely given, especially between family members—which, of course, is not something that the adults in Azula’s life taught her. Or, in Ozai’s case, thought advantageous to teach her.

Azula, in her musing about Rai and the cover story she gave her, raises a point about Zuko gutting their high military command and “beggaring” the realm with war reparations. I wonder how much truth there is to this, or if Azula’s view of Fire Nation superiority is coloring her perspective on the matter.

Moving on, Azula is approached by Rai’s assistant, a pre-pubescent boy who has a crush on Azula. “Azula saw that he still had all his teeth. Quite an accomplishment among this lot.” Oh lol at her internal snark. The boy asks her out, but Azula shoots him down. Rai reproaches her for that, and apparently this is a conversation that they’ve had before, because Azula mentioned to Rai that the boy would like anyone with prominent breasts who wasn’t over thirty, which Rai didn’t appreciate. I wonder if it’s the cynicism about guys or the dig at Rai’s age that Rai didn’t like.

“And people wondered why she lied, when she got looks like that for telling the truth, Azula considered. She learned a long time ago which option served her better. And anyway, she shouldn’t care what a peasant thought of her.”—Except Azula does care what Rai thinks because Rai reminds her of Ursa. Also, Zula, this is where the sentiment of “Azula always lies” came from.

“‘I knew his like once,’ Azula contradicted darkly, thinking of her brother before he got his scar. ‘You shouldn’t let the helpless exterior fool you.’”—Azula, honey, the kid is twelve. Don’t project your baggage with Zuko onto him.

“‘Really?’ the cook asked in genuine surprise. ‘I hadn’t thought—’”—Rai is assuming that Azula means a nice young man who she got romantically involved with, and is surprised, because as far as Rai knows, no one ever courted Azula. Her thoughts wouldn’t make the jump to Zuko, because that’s not a connection that most people would intuitively make. Azula, on the other hand, has a hard time distinguishing between familial and…I don’t want to say romantic, but romantic bonds, because of the incestuous abuse she went through.

Rai is actually aware of the incest, albeit not between Zuko and Azula, but we’re still getting to that reveal. As it is, Rai confirms that she knows Azula by almost calling her “my lady.”

After that, Azula has a conversation with some of the ship hands. There is an amusing moment where Azula thinks that Mai would be disgusted by the flamboyant outfit of the captain, and a less amusing moment when it’s mentioned that one of the crewmen wanted to get into Azula’s pants after she “officially” boarded the ship. Said crewmen calls Azula a whore, she retorts with her characteristic sarcasm, and he tries to attack her, but is held back by his crewmates. We learn that this charmer’s name is Lee, and doesn’t like being ordered around by women, so he’s definitely going to be a problem moving forward. After this, Azula follows Rai into town, albeit at a distance. I get why Azula’s instinct to spy on Rai is there, but a part of me is also like, “Maybe you could have just asked her some questions first, Zula?”

Next we meet up with Iroh! Hi Iroh! He’s arrived at the Fire Nation to check on Zuko and the post-Azula’s escape situation. It turns out that General Shin, the mole in the previous chapter, has been murdered in a gruesome way. This had to have been ordered by someone at court, who made the same connection that Zuko did. I suspect that the killers being loyalists to Azula and Ozai is probably right, but honestly, it could have been anyone, since Shin betrayed his country and the royal family.

Iroh hears other rumors on his way to the palace, some closer to the truth than others. “But hearing so much slander and baseless speculation against his nephew made Iroh’s blood boil”—Iroh, you should know that there has to be some kernels of truth in the gossip. You’re part of the White Lotus, catch up, buddy.

We learn that most of the palace kitchen staff was replaced after someone tried to poison Zuko’s food. There’s probably been a lot of turnover in general, between Azula dismissing most of her staff and Zuko replacing most of his. Interestingly, there hasn’t been any more assassination attempts since Lu Ten was born, possibly because it would have meant that the cleverer Mai or Iroh would have become Lu Ten’s regents, and would be harder to manipulate than Zuko. That being said, given what seems to be Mai’s fertility problems and how difficult Lu Ten’s birth was, I’m surprised that no one gunned for Lu Ten after he was born. Sure, the response of the royal family would have been filled with fire and blood, but what would they do afterwards? Unless Mai could have another child, which seems unlikely, they would have been facing a succession crisis. A lot of people would have been eager to take advantage of that opportunity.

Anyway, Iroh learns some of Zuko’s movements as of late, and we get the detail that Zuko burned his and Mai’s—once Ozai’s—bed. I can’t say that I blame him, considering that that is likely where Azula was assaulted. There’s also something rather, uh, skin-crawly about the fact that not only was Lu Ten presumably conceived there, but (SPOILER) so was the child that Azula aborted.

After this, Iroh goes to find his nephew, and overhears Mai and Lu Ten’s nanny arguing over whether Zuko should be left alone with his son. Mai, despite being livid with Zuko, says that he would never hurt Lu Ten and would sooner hurt himself. The nanny, however, is pretty sure that Zuko will hurt himself, and I’m like, “Yeah, nanny’s got a point here, Zuko’s losing it right now.”

Iroh immediately picks up on the fact that Zuko and Mai’s relationship is rocky, though doesn’t hazard a guess as to why. He also wonders if “keeping certain aspects of their family from Zuko” was the right call. I would say no, given that it meant that Zuko was unprepared for Azula’s behavior after she was triggered, and he might have had a better idea of how to respond had he known. Also, Iroh should have told the doctors what he learned, as gross as he found it. It’s not like the doctors could help her if they didn’t know what her underlying problems were.

Iroh remembers his last visit to Ozai, when he accused his brother of sexually abusing Azula. Ozai at first tries to deny it, then shrugs it off when he realizes that Iroh won’t buy the lie. “He had been just the same as a child, never clinging to falsehoods as most children would when caught in a lie, but admitting ugly truths with a studied disdain. As if lying were a game he chose not to play anymore, because it had lost its fun. A stale joke not worth examining further, and wasn’t the other person fool for paying any mind to it?” This is very creepy.

“Iroh should have known that he could never be trust with a child—any child—even one so obviously suited to him as Azula. Especially one so obviously suited to him as Azula.”—Two things, Iroh. First, there’s subtle demonization of Azula going on here. Second, she didn’t resemble Ozai when she was a very young child. Ozai molded her after himself in large part because you and Ursa took a hands-off approach to her. Azula might have turned out very differently had you been more of a presence in her life. This is why Aunt Tam scowls at you from the AU.

The conversation continues for a while, with Ozai pointing out that Zuko hates Azula, and Iroh internally denying that. “But his sparing Azula and seeking her recovery were proof enough [that Zuko loved Azula] for Iroh.” I think they’re both right. Zuko does love Azula, but that love is buried under a lot of baggage.

Iroh comes out of this memory to find Zuko looking like a wreck. There’s a bittersweet interaction between Zuko and little Lu Ten, then the nanny retrieves the toddler. Iroh and Zuko start talking—Iroh notices that Zuko keeps apologizing, wracked with guilt as he is—and Zuko is upset at how everyone knows that he burned Ozai.

“‘They’re servants. They talk,’ Iroh reminded him patiently, remember that Zuko had never been particularly good with people, and couldn’t be expected to know this.’”—And this is the man you put on the throne. Granted, he was the only viable option, but still, Iroh. Maybe you should have insisted that he come to a few White Lotus seminars to learn this stuff?

They start getting into the subject of how Ozai abused Azula, and Iroh remembers how he found out: “He heard it in her soft words, read it in her fingers straining, eyes as empty as a doll’s. Dead on the surface, screaming underneath.” Yeah, we’ll get to THAT scene eventually, but this also tells us that Azula was almost certainly too traumatized by her training for her be “convincing” at sex. She was disassociating during that incident with Iroh, but that still reads more like fear and desperation than seeming into it. Honestly, Ozai, maybe you should have just waited until she was older and found a nice sex worker to instruct Azula in this stuff. Albeit that wouldn’t have ended well for the sex worker, and that would have meant yielding control of the situation to Azula and said sex worker, but like. If you had to do something like this—which you definitely didn’t, let’s be clear here—there had to be less awful ways to go about it.

Anyway, Zuko quickly realizes that he’s not telling Iroh anything new about Ozai and Azula, and Zuko—in his outrage over Iroh not saying anything about this to him or Azula’s doctors—almost admits what happened on the night that Azula escaped. Iroh jumps to the conclusion that maybe Zuko killed Azula, and that’s why he’s acting so guilty: “It would have been self-defense, or an accident. It had to be, but Zuko would blame himself, Iroh knew. That was the kind of man his nephew was. Iroh knew the kind of man his nephew was.” You most certainly do not, Iroh. I think that Iroh is invested in believing that Zuko is better than the rest of his family and can redeem it, though. This makes him blind to the fact that Zuko still has problems rooted in abuse. To be fair, Zuko made a lot of progress towards becoming a better person over the course of the series, but that was also when he was apart from the toxicity of his core family. Stepping back into it was bound to dreg up behavior like this, because Zuko never properly worked through it. He ignored the problem, rather than face it, because it was easier. Basically, the poor kid needed some therapy where his sister and parents were concerned, but didn’t get it.

“But his denial came swiftly enough that Iroh knew it was the truth.”—Yeah, Iroh, Zuko didn’t kill Azula. He raped her. Your pick as to which of those things is worse.

Zuko admits that Mai knows what happened, but I don’t see Mai spilling those beans to Iroh. Iroh also thinks that “[Zuko] looked almost scared, ashamed, terribly lonely. All things he had no business being.” Oh Iroh, no, Zuko definitely earned this. Mind you, this is not a productive way for Zuko to be spending his time, because becoming a recluse means he’s not dealing with the political conflict around him OR helping make it up to Mai and Azula.

The conversation turns back to Ozai, and while both Zuko and Iroh agree that Ozai should be executed for what he did, there would be no way to explain it without revealing the abuse that Azula went through. They don’t actually say the last part, but that’s what would have to happen, and Azula would be horrified to have it revealed. It would also cause a scandal that would either damage her reputation or make people feel sympathy for her, the latter of which wouldn’t be good for Zuko, politically-speaking. Though who knows, the people might be like, “Hell yeah, you go kiddo, burning your rapist father!” Or maybe not. Kinslaying is probably a no-no in their culture. Not that it stopped Ozai, but still.

Iroh reminds Zuko that he can’t just kill people because he’s the Fire Lord, like Ozai did, and naturally Zuko freaks out at the implication that he is anything like his father. The first step to moving away from abusive patterns is in acknowledging where those similarities are, though, Zuko. As a side note, Iroh, what even is the point of a hereditary monarchy if the king’s word isn’t law? I’m being a little sarcastic here, but that is why people squabbled over thrones as much as they did throughout history—because it meant being able to do whatever you wanted, at least while your reign lasted.

“‘If you kill him, Azula will never forgive you.’”—I mean, probably not. I’m not sure that she’s fully realized that he was abusive to her yet. I think there were points during her training where she knew that something was wrong, and that Ozai might end up killing her, but once she wasn’t in immediate danger, she could justify his actions to herself. After all, the alternative was that she’d invested herself into someone who could never love her and was only using her, and that is a terrifying and humiliating realization to have, and would have made her feel even more alone. This is another one of those, “How would Aunt Tam’s inclusion have effected this?” sort of thing. Azula is nineteen in this fic. Would she have been able to make more progress in recognizing Ozai’s abusiveness earlier, had she had a healthy adult relationship as contrast? I would hope so, but I’m not sure.

Moving on, Zuko’s response to this is that Azula will never forgive him anyway, and Zuko will never forgive himself, so why not just kill Ozai? Iroh tries to appeal to Zuko’s better nature here, but honestly, the best reason to give Zuko is that it would be political suicide, which—while Zuko might not care about how it affects him—would negatively impact Mai and Lu Ten. That might have a chance of scaring Zuko straight.

Zuko admits to surrendering to his “lowest instincts,” and a part of me is like, “Iroh, when you realize down the road that (SPOILER) Azula is pregnant, are you going to put these two things together?” I would think that he is smart enough to figure it out, buuuuut again, he has blind spots where Zuko is concerned, and incest is not a conclusion that most people would jump to.

“But Iroh could not help him take it back. He didn’t even know what it was.” There is no taking it back, Iroh. Zuko can’t un-fuck this situation.

In any case, Iroh is going to step in to make sure Zuko survives, even if Zuko doesn’t care about his own survival. Good on you, Iroh, and good luck.

Shifting back over to Azula, she’s shooting down Rai’s messenger hawk to Iroh. That hasn’t been revealed yet, but that is what’s going on here. The bowmaker whose bow she borrowed is not pleased, while the waif who watched her shoot down the bird thinks she’s pretty cool. Azula thinks that her hallucinatory mother should be scolding her for killing animals and threatening small children, and that “defenseless little creatures should know by now to stay away from her . . . Even the stupid turtleducks had that much sense.” This is mildly painful because it’s Azula putting herself down, but also mildly funny in light of the defenseless little creature that will eventually come under Azula’s care.

In any case, the stall-keeper and the kid go tell on Azula for killing the bird, and Azula makes a reference to Toph: “At least the Beifong girl has some excuse, using her feet to see as she did….” Toph and Azula’s potential friendship always intrigues me in fanfic, though who knows if such a thing will form in “Thrones.”

“‘It was that little colonist, with her Fire eyes.’ The earthbenders exchanged a look that Azula couldn’t decipher from her vantage.”—Alright, so the earthbenders have been told to be on the lookout for Azula.

“‘She wasn’t a customer . . . She didn’t even buy anything….’”—I FEEL YOUR PAIN, WEI JIN! RETAIL IS THE WORST!

“Father would, but he was in prison… Soon, she promised herself. And him.”—Girl, let him rot in prison. He deserves it.

Moving on, Azula starts to read Rai’s coded message to Iroh, and feels stung by the betrayal. Betrayal is never going to stop hurting, Zula. The message, in any case, tells Iroh that Azula is traveling incognito, that General How is likely to start a war if he succeeds in killing Azula, and some of Azula’s movements.

“She wondered what clumsy lie Zuko would tell to cover his mistakes this time, and if Iroh and his friends would find him out. Mai had probably discovered the truth already, if she knew that knife-wielding traitor….” Azula maintains a grudging respect of Mai’s competence, even after Mai turned on her. She’s still upset by it, though, if her tears are any indication.

“Her uncle lived in Ba Sing Se now, she recalled, though she couldn’t say just how she knew.”—So her talks with Iroh towards the beginning of her stay in the asylum are murky to her, meaning that she probably doesn’t remember revealing Ozai’s abuse to him.

Azula dismisses the idea of killing Rai, because she doesn’t want to leave a trail of bodies behind her. I’m trying to remember if Azula has actually killed anyone in the backstory established in this fic thus far? I’m thinking that she hasn’t.

We get a funny callback to the series with the enthusiastic merchant on the docks, before Azula returns to the ship. There is also this darkly funny passage as she goes into the captain’s chamber: “In her experience, it was usually enough to simply act purposeful, and no one would question your purpose. A lesson her brother could take to heart. She conceded it might be harder to manipulate appearances with a quarter of your face burned off, but Zuko didn’t even try.” I should not find this amusing, but the audacity of it makes me smile.

Azula then vandalizes the captain’s world map by drawing the Pai Sho grid over it and then begins to forge a new message from Rai to Iroh. During this process, she realizes that Rai was a cook in the palace kitchen and one of the people she banished. She also remembers that Rai was relieved to go, but Azula never followed up on that. Azula admonishes herself for not making this connection sooner, and for trusting Rai like she did her friends.

“But half-hanged? Was she supposed to be in some danger here?”—Holy god, YES, Azula, you’re in a lot of danger! The Earth Kingdom wants to execute you for showing them up!

“A forgery had gained her father his throne”—Azulon’s will, no doubt—“with some timely intervention from her mother”—This was implied in canon, but this confirms that Ursa had a part in Azulon’s death. Apparently Ozai taught Azula how to forge messages early, because of course he did.

“That crafty old bastard could do with a dose of humility anyway.”—Honestly, Iroh, it’s kind of true. You and Azula have more in common in terms of your strategic minds than you think.

“With both of us at it, I’m sure we shall eventually succeed.”—LOL, Azula. Never change.

Azula, with the forged message in tow, robs Rai’s things, including what she briefly worries might be Rai’s life savings. The fact that the thought does give her pause is a reminder that Azula has a conscience, even if she ignores it.

Oh lord, so Azula goes looking for food, and I forgot that Lee decides to attack Azula at the end of this chapter. First he does her the favor of revealing that there is a bounty on her head, including wanted posters. Then he reveals that he’s put blasting jelly on the floor of the hold, because he’s A.) An idiot, and B.) Wants to scare Azula into letting him rape her before he hands her over to the authorities. He’s a real piece of work.

In the ensuing fight, he manages to pin her down, though she bites his tongue and thinks, “It was no defense her father ever taught her, but it served” and my skin crawls. After that, Azula sets his beard on fire, which gets him to let her go. She then knocks him out, but vomits afterwards. “When had she ever been this squeamish? It wasn’t as if she killed him….” I’m pretty sure Azula is reacting to shock from the attempted sexual assault here, and to the reminder of the violations she’s already experienced. Her body remembers, even if her brain is scrambling away from the thought.

“Granted, she had only ever killed one person, and then only technically, since he came back to life.”—So Azula is confirmed to have never actually killed anyone. Good to know!

“For Azula, it was not a matter of wanting to kill anyone. It was a matter of them needing to be dead. She allowed that her brother might be an exception. But then sometimes, she thought he just brought that out in people.”—This makes her very different from Ozai, who took pleasure in dominating over and killing people. Guy basically had a hard-on while burning the Earth Kingdom countryside.

Moving on, Rai finds Azula in the aftermath of the fight and is horrified on Azula’s behalf. Azula immediately reveals that she knows that Rai is a traitor, and Rai is upset at this turn of events—she genuinely wanted to help Azula—though Azula doesn’t see that, instead thinking that Rai is pretending. Azula makes a cynical comment to that effect, which shows us that she’s internalized Ozai’s belief that all people are selfish at heart. Rai, bless her, reveals the death sentence hanging over Azula’s head.

She also tries to get Azula to consider trusting Iroh, but Iroh burned that bridge years ago. He was, after all, the one who said, “She’s crazy and has to go down” to Zuko. He’s also biased in Zuko’s favor, and didn’t tell her doctors some very pertinent information about her, so I don’t think he’s equipped to help Azula. At best, he could hide her, but that wouldn’t be the freedom she wants and needs.

“The cook just gazed sadly at her, the sort of look her mother used to give her when Azula said something unkind.”—Another comparison to Ursa. New AU Idea: Rai adopts Azula and they sail the seas together as pirates. Let’s be honest, Azula would have fun as a pirate queen.

Rai is unsurprised when Azula reveals that she stole her money, and a part of me wonders if Rai purposefully made the money easy to find. After all, she presumably hid money from her abusive husband, so she might have more skill with concealing her valuables than Azula thinks.

“Be thankful it wasn’t your life I took, traitor. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it.”—Yeah, Azula has a conscience, however much she tries to pretend that she doesn’t.

Azula decides that it’s time to leave and doesn’t bother gathering some food before she goes, even though she does think about it. I think she’s too upset to bother, even though it would be the smarter thing to do, strategically speaking. Buying food from a vendor means she might be spotted by her pursuers, after all. The pirates do notice that her shirt has been torn open, but don’t ask about it, or come after her when she steals one of the lifeboats. In an impressive feat of firebending, Azula makes mist steam from the river to cover her escape, and then has a bit of a cry.

“Not for rescue, as most passengers might do on such craft. She knew how that would end, had always known. Even if she denied it to herself. She didn’t know why she denied it to herself.”—Because it’s really fucking lonely to think that no one is coming to help you, Azula, that’s why. Especially when Rai gave you hope that someone would.

The A/N makes a good point about why the situation with Lee had to go down, and going this route means that Azula has finally succeeded in fending off unwanted sexual advances from someone. Right now, though, Azula is very shaken, so we’ll have to see if her confidence in herself takes a hit from this, or is bolstered.

Once again, thank you for the read, Aurelia! I hope to get to chapter eleven sometime soon!

Sincerely, WiseAbsol    

[violet-bookmark]

Princess of Dorsa, by Eliza Andrews, chapter 6

Chapter 5 was very unexciting and chapter 6 doesn't start off much better: Tasia herself is bored with her lesson and falling asleep. I do love the scenery's description, it is very immersive (it's ironic that I say this about a description that is supposed to arise boredom and sleepiness). Her creep of a teacher notices that she's falling asleep, so he quizzes her about the lesson. She replies way more diplomatically than usual, which is good because it makes her sound more calm and clever than when she just lashes out.

As she describes her creepy teacher, we get some lore from the Wise Men: they wear their hair like medieval monks. That's it. That's the lore.

Also apparently the house of Dorsa was founded by a barbarian who had a wizard brother that he killed, so I guess that's why there hasn't been any magic so far. The book did a great job at making the explanation sound as boring and uninteresting as Tasia found it, so I almost forgot about it. Then suddenly we get this:

"Your father told me earlier today that he intends to make you his true heir," Norix said. "You'll still have to marry, of course, but your father wants you to be the one with the power, not your husband."

I was mistaken, looks like she will have to marry anyways. I understand this in part, but not really. It would make sense for her to marry after they find out who tried to kill her, or at least can rule some possible suspects out. Otherwise they would not only anger the killer by naming her the heir, but also giving him the possibility of getting closer to her and murdering her for real.

Another thing to note is that Tasia's parents had few children for their time and station. I don't know if this is because her father is impotent, because her mother had poor health (which could be, except we don't have any idea of how she and Tasia's brother died) or if they had other babies that died, but it is a massive inconvenient. If House Dorsa is ruling a massive Empire, the more children they have to marry off to other houses, the better.

Her creepy teacher, Norix, proceeds to act all condescending and explain to her that normally, females can't inherit (as if she didn't know) but that given the circumstances, it is time to do a very special exception, despite the fact that Tasia hasn't either shown strong leadership skills nor an interest in the crown.

I am tired of "females can't inherit" being common law in fantasy: the Salic Law was responsible for women not being allowed to ascend to the throne and inherit titles or property for a big part of the medieval age (although it varied depending on the century, some countries didn't have this law while in others it was introduced a lot later, etc. So even realistic fiction authors should double-check their facts). Of couse, even without it, mysoginy was a reality that shaped women's lives in many ways. During the medieval age, women worked on the fields for as many hours as the men did, but in my country they only got the same pay as children purely because of their sex. But those circumstances and the Salic Law were not something unavoidable or that just had to happen, and it is tiring how a lot of medieval fantasy books just expect readers to accept settings where women don't have any power (except for a few exceptions) with no explanation. Sometimes they even have less power than real medieval women; a lot of authors seems to think that for some reason, lower class women never worked? Or did anything apart from having babies, staying in the kitchen or prostituting themselves, really (something that a lot of the time they are portrayed as enjoying, of course). Hell, even high-born women did a lot of remarkable things during the Middle Ages that the majority of people don't know about, either because the men in power didn't want them written in history or because they deemed them less important just because women did them.

But back to the point.

"And I happen to believe that your father's decision is rooted in wisdom. This might be the right time in history - and you might be the right princess in history - for a woman to rule again."

And I happen to disagree, but then again I am not a pervy old man with a monk's haircut, so you know, grain of salt.

Tasia's brow furrowed. She was the right princess to rule the Empire? Norix's sudden proclamation was more than out-of-context and unexpected; it was out-of-character. She was relatively certain that her tutor didn't even like her, let alone think her capable of ruling an entire empire.

Even Tasia thinks he's full of shit.

Norix informs her that they are interrogating the man that was trying to kill her (while cosplaying as a Wise man) but that they are having a hard time getting anything out of him because he can resist truth serum. I was fine with this until:

To resist the truth serum required years of careful, painstaking training. It required poisoning yourself with the serum on ever-increasing doses, tolerating months of sleepless nights and vomiting until one built up an immunity to it,

Wait wait wait, no. Months of sleepless nights? The longest recorded time a person has been without sleeping is 11 days. Not sleeping for days can have very damaging effects on the body; it can cause hallucinations, paranoia and psychosis, along with damage to the nervous system, poor movement coordination and devastating effects on a person's mental health and overall wellbeing. It even messes with your hormones and your entire internal clock, affecting hunger, body temperature, etc. It is rare to die because of lack of sleep but it happens, and I am sure that anybody would die after months of not sleeping, if they hadn't gone insane first.

Tasia reaches the conclusion that it's possible that the Wise Man that tried to kill her wasn't a cheap cosplayer but the real deal, since the means to train somebody to resist the truth serum are expensive. Which means that the one that wanted to kill her was a noble. We don't know exactly what Wise Men do because knowing about their hairdos was more important, but they seem to be teachers to the rich and the poor alike, as well as advisors to nobles. So far, none of them have proven to be master assassins, let alone to have good fighting skills. Why would they send one of them to kill her? No wonder he didn't get the job done. They could have trained a professional assassin to resist truth serum and just have him/her do the deed.

It's also stupid because Wise Men seem to be fairly publicly known as well, so that should make it easier to track down the killer. What makes it worse is that, if the assassin was indeed a Wise Man, he tried to murder her in his Wise Man uniform for everyone to recognize his status, which is extremely dumb.

Norix starts to ramble about how clever she is for having reached that conclussion (... It's not an impressive deduction, and it doesn't make Tasia look clever, but the book look dumb), and he points out that she has an ability to manipulate people, like the guards of Sunfall gate. When Tasia is like "wtf" he reminds her that everyone and their mother knows about Tasia's lovers. Which yeah, Tasia has mentioned before that everyone and their mother does, indeed, know about them. Why is she surprised when she already knows that everybody knows?

"You are many things, my dear girl. Imprudent, churlish, impulsive, mule-headed - these all describe you well. Still..." he said, almost as if to himself, "they are traits you can learn to temper, should you decide to. Traits you could use, even. As your father has. Statecraft, strategy, the right balance of daring and caution. These are things that I can teach you. But loyalty - aaah, loyalty cannot be taught. And the one thing I know you are not is a traitor."

This is... A weird way to phrase it. You could just say that she's a loyal person instead of being like "well, you definitely are not a traitor ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so you'll do". And so far, Tasia hasn't demonstrated any kind of loyalty to the Empire or to anyone else but herself, really. She has mentioned several times that she isn't bothered about politics, her lessons bore her to death and she puts 0 effort into them, and she hasn't thought once about the Empire apart from when the men urge her to (her father, Norix, Cole, etc.), and even then she hasn't had a single thought of her own about it. She hasn't been traitorous either, but she doesn't seem to care enough to be. She only comes across as a selfish brat. Not caring enough to go out of your way to hurt someone or somehing =/= loyalty. Honestly, the only reason that would make me believe that Norix supports her as a ruler is that he believes she will be easily manipulable since she doesn't give a shit, and then, as an advisor, he will be the one with all the power.

Now that I think about it, only the noblemen have ever worried about politics in this book. All the noblewomen we have seen so far are too worried about their lovers and their looks to spare a single thought about politics, despite the fact that they will be their husband's confidantes in the future and they should have notions of how things work to be able to give good advice and to be politically competent as noblewomen. This is not only sexist, it doesn't even make sense. Even Tasia’s mother seemed to be only interested in singing with her pretty exotic birds and was so damn unremarkable that Tasia outright tells us that everyone has pretty much forgotten about her. Not even Disney princesses are so damn politically useless. If the noblewomen in your "gritty" look-at-how-many-times-I-mention-sexual-assault-aren't-I-edgy-esque series fall short at the side of Disney princesses, you're doing something extremely wrong.

After talking about the fact that it was the Emperor's idea and not Norix's to name Tasia the official heir, she remembers how her dad was talking about some of the women that had become Empresses in their own right:

Empress Adela, the warrior-queen who'd saved the nascent Empire after a series of wars that had nearly destroyed it. Adela's father had only two daughters, and the younger one died before reaching adolescence. Rather than marrying Adela off and turning her husband into the heir, he named Adela the heir and never forced her into marriage.

But Tasia is still forced to get married? Why?

Tasia asks Norix why did he tell her before the Emperor could, and Norix says that he wanted Tasia to not be taken by surprise and to do something stupid in front of the Emperor. Great trust you have in her, dude. Somehow, Tasia doesn't take offense on that, which she should. She takes offense when Jos does as much as breathe near her, but Norix insults her to her face and it is A-okay? He's her teacher and everything, but still, she mentioned earlier that everyone should know their station. That he told her beforehand also bothers me because it will make the naming scene far less epic; now that Tasia knows it won't be as interesting or impressive, and far less dramatic.

Out of the blue, but why didn't her father remarry after her mother died? Unless he had a problem, the natural course of action in a society where the upper class needs heirs would be to remarry both for the babies and the extra power. This reinforces my theory about him being impotent. We are given no explanation whatsoever for a lot of things that we should know, so I will headcannon away. No cannon facts can stop me because they don't exist.

After Tasia finishes her lessons she starts to get nauseous because all the responsibility of being an Empress is hitting her at once. Joslyn tries to make her feel better:

"Princess... If it eases your burden any... I want you to know that no assassin will get near you again. Not while I remain in your service"

She is so kind and considerate, I love her.

"That eases my burden none," Tasia said. "I've known you for all of - what? Four hours on the clock? Five? And as you pointed out, the attempt on my life was only last night. Then you suddenly appear today? For all I know, you are my assassin's accomplice, weaseling your way into the palace to finish the job."

Why are you like this, Tasia? Okay, you're worried about the assassin, but throwing sudden accusations isn't going to help you. And since when you have suspected Joslyn of anything? This comes completely out of the blue. "That eases my burden none, I won't rest until I find the mastermind behind the assassin." Would have been a way better response while still coming across as angry and aloof. Her actual answer not only makes her come across as angry but as a total idiot as well.

[...] to the Princess's private apartments, at which point Joslyn slipped ahead of her and inspected all three chambers - the antechamber, Tasia's bedchamber, the servant's bedchamber. Tasia put on a show of the inspection being superfluous and unnecessary, but secretly she was glad for the guard's diligent caution.

If you are grateful for it, why did you put on a show and got mad? The only thing you will get doing this is that Joslyn will be less eager to inspect the rooms next time. Granted, she answers to the Emperor, but if you're telling her that the inspection doesn't need to be done, she might think twice about it next time. Why is the author doing this? This is not cute, this is not "banter, or "rivals to lovers" or whatever, this is just stupid and makes Tasia look immature.

Whatever it was, Tasia had to admit to herselt that she felt just a little bit safer as she crossed the treshold into her private chambers.

A shame that this won't stop you from being an asshole to Joslyn.

[fucking-hydra]

On the serum thing, what if you had Steve and Bucky (or if you’re extra sadistic, add the other two as well) and forced them to pick between things. Like one of them would be forced to suffer for the other and because they’re both self-sacrificing assholes it would just end up in one agreeing to suffer and the other hating it.

*sighs dreamily* Yeah. Yeah that’s exactly the kind of good shit I’m here for. This definitely got away from me so it’s really really long, I’m sorry.

Warnings for this one because it’s particularly brutal (as if my other ones aren’t, but still): human experimentation, hallucinations, paranoia, body mutilation, unintentional self harm/self mutilation, needles, drugs, gore, emetophobia, graphic description, body horror/gore, hand and mouth gore, so much blood, using one character’s torture to whump another character, and, because this one goes pretty far, dead dove: do not eat.

Most of HYDRA’s operations have been shut down, but there’s still the stray operation that had slipped through the cracks, so far off the books that their information wasn’t even encoded in SHIELD’s data during the leak. While these operations are rare, they’re vicious and strong, with knowledge and resources that are beyond anything that previous HYDRA intel could tell the Avengers.

Which is why Steve and Bucky are in a room with vibranium walls and flooring, a vibranium reinforced door, and vibranium chains keeping them on opposite sides of the room from one another, both of them groggily waking from the drugs they were dosed with in battle. There’s two other sets of bonds on the other two walls, but no one in them.

Steve comes to first, testing his bonds and looking up at Bucky. “You okay?”

Bucky blinks, nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, things are a little fuzzy, but I’m good.”

Steve doesn’t have a chance to ask anything else when a HYDRA agent walks into the room with a briefcase in hand, grinning brightly.

“Ah, gentlemen, you’re awake! Good, because I have a proposition, and I think you’re going to love this.” The man sets the case on the floor, opening it to reveal a single large syringe. “This is a very high dose of injectable LSD, mixed with a few other fun ingredients, modified to last in the bloodstream longer than normal, but with no less potency.”

“How much did you take, because you clearly can’t count that there’s two of us and one syringe,” Steve says dryly, and the agent laughs.

“You’re right, there’s only one. Which means one of you gets to choose who takes it. And since you’re being so rude, I’ll let Barnes pick.”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take it.”

“Buck, no, I can take it,” Steve says, and the agent laughs.

“Mr. Barnes has already made his choice, Rogers. So let’s see what this does, hmm?” The agent approaches Bucky with the syringe. “Attack me, and all you will accomplish is more pain for yourself and Rogers. I do not have the keys to release you, so it isn’t worth fighting.”

The agent injects the drugs into Bucky’s arm, Bucky stiffening slightly at the insertion of the needle, and then the agent steps back, smiling. “It should only take a moment for the drugs to start working.”

In seconds, Bucky’s head lolls back, thumping against the wall behind him, eyes rolling into the back of his head. It only takes a few more seconds for Bucky’s entire body to seize, Bucky’s eyes snapping forward, pupils blown wide, as he screams, throws himself at the end of his chains and thrashing wildly.

“I’ll fucking kill you! Get off of me! Get the fuck off of me!” He screams, growling low in his throat and biting at the empty air in front of him.

“Bucky, Bucky it’s okay, no one’s going to hurt you!” Steve shouts across the room, but Bucky doesn’t seem to hear him, his growls turning into genuine snarling noises as he starts to foam at the mouth like rabid dog, lunging at the ends of his chains strong enough that Steve can already see the blood starting to drip from Bucky’s wrist and ankles where the cuffs sit.

“Buck! Buck you’re okay, you’re going to be okay, just breathe,” Steve says, pulling at his own chains in a desperate attempt to reach his best friend.

Almost as suddenly as Bucky had become aggressive, he goes limp, dropping into a heap of limbs on the floor as he sobs, tucking his knees to his chest and curling up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth as the force of his sobs wrack his entire body.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, please I’ll do better, I’ll do better, not the cane, not the cane, Commander, please,” Bucky pleads, words slurred and muffled behind his knees, and Steve freezes, stares at Bucky and tries to figure out if Bucky’s hallucinating or having a flashback.

“Buck, you’re safe, it’s okay, he’s not here, you’re here with me, and you’re going to be okay,” Steve says, and he can’t help the tears that start to stream down his own face just watching his friend suffer.

“Oh, don’t worry, Rogers, this will only last another thirty minutes or so. Then I’ll leave, and your next presenter will arrive with the choice you get to make,” the agent says, and Steve glares at the man, so angry that he’s speechless.

As promised, the drugs wear off 30 minutes later, and Bucky collapses, panting and whimpering as he sees the damage he’d done to his own body from pulling at the chains.

The door opens and another agent steps in with a new briefcase, trading places with the current agent, who packs up his own briefcase and leaves.

“So, Captain Rogers, you’re the one who gets to choose this time, and this time the injection is–”

“I’ll do it,” Steve says, and the agent raises her eyebrows.

“So eager,” she says, “But okay.”

She opens the case, bringing the syringe over and injecting it into Steve’s arm.

Bucky watches as Steve squeezes his eyes shut, groaning and shifting uncomfortably on the floor, face turning red like he’s overheating, and Bucky could recognize a fever anywhere after the years he spent trying to take care of a young Steve.

Then Steve leans to the side and throws up, coughing and hacking up vomit filled with swirls of blood. The puddle spreads across the floor until Steve is left sitting in his own vomit, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself, bruises slowly spreading out from under Steve’s clothes and covering his body.

Bucky watches in horror as Steve’s hands and feet start to turn black, as Steve starts to wheeze like he can’t breathe properly, sounding even worse than he used to when he was asthmatic.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, and Steve moans, curls in on himself clutching his stomach.

“Hurts, can’t… can’t feel my hands,” Steve says, whimpering, and then he collapses on his side, his body seemingly giving up on him as he lays curled up on the floor in a puddle of vomit that grows larger as Steve heaves, throwing up stomach acid.

Bucky pulls forward on the chains before he realizes what he’s doing, then turns to the HYDRA agent, eyes shooting daggers.

“What the fuck did you give him?” he demands, and the agent smiles.

“It’s a lovely mix of ebola and various types of the plague. Fascinating, isn’t it? This is truly beautiful to watch, we’ve never had anyone last this long.”

Bucky growls, lunges at the agent. “Help him! He’s going to die like this, you can’t just let him die!” He shouts, and the agent just shrugs, too far away for Bucky to reach.

“I doubt it, but if he does, we can deal with that. In the meantime, enjoy the show.”

Bucky turns his attention back to Steve, who’s still curled up on the floor, gasping for breath and whimpering in pain, body shaking and shivering, and Bucky can’t tell if Steve’s cold, crying, or just in pain.

“It’s okay Steve, you can make it, you can, you’ll be okay,” Bucky says, more for his benefit than for Steve’s, because he doesn’t know that Steve will make it but he can’t lose him, he can’t.

It takes another 20 minutes for the injection to wear off, Steve’s skin slowly repairing itself and returning to normal, but Steve just lays there, limp and unmoving, hair covered in vomit.

“Steve?”

Bucky waits anxiously for Steve to say something, needs to know that Steve is still alive, and he finally gets his answer in the form of a groan. Bucky lets out the breath he was holding. “Thank god.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. We have some more friends coming in to join you, just wait a moment and I’ll go get them. It was lovely studying you,” the agent says, and then she leaves, the door closing behind her with a resounding click.

“Friends?” Steve asks weakly, and Bucky shakes his head.

“I don’t know. But we’re going to get out of here, Steve, we’re going to make it, I swear to god,” Bucky says, and Steve just nods, not lifting his head from the floor.

Bucky counts four minutes and twenty-seven seconds in his head before the door opens again, and agents drag in two limp bodies, chaining them up in the two empty sets of bonds.

“Nat?” Steve says.

“Peter?” Bucky says at the same time, and they stare at each other and at their teammates, confused.

It only takes a few minutes for Natasha and Peter to wake up, and when they do, both of them immediately evaluate the situation, looking around.

“Are you guys okay? You both look kinda bad, like you actually look your ages,” Peter says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“First of all, respect your elders you little shit. Second, no we’re not doing so great, and third, why the fuck are you two here?”

“Oh, because you got captured intentionally,” Natasha says, and Steve coughs, finally sitting up again with his back pressed against the wall to keep him upright.

“Can we not do this? Until we figure out how to get out of here, it might be a good idea to just focus on surviving.”

The others trade glances, shrugging. “Yeah, okay,” Peter says, seconds before the door opens and a woman comes in carrying what looks like a tool box, smiling.

“Ooh, are we building something? I was in robotics club, I can help!” Peter says cheerily, and the woman laughs while Bucky and Nat glare daggers at Peter, silently willing him to shut up.

“Cute, he’s so excited to get to work. But I’m a bit of a traditionalist, and I like to think ladies go first,” the woman says, turning to Natasha. “So, the option goes to you. I’ve got a plan for these tools, and I can either work with you or the kid. What’s your choice?”

“Me,” Natasha says without hesitating, and Peter whines.

“Aww, come on, Nat, don’t steal all my fun.”

Natasha shakes her head. “You’re like 13, so shut the fuck up.”

“Actually, the quote is ‘I’m 11, so shut the fuck up,’ but that was close. Besides, I’m 16, so you’re wrong.”

The HYDRA agent laughs. “Family bickering, how adorable. We have work to do though, so let’s get to it.” She opens the toolbox, pulling out a wrench.

“The goal today is to learn how quickly your bodies heal, because all four of you have some very strange metabolisms. For this particular part of the experiment, I get to be creative. I’ll admit, I’m a little disappointed you didn’t let the kid do it, I wanted to hear him scream. Please resist, I really want to hit him.”

The agent grabs Natasha’s left leg, squaring up the wrench and swinging it into Natasha’s knee, shattering the bone. Natasha bites down on her scream, only letting out a small whimpering noise, and the agent sighs.

“See, you’re ruining my fun. This is why I like the kid better.”

The agent grabs Natasha’s right arm, smashing at her elbow twice until there’s a sickening crunch and Nat’s arm is bent the wrong way, Natasha actually screaming in the process. “You’re going to fucking die,” she gasps, and the agent laughs.

“Some day, sure, but not today.” She digs in the toolbox, pulling out a set of pliers.

“So, how long do you think it’ll take for your hands to be manicurable again?” she asks, and Natasha stares at the pliers, eyes wide.

“I don’t…”

“Hey! Why not mess up mine? My nails could use a good trim,” Bucky tries, but the agent just laughs.

“You already got to play the game once today, you don’t get to take her fun away.” The agent uses the pliers to get a hold of Natasha’s thumb nail, yanking the nail out quickly and efficiently, and Natasha lets out a sob, staring at the blood dripping from the wound.

The agent pauses. “Ooh, I just had an idea.” She grabs Natasha’s jaw, prying her mouth open and using the pliers to reach in and rip out one of Natasha’s molars, quickly pulling her hand out as Natasha screams. “Yeah, that’s pretty, let’s keep doing that. Do you think you can regrow teeth?”

Natasha shakes her head, clenching her mouth shut even as she winces at the pain in the back of her mouth. “No, please,” she says softly, and the woman sighs.

“Fine, fine. We’ll find something else.” She digs through the toolbox and pulls out a box cutter, grinning. “Hmm. I’ll make you a deal. This can be the last part, but only if you let me pull two more teeth. Deal?”

Peter watches in horror, pulls at his bonds. “Hey, no, I might be able to regrow them! Why not test on me? It’ll be fun, come on, I promise!”

The agent shakes her head. “Nope, not your turn kid. As much as I wish it was. Well, Romanova?”

Natasha hesitates, considers her options, then opens her mouth. The agent grins, picks up the pliers. “See, you’re smart, I admire that.” She pulls out one of Natasha’s top canine teeth and one of her bottom incisor teeth, gathering the teeth in a small pile on the floor. “Oh, I’m definitely making a necklace out of those later.”

She picks up the box cutter. “Now let’s see, I’m not a very good artist, but I’m sure we can make this work.” She cuts the lower half of Natasha’s shirt apart carelessly, paying no attention to the stray cuts that dig into Natasha’s stomach as she moves the fabric aside, leaving Natasha in a modified crop top.

She carves the box cutter into Natasha’s stomach, tsking when Natasha flinches away. “You’re ruining my drawing, hold still.” When she’s done, she leans back, revealing the HYDRA logo sloppily carved into Natasha’s stomach. “Beautiful. We can see how those cuts heal, and then I want one last thing for us to look at.”

She extends the blade of the box cutter as far as it will go, then plunges it into Natasha’s collar bone, laughing when Natasha cries out, tears streaming down her face.

“Cute.” The agent yanks the blade out, wiping it clean on her pants and placing everything back in the tool box. She stands, walking back to the door. “That’s it for today, but tomorrow, the kid gets to choose! Until then, sleep well, you’ll need it.”

The door shuts, and everyone looks around at each other, terrified.

“So, what else do you think they have planned for us?” Peter asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Don’t know, but it can’t be good. I hate to say it, but she’s right. We’re going to need to rest of we have any chance of making it through this. We can figure out more later.”

Bucky, Steve, and Nat, exhausted from their injuries, fall asleep quickly, but Peter stays awake, staring at the floor, aware of the puddles of blood and vomit in his peripheral vision. Enhanced metabolisms or not, their bodies can’t take this, and eventually they’re going to die. Peter needs to find them a way to escape, and fast.

[generaldevi]

Prognosis

Chapter 6: Stomach Issues

Rating: Mature Pairing: Law x Luffy

Characters: Roronoa Zoro, Nami, Monkey D. Luffy, Trafalgar D. Water Law, Usopp, Donquixote Doflamingo (mentioned), Donquixote Rocinante (mentioned, Dr. Kureha (mentioned), Sanji (mentioned)

Warnings: References to Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Dependency

My part for the @lawlu-events BigBang 2018/19

The story got illustrated by the awesome artist @novicecomics

The way Law thinks about alcohol + work or alcoholism in general does not reflect my opinion. Do not drink and drive/work. Do nothing, that could endanger you or others. Be responsible with any kind of legal drug that you consume!

Chapter 6: Stomach-Issues

Law was restless. He was not sure why he felt like this. The night had been rather relaxing. He had managed five hours of sleep, which was quite a lot for a person like him.

The morning had been eventless. He had managed to eat his breakfast in a relaxed manner. No annoying people had bothered him. The Strawhat had been nowhere in sight. Some folks might call it paranoia, Law called ‘staying safe.’ After breakfast Law went to the doctor’s office, swapped shifts with Dr. Kureha. She sounded a bit buzzed. The room was left in a mess. Good thing, that the cleaning staff took care of it in a swift manner. Law was already waiting for the inevitable to happen. He sat at the desk, waiting for the Strawhat to barge in. One of his friends in whatever condition. But he did not come. There were a few elder people in need of some light medication against nausea, some girls wanting lotion for the blisters on their feet or lotion for their sunburns. One teen had come with a twisted ankle and another person with a migraine was currently resting in one of the prepared rooms. So far, nothing unusual. So far, no Strawhat.

In the last hour no one had come to visit him. It could be, that it was because one of the doctors sharing his shift was way more friendly (especially towards children). But well, nothing Law was concerned about. He disliked children. Their usual friendliness, the innoence, their open manner made him uneasy. Damn, mandatory three-month traineeship on the pediatric ward had been hell. Law wanted a different traineeship. He had three to pick from and Doflamingo had picked for him. He was supposed to be good with children. He was supposed to take care of the future family descendants. Law sighed. Not the things he wanted to think about at the moment. He had to admit, that sitting around at the moment and doing nothing, was not doing him any good. It never did. His mind wandered off to the Strawhat more times than Law liked to admit. Did he finally realize, that the attempts at befriending him had been futile? Probably. It was just a typical thing. It had happened before many times. People always tried to befriend him. Somehow, they constantly thought, he had a cool or special vibe to him or maybe it was due to the fancy clothes from the Donquixote-brand. Law did not care about their reasons. After being declined two, three or more times, they realized that Law had no interest in them. Usually, the attempts at trying to befriend him stopped by then. Law always thought of these people as pathetic beings, like Doflamingo has advised Law. The Donquixote had taught him many things that stuck with Law till today. If these people were sincerely interested in him, they were supposed to try harder! That is what he had said. Cora-san always said, that friends would stick with him, even in critical times. These pathetic attempts at befriending him made Law feel, as if they were not genuinely interested in Law but only in what he represented. A perfect little Donquixote spawn, made and raised to be a loyal pawn. However, something had seemed unusual about the Strawhat. Law could not pinpoint what it was. The cheerful grin, the shishishi or just his presence in general. It had some fairly familiar vibe. With a sigh he took one of the medical books standing next to him. They were outdated, probably just there to look cool and professional. But well, better read something, then being bored.

With every passing minute, with every voice outside the door, that was not the Strawhat his mood dropped a bit further.

When his shift was finally over, he was angry and frustrated. Of course, he had to be right. Of course, no one would be like Cora-san ever again. Trying hard to be friends with him, to get close to him.

Sometimes Law was not quite sure if it was his own fault, that he ended up without friends, or if he could blame being raised by a megalomaniac sociopath. It was always easier to blame others than to admit, that only he could alter his attitude. The exchange of the room was easily made. The cleaning staff did not have much to do. The migraine-patient was still resting. After filing in his report, he left the room. With a grumpy expression on his face, he walked towards the deck.

No. Law was in no mood of idle socialising. He did not want to see any more people than necessary. With a sigh he turned around and walked towards his cabin. The more time he spent with Dr. Kureha, the more Law thought that maybe alcohol was the solution he needed, chemical pun intended.

Grim thoughts spread through his mind as the keycard was pushed through the card system. The door opened and with another sigh Law fell into his bed. Maybe he should have spent the mandatory time-off with the family. Better than feeling yet another disappointment.

Law was not sure how long he had spent brooding in bed. Long enough, considering his alarm clock showed nine in the evening. His shift had ended four hours ago. Wait- what was this noise? Someone was hammering against his door. “Torao!!! I know you are in there! Torao!” Laws eye twitched. No. He had spent too much time thinking about the Strawhat. This was just another auditory hallucination. “Torao?! Are you sleeping?”

With a sigh and the familiar throbbing, that would soon start to be a migraine, he opened the door. “No. But if I was, now I would be awake anyway!” He growled, looking at the over enthusiastic boy in front of him. Why was the damn boy constantly smiling!? Who could be in such a upbeat mood all the fucking time?! “Good that I did not wake you up then! You often look tired!” “Why are you here…?” Law was in no mood for idle talk.

 “I uhm-“ Luffy frowned. He wanted to ask him for the barbeque again. Nami did say, that Torao was just gonna decline again, if he did it the same way as the days before. Stubborn! Who could decline good food this often?! Nami did suggest, that he could fake some kind of disease to spent time with Torao but Usopp said, that Toroa was probably to smart for that. True, then again. He could just try! “I uh- have a stomach ache!” It was the first thing that entered his mind. His eyes were still gleaming, and the corners of his mouth were twitching. It was hard to fake sickness! Luffy was in a good mood, and he wanted to show it! “You have a stomach ache?” Laws voice was monotone. Even though he was a relatively young doctor, he had his fair share of people trying to fake illness. Some because of medicine-addiction, some to get free from work, others due to psychological reasons. All these people had one thing in common, though. They did it way better and realistic than the Strawhat in front of him! The way he starred at him; eyes locked deeply into his. His mouth was twitching to much; his whole posture was tensed up. One did not have to be a genious to recognize these signs. “Are you sure? “N- Yes!” Luffy knew, that liars often looked away. They said that in one of the criminal shows. So, he had to look in Torao’s eyes to make him believe! He stared. Intensely. “Okay. Did you consume something odd?” “No! I did not eat at all! I waited with the dinner until you come. You did not come out on the deck! So, I went to search you! Hn-“ Luffy’s stomach rumbled loudly. He was starved! He had not eaten since noon! That was nearly six hours ago! “You searched me, because I did not come to the deck?” “Yes!” “I thought you came to me because of your stomach issues.” Law suppressed a sly grin. Too easy.

“I-“ Luffys eyes widened a bit, before he started to laugh.“I am not good at lying! Usopp is extremely good at that!” Law was fascinated. How easy the boy could admit, that he was bad at something this substantial. Lying. Who managed to live without lying?! “But yes. I wanted to find you! After talking to the old had, she described me, where your cabin is! Come now! Let us go eat! After ten we cannot eat the deck anymore!” “No, Str-Luffy. I do not want to eat with you. I dislike barbeque, and I do not want to be with either you or your friends on the deck.” For a moment there was a frown on Luffy’s face, before he grinned again.

“Okay!” He turned around, taking a few steps away from the other’s door. Law stood there, frozen. He left. As easy as that? He pushed away the feelings of regret and isolation. Numbness spread through his veins, making it easier to accept. As always. Slowly, Luffy turned his head around, grinning at Law. “If you do not wanna be with us on the deck, then I bring my friends to you! We eat at your cabin!” Law was too shocked to react for a moment. In his cabin- “Wait, no!” This boy. He had not let him down.

„Okay, fine!“Law exhaled, while gently massaging his throbbing temples. This boy gave him a terrible headache. He wished for nothing more than some painkillers, coffee and a cigarette amd maybe a good lay to get rid of these thoughts. “If I go and eat with you once, will you stop bothering me?!” “Yes!” Luffy grinned. He knew, he could convince the other one! “You and your friends will not come to my office room again. If one of you is dying, you will go to one of the other doctors!” “Sure!” Luffy laughed, amused by Laws reaction. He had known, that Law was more than the calm and unapproachable person!

“Come! I am starving!” He reached for the others hand, simply pulling the other one towards him. “Let us go to the others! Nami likes you! Usopp is scared of you! But he is frightened of many things! He will get used to you! Just talk to him about robots or comics! Or insects!”

“Of course you are hungry, so much to stomach problems!” He knew, the other one had been faking! It had been so obvious. He had never witnessed such a pathetic case of faking… in all his years as student or now doctor. Merely observing him lie, had made Law feel awful. Stomach Issues... He had watched Luffy eat. The amount of food the other one had stuffed into himself in the short time Law, had observed him, had been… surprising. Law was curious. Was it a special medical condition? Luffy was not obese; in fact the boy was far from it. He was more of a scrawny person with a hint of muscles. Not enough muscles to justify the intake of the immense amount of calories. Maybe these thoughts would distract him from the annoying company of the Strawhat and his odd friends.

[douxreviews]

The 100 - ‘Red Sun Rising’ Review

“Isn’t this your home?”

This was all about fear.

What is everyone afraid of? Are those fears valid? What reactions are these fears going to bring to pass?

On the moon

Poor, poor Emori. I have to start here because it really broke my heart. She still has such deep seeded anxiety about being on the outside and the people that she loves turning against her. I hate that. I’d say I hope Murphy gives her a real big hug when she comes out of it but things aren’t exactly looking great for him.

How nice for Murphy that he got to be the one that was immune or at least not hit the hardest. It just fits that the ultimate survivor would be the one not overtaken by paranoid rage. Too freaking bad he’s been seemingly infected by something, of course he has survived much worse. He was called out last season for liking being the hero and I think he just proved that point again. He went to Bellamy to try and subdue him before his friend was able to hurt anyone. It would have been more self-preservational to hide and wait it out. In the past, I could’ve even seen him standing guard over Emori before putting himself in Bellamy’s path but he did the hard thing for the good of his friends. Even with Clarke, he was able to recognize that she wasn’t a danger to him and he took the time to talk her down and be responsible for her even though he’s still pissed and needed to get back to subduing Bellamy. It’s a little crazy how much his character has grown on me over these past years and more than a little impressive how effortlessly that character growth has been building and how well Richard Harmon has been at playing this incredibly intricate character.

Of course Clarke is only a danger to herself during the eclipse. She truly always comes from a place of protection and with her own guilty conscience and Murphy constantly reminding her the pain that she’s inflicted, it makes sense that to protect her friends, she’d want to take herself out of the mix. To protect them. What was really interesting though was that it was Abby her mind used to try and convince her to take her own life. Is that saying something about what Clarke thinks motherhood is? Or does it speak to her still holding a grudge against her mom as well as herself? Is her subconscious telling us what’s been nagging at me for these two episodes? That we don’t forgive the good doctor yet for her serious lapses in judgement last season.

Bellamy’s rage and paranoia almost made a beeline to Clarke. I’m not surprised. He probably isn’t surprised. She wasn’t surprised. I just hope it was at least therapeutic for him.

All my gold stars go to Echo. She’s the only one that had to face her demons and was able to overcome them long enough to tranq herself. I’m still shocked at how much I’m finding myself liking her. It wasn’t that long ago that she was on the way opposite side of things than team Bellarke. She was smart and levelheaded. I don’t know why I’d expect anything less from a professional spy, but either way I was very impressed.

Then we had Miller scared of his new home turning on him. I think that’s what the fake bugs crawling into him represented. Maybe the way being in the bunker turned out to be a psychological prison and not the safe haven everyone originally fought for? And Jackson was scared of not being able to save his boyfriend. Of not being a good doctor. He does have a lot to live up to following in Abby’s footsteps. Unless I’m interpreting this whole thing all wrong. I still don’t understand the joint hallucination part of it all.

The way the hallucinations manifested themselves in itself was telling about how these characters perceive themselves. Clarke, Echo and Miller turned everything inward because they see their past actions full of guilt. As much as they tell themselves that they didn’t have choices at the time, they still feel the weight of those choices on their backs dragging them down and in some cases dragging other people down with them. But Bellamy and Emori turned their paranoia outward. They are holding grudges against people that they love. They both have long-held and seriously earned trust issues and are always waiting for the next big betrayal; no matter how surrounded by love and family they are, it can be ripped away. It can turn out to be a worthless lie. Your family can shun you, your sister can sacrifice you, your mom can be killed, your friend can abandon you when you need her.

In the sky

First, there was Octavia. She was putting on quite the stoic face but in the end, she was literally asking to be killed. I guess that might also explain that hard exterior in the first place. Either you’re in Wonkru or you’re the enemy of Wonkru, right? She hasn’t stopped picking fights with people since she thawed out. Even calling them cowards for not killing her. It’s nice that we are finally seeing her struggle with the facts of what she did in the bunker. Everything she did was in the name of survival. Clarke and Bellamy have similarly outlandish skeletons in their closets made in the same name, but regret should be a part of the journey too. It’s human to be able to look back and see the mistakes you made but she isn’t really capable. Probably because she was never taught to take responsibility for herself or her actions. She was only ever taught to react and respond to the way other people see her. She was an illegal stow-away since birth as ‘the girl in the floor.’ Then she was Bellamy Blake’s sister when she got to the ground. Then she tried to escape that life altogether and join the grounders only to become ‘sky girl.’ She never even wanted to be the leader in the bunker but Indra twisted her arm and then Abby manipulated her into becoming ‘Bloodreina.’ She clearly isn’t innocent here but I’d like to see her deal with the fears and become a whole person once and for all. Tricking everyone around her into kicking her ass instead of looking for the ship's onboard therapist is the easy way out.

Then so much of Abby’s fear is tied up in Octavia’s every move. She is rightfully scared of how people will react if they find out that it was her the pressured Octavia into enforcing the mandatory cannibalism rule. It’s probably much easier for her to pretend not to remember what she did when everyone’s anger is focused mostly on Bloodreina. Which made it all the more poignant when she stepped in to stop that Wonkru member from taking Octavia’s life. Bloodreina’s death would mean the end of the possibility that her little secret would get out. That’s a far cry from the junkie that tortured Raven, but she still has a ways to go to be the respected doctor we met her as.

Which brings me to Raven. Oh Raven. I’m starting to worry that she is on the Jasper/Monty/Harper train. It feels odd to lump them altogether given that they handled their depression at the loss of faith in humanity in such vastly different ways, but they all went on a spiral that they couldn’t come back from and that is not the future I want for my girl Raven. Okay? Waking Diyoza was the absolute best bet for taking back the bridge and freeing her friends, giving them back the upper hand. But what was the cost? Their ship was invaded and she was technically working in defense of herself and the others, but if they weren’t in real danger, does that matter? Three people still lost their lives and there is no telling what kind of consequences remain to be seen from these actions. And for a character suffering under questions of morality and right-and-wrong and being a good person, these are the questions that will keep her up at night.

Strong episode. 3 out of 4 terrifying children’s books

Bits and pieces

Sanctum is the Latin root of sanctuary.

I liked Josephine and the flashback. It did a good job of priming us for what was about to happen without having it overexplained.

Last week Bellamy said that they wouldn’t shoot first. Then Diyoza shot three people that hadn’t hurt anyone up to that point.

Bellamy kept everyone’s keys. And Clarke kept his. Talk about symbolism for where everyone’s heads are at.

Clarke’s hallucination included a mention of her dad being floated. Talk about a callback.

I have to give it to Diyoza. She really doesn’t suck at negotiation and strategy.

The hijackers noted Octavia has red blood. They were also fairly adamant that something particular be done with the bodies. We have to wait to find out what exactly. Ugh. I can’t take another human experiment or cannibalism plot. I CAN NOT.

Where were those children hiding? Why have restraints in the building if there is a good hideout somewhere?

Are those kids products of the embryos that horny scientist guy was talking about in the flashback?

Will Clarke and Octavia introduce themselves to the Sanctum folks as the Commander of Death and Blood Queen?

Remember back in season one when The 100 ate the nuts that made them all act like they were at a rave? This reminded me of that. Times 5.

Clarke: “What the hell do you want from me, Murphy? I'm sorry, okay? For all of it. I never meant for you to get hurt, but no matter what I do, someone always does. Is that what you want to hear? That I'm the bad guy? Fine, I'll be the bad guy. When I'm in charge people die, isn't that what you said?”

Raven: “You can't leverage dead people.” Diyoza: “You can, if they don't know they're dead.”

Octavia: "If not for you, I would have delivered us safely to that valley. Our sins would have been washed away. McCreary and Diyoza would have surrendered to me. Everything I did would have made sense. Now nothing does."

Laure Mack