#he's... very normal. he sleeps in a bedroll and eats breakfast just with everyone else... idk regis with porridge is so funny to me

[hanzajesthanza]

(Adam Dudaczyk) The fact that vampires drink blood to get that *meaningful hand-neck gesture* - you made that up? (Andrzej Sapkowski) Yes, I didn't model myself on anyone here, I don't know anyone who wrote before me about the fact that vampires drink blood not to satisfy their hunger, but to satisfy their thirst for… entertainment. Texts: the guys sent me to get blood, I was flying drunk… The fun was great.

as i reread this i couldn't stop thinking of this meme

[valdomarx]

Anon requested: Person A thinks that a proposal would be a great way to get out of a jam. Person B thinks it is a sincere proposal and accepts. Realizing it wasn't done from a genuine place leads to some upset.

In Jaskier’s defence, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Marry me, Geralt!” he called, jogging over to his witcher, a little out of breath.

Geralt’s face pinched into something cross and Jaskier was sure he was about to be told to fuck entirely off.

“It’s the Belleteyn festival tonight,” he explained quickly. “I might have, erm, sown my seed a little more widely than would be advisable in the town.” Geralt scowled. “And there may have been some, ahem, threats against my person made by the local lord.“ Geralt’s scowl deepened. “But we can smooth it all over if we’re wed tonight. There’s some local custom -- forgiveness of past indiscretions for newly married couples on May Eve.“

Geralt was still glowering but he hadn’t said no yet. Jaskier pulled out his strongest move: He ducked his head, looked up at Geralt from under his lashes, and licked his lips. Geralt’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue almost imperceptibly.

“So marry me? Here. Tonight.”

.

It had been a lovely ceremony, as fake weddings go. There had been music and wine, dancing and merriment, and Geralt even allowed some of the local girls to braid flowers into his hair.

They’d only had enough coin for one ring, a simple silver band, so Jaskier had taken that and he’d given Geralt his father’s signet ring. He’d never have parted with it for anyone else, but it was Geralt. He knew without question he would keep it safe until this ruse was over with.

Perhaps there really was something magical in the air at that time of year, or maybe it was an evening spent at an increasingly raunchy celebration that did it. But after the festivities were over and the townsfolk returned to their homes, Geralt took Jaskier back to their campsite in the woods, laid him down on a bedroll with indescribable tenderness, and fucked him within an inch of his life.

It was everything Jaskier had been quietly fantasising about for years, except more because it was Geralt and even Jaskier’s profoundly vivid imagination couldn’t match the reality of his witcher, every glorious inch of muscle straining and taut, eyes blown wide with lust, taking Jaskier apart and piecing him back together again.

.

The next morning, Jaskier woke slowly, feeling the telling ache of a night well spent. Geralt was already up, packing up camp and loading their bags onto Roach.

“There’s oatmeal in the pot if you want breakfast,” Geralt grunted. “We should get going soon.” He turned back to his work.

Right. Okay. They just... weren’t going to talk about it then. Back to business as usual.

Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course Geralt would be as pragmatic about sex as he was about everything else. A way to get some relief, to meet a need. No expectations.

Hell, it had taken Geralt over a decade to admit they were actually friends. Jaskier felt stupid for even hoping for more.

Sleeping together had been a one time deal, it seemed. Too bad.

.

Jaskier realised he was still wearing the ring a few hours later. He should take it off, get rid of it. Maybe sell it at the next town.

He should ask Geralt for his father’s ring back too. But it seemed somehow rude to ask, too needy.

And he... well, he sort of liked catching glimpses of it decorating Geralt’s finger, like a tiny piece of Jaskier was with him wherever he went.

Jaskier found his thumb rubbing over the silver band around his own finger over and over again. It was silly, he knew, but he liked the feel of it. He would keep it for now.

.

After that, things got weird. At lunch, Geralt tried to persuade Jaskier to eat the last of the apples, as if he didn’t know their supply was running low. And at dinner, Geralt hunted and prepared two squirrels for Jaskier instead of the customary one. Jaskier would eat just about anything in a pinch, but charred rodent was not something he felt the need for seconds of.

Everywhere they went, Geralt kept trying to foist food on him. Did he think that Jaskier was weak? That he wasn't able to keep up without extra supplies? Jaskier was, admittedly, not as young as he used to be, but he thought he still measured up pretty well in the fitness department. He didn’t love the implication that he was falling short in some way.

.

At night, Geralt would lay out their bedrolls close together. Close, but never touching. When he laid down, Jaskier could feel Geralt’s breath on the back of his neck, and his chest ached with want.

He waited every night for Geralt to sneak an arm around his waist and pull him close, or to lean forward and whisper an invitation in his ear. Jaskier would be on him in a second.

But he never did, and every night Jaskier berated himself again for being so foolish and tried to push the thoughts from his mind. It was hard being so close and yet so far from what he truly wanted, but he wouldn’t force Geralt into a situation he wasn’t comfortable with.

.

After a week of this Jaskier was truly beginning to lose his mind, and it was a relief when they came upon a small town where they could rest for the night. Jaskier could go out, find some company and distract himself from the hopeless longing settled in his bones, even if only for the night.

When he announced his intention to look around the town, Geralt said he would come along too. That wasn’t ideal for Jaskier’s plan of distraction, but he’d make it work. He always enjoyed Geralt’s company anyway.

There wasn't a lot going on in the town, but there was a pretty barmaid in the tavern, a cheerful red-haired lady with exuberant freckles and strong curves. She flashed a smile at Jaskier the moment they walked in.

Perfect. He smiled back, ordered two drinks, and set to flirting outrageously with her. She giggled and teased back, not seeming intimidated by Geralt‘s presence, even though he was growing notably testier as their interactions became more charged.

When she reached over the bar to twirl a finger through Jaskier’s hair, Geralt actually growled.

She backed off and looked at Geralt. “Didn’t mean any harm,” she said. “I’m just being friendly. Unless...” She looked down at their hands on the bar, apparently noting their rings, and then back to Jaskier. “Unless you’re spoken for. I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Jaskier said with a laugh, just as Geralt said, “Yes, actually, we’re married.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt. Geralt stared at Jaskier. The barmaid held her hands up in the universal gesture for “none of my business, nothing to see here” and backed away to wipe down a table.

Every muscle in Geralt’s neck was tense and throbbing, and Jaskier had no idea what to say.

“Geralt,” he began, carefully. “is this about the other day? The ceremony? Did you... Did you think that was for real?”

Something pained flashed across Geralt’s face, an expression more raw than any Jaskier had seen on him before. Then he stood, turned, and bolted from the tavern.

“Geralt!” Jaskier called, getting to his feet. “Geralt, wait!”

By the time Jaskier was out of the door, Geralt was already disappearing down the dirt road, not turning back.

Ahh, fuck.

.

Jaskier left the girl at the tavern with a hurried apology, pausing only to throw their various possessions into bags and to load up Roach before heading out after Geralt. He knew bugger all about tracking, but he knew the direction Geralt was heading, and after that he relied on Roach’s instincts. She at least seemed confident in what to do.

He caught up to Geralt less than a mile outside of town. He was sat alone in a copse of trees just off the road, staring at the leaves.

He didn’t flee as Jaskier approached, though he didn’t turn to look at him either. “Geralt? I’m sorry. I was thoughtless. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Geralt stood slowly and turned to face him, though he avoided making eye contact. “It was a misunderstanding.” Geralt’s face was carefully blank, a look Jaskier recognised from times he was trying very hard to hide his emotions. “A wrong assumption on my part about the seriousness of the ceremony at Belleteyn.”

“Holy hell, Geralt.” Jaskier’s mind reeled. Geralt thought they had really been getting married, and he had been okay with that? “Does that mean... Would you actually want to be married to me?”

“It was stupid,” Geralt gritted out. Anyone else would have thought he was angry, but Jaskier knew him well enough to see he was hurt. “To think it was anything more than a distraction.”

No no no, that wasn’t right at all. Jaskier tried to take Geralt’s chin in his hand but Geralt turned his face forcefully away.

“Is that why you’ve been acting strange?” Jaskier thought back on it: the gifts of food, the aborted attempts at closeness, the feeling Geralt’s eyes on him constantly, checking his well-being.

“I thought...” Geralt wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I thought you wanted things to be normal. Like they always were.”

“If I were married to you for real, I wouldn’t act like everything was normal!” Jaskier exploded. “Damn it, Geralt. I’d kiss you every morning and hold you every night. And I’d tell everyone we met -- everyone -- that I was the luckiest person on the continent, because this is my husband, the one and only Geralt of Rivia, and he’s the best man I’ve ever met.”

Jaskier shut his mouth. Too late, though. Too late to take any of that back.

Geralt’s brow was pinched, though it didn’t quite look like a frown. It almost made him look thoughtful.

Finally he looked at Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Every morning?”

Jaskier felt all the fight leaving his body in one grand sweep. Geralt let him push him to his knees on the ground and allowed Jaskier to flop into his lap. Jaskier brushed a strand of hair from his face. “I’ve thought about kissing you every day for years,” Jaskier confessed.

And then he saw it -- one of Geralt’s oh-so-rare smiles. Not the forced grimace he adopted when he needed to look nonthreatening, or the tolerant lip twitch he’d give Jaskier when he was trying to be funny. No, this was a genuine Geralt smile, more precious than gemstones, the kind that lifted his entire face and reached his eyes.

Geralt threaded a hand into the back of his hair, brought their faces closer, and kissed him. At the touch of their lips every part of him went boneless, held up only by Geralt’s arms and a determination to make as much bodily contact as he possibly could.

His head was spinning by the time they pulled apart for air. Geralt’s eyes were sparkling, and Jaskier could have lost himself in that sight for the rest of his life and considered himself a lucky man.

Geralt leaned their foreheads together. “Will you stay with me?” he asked, very quietly. “Even if all I can offer you is charred squirrel and sleeping beneath the stars?”

“Always,” Jaskier promised, without a shadow of a doubt. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Through the good and the bad, the injuries and the pain, the plenty and the lean times. Through it all, he wanted to be with Geralt.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his and slotted their fingers together. Their rings lay next to each other, the elaborate gold of Jaskier’s crest shining against Geralt’s pale skin and the smooth silver encircling his own finger like an embrace.

It was all startlingly clear. “Marry me, Geralt,” he said, his heart welling over. “For real this time.”

[rdrthingies]

Cupid Writing Event

hey @freethesmolpenguins I’m your cupid this year for the rdr writing even! I hope you like some gay cowboys because OH BOY are you in for a mcfreaking treat! @rdr-secret-cupid

The ending is a little rushed but overall I am very proud with this and hope you’ll enjoy it was well!

Arthur had been working himself to the bone and just about everyone could see it. Always awake before dawn for a quick cup of coffee, or two, and do the day's chores. Feeding the chickens, bringing the maze to the wagon, chopping wood, and finally feeding the horses. It would be then that he would leave on his horse, just as the last person (typically Uncle or Swanson) got up, he would be gone.

He would return after nightfall, typically with blood and/or mud on him, and give the camp its share of his earnings that day. He would then scrape up the last, cold remnants of the stew and eat it quickly, as if he was a stray dog who had just found a stray porkchop. He would eat at the table while everyone else was gathered at the fire, sharing stories and drinks and a good laugh. It’s rare that Arthur would join, and when he does, it’s never long.

Hosea and Charles were the two who noticed this the most; Hosea incredibly concerned about the wellbeing of his son, and Charles concerned for his... friend-who-is-more-than-a-friend.

The two talked quietly even if there was no point in it, Arthur was never in camp when they discussed his health and wellbeing.

“You should take him out,” Hosea offered. “Take him hunting or... fishing or... I dunno just some place where he won’t get shot and can relax.” Hosea smiled a little, hands folded on the table, fingers drumming on the wood. Charles’ gaze was on one of the many cuts in the wood, hands in his lap as he spoke. “And how do you suggest I convince him to do that?” Hosea laughed a little, waving his hands. “I know you can be rather... persuasive with him. He listens to you... That and you are probably capable of hogtying him and putting him on the back of Taima.” The two laughed at that, Charles’ cheeks having a pink hue at the compliments.

Charles excused himself to do some more chores, a plan forming in his head.

That night Arthur returns, as usual, placing one hundred dollars in the box and two rabbits at the table, his eyes heavy with dark circles. Charles watched from the corner of his eye as Arthur almost stumbled up to the pot and poured himself some lukewarm stew, going to his cot and nearly collapsing onto it.

Charles waited until the man was halfway done before walking up to him normally, the pace slow but purposeful, head held high. “Hey Arthur, wanna go hunting with me tomorrow?”

Arthur looked up, eyes squinting, and even though he was exhausted to the bone he still found the strength to smile at his... whatever Charles was to him. “Sure but we’ve got meat for days, even Pearson is saying we have enough an’ that’s saying somethin.” The two chuckled lightly one deep and rich and the other breathy.

“I know but,” Charles shifted on his feet. “Well, I was gonna go up north a ways, by Cumberland Forest. There are some big elk up there. We can spend a couple of days there and by the time we come back with the Elk the camp will be needing the meat.”

It was a sound plan, a solid plan. Just a couple of days relaxing in the forest before providing the forest with food and supplies.

Only, “The camp needs more money than meat right now. I’ve been looking into leads an’ all that but...” He sighs, head hanging low, hands rubbing against each other to stop them from shaking. “Never seems to be ‘nough.”

“Arthur,” Charles kneels down before him, hand on his knee, forcing those breathtaking blue eyes to stare into his own. “You’ll do the camp no good if you collapse from exhaustion. Don’t think I haven’t seen it: waking up before dawn and coming back after dusk. You’ll run yourself ragged.” Arthur goes to argue, to insist that he’s fine, but Charles beats him to it. “You’re not fine, Arthur. You’re the opposite of fine, and one of these days it’s going to catch up to you and you’ll crash and burn.” He can’t help but raise his voice, needing Arthur to understand him. “Come with me for a couple of days, catch up on sleep outside of camp, away from those like Sean and Micah and Bill. Relax and-and let your body heal.”

Arthur thinks, mind fuzzy both with exhaustion and the fact that Charles’ hand was still resting on his knee, thumb rubbing circles onto it. It seemed like an eternity later before Arthur finally exhaled heavily, head slumping. “Alright... alright. I’ll go with you.”

Charles smiled brightly, “Thank you Arthur. It means a lot to me.” He stayed with Arthur for a little while longer, before finally standing and bidding goodnight to Arthur and crawling into his bedroll.

That morning Charles was up bright and early as always, packing his things onto Taima and grabbing a bit of breakfast for the road. The full sun was just above the horizon when Arthur got up, eyes droopy and suffering from bedhead.

He already had most all of his things packed onto his horse, as was common with the Enforcer. He brought Athena to Taima, the two mares nosing each other in greeting. Charles approaches them soon after, a rare smile on his face.

“Ready, Arthur?” Charles calls out, receiving a nod in answer. “Alright then, let’s get going. Might be able to get to the forest today.” The two mount up and trot out of camp, Hosea watching them leave with a cup of coffee and a satisfied smile on his wrinkled face.

They did manage to reach the forest just as the sun was beginning to dip beyond the horizon. They set up camp quietly and efficiently, always working as if in sync with one another. Arthur sets up the tent as Charles gets the campfire set up, the fire crackling to life just as Arthur nailed the last peg into the ground.

They cook up some meat and beans, eating their meal in relative silence, only some little things here and there. But it wasn’t an awkward silence, it never was with Arthur and Charles. Where most everyone else in the gang must talk, share stories or ask questions, Charles is fine with silence. It’s one of the first things Arthur noticed about the man and one he likes the most about the man. It’s such a refreshing thing to hear - or not hear - Arthur supposes. And through their hunting trips and robberies together, Charles has spoken more and more. About himself, about his culture and family... it was as if Arthur had earned enough respect from the man. Arthur doesn’t know when their relationship became... more. It just sort of happened, hunting trips that ended with them snuggled up against each other, Arthur’s head on his broad chest as Charles plays with his fair hair. They hadn’t kissed yet, hadn’t gone that far, but it was still something... special.

Before he knew it the sun had set and the moon and stars are twinkling in the night. Arthur had taken to doodling in his journal, drawing the scenery he had seen on the ride over, with Taima and Charles in front of him.

“Arthur,” Charles’ voice startles him, head lifting to the man beside him, suddenly his breath taken by the way the fire had reflected across the man’s face, illuminating his dark hair. “We should get to bed,” Charles speaks again, Arthur nods, but his mind is focusing on how he could possibly capture the man’s beautiful features. But finally, the two crawled into the tent and Arthur fitfully went to sleep.

There’s gunfire, it’s loud as if they’re firing right beside him, but he cannot focus on it. He can only focus on the bodies in front of him. Sean, Hosea, Lenny, Javier, Mary-Beth, Karen, Tilly, even Kieran was amongst the pile of bodies. Blood coated them in some way, Sean was missing half his face, Lenny had a hole in his stomach. Javier had a noose around his neck, blood coating it. Arthur couldn’t think, couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. He only stared as his family was all butchered before him, everyone but him.

“You failed us, Arthur.” A voice rang out, Dutch. Arthur lifted and searched, finding their leader, standing at the head of the bodies, face caved in, gunshots in him...

“You betrayed us!” He shouted again, it was like a knife in his chest. “If you had only worked harder for us, done more for us, then we could live. But you’re selfish, weak, pathetic!” Arthur could feel tears running down his face, sobbing, shaking his head. No, no this isn’t happening, they’re not dead. He’s not selfish, he’s not pathetic, he has done so much for this family for his family-

“Arthur!” Another voice echoed out, distant, a familiar voice. “Arthur!” It got louder, closer, someone’s approaching, but who?

“Arthur wake up!” Charles shook Arthur heavily, the older man snapping his eyes awake and gasping for air as if he was brought back to life. He began to panic, arms flailing around, eyes unfocused. Charles held him close, shushing him, arms running up and down his back. “It’s okay Arthur, it’s okay. It was just a dream, breathe for me.” Finally, slowly, Arthur calmed down. His mind catching up with his body, slumping against the broader man.

“Th-they all died,” Arthur muttered out, Charles’ face drawn with worry. “I-I killed ‘em.”

“Who?” Charles asked softly, still running his hand up and down his back.

“E-everyone. The gang I-I killed them.”

“It’s just a dream, Arthur-”

“No!” Arthur sat up, hands in his hair. “I-I’m going to get ‘em killed Charles! My laziness m-my selfishness it’s-! It’s going to get them killed!”

Charles kneeled before the man, hands gently taking the others, holding them. “Arthur, you are doing everything for them. You’re literally working yourself to death for them, Arthur.”

“But Dutch-”

“Don’t listen to Dutch,” Charles interrupts, voice like stone to get through to the man. “He puts too much pressure on you. Far too much. He gets onto you about money and jobs while Sean and Bill sit on their asses all day and get drunk. You have to take care of yourself. You’re just as much of this gang as the rest of us, if not more.” Arthur is quiet, blinking into Charles’ eyes, mouth hanging open.

Charles had never seen Arthur cry, never even seen him sad enough to cry. But now Arthur was crying in front of him, sobbing in front of him as his cracks. The weight of these past months, of being the workhorse, finally caving in on him. All Charles can do and bring him in close, soothing the man, humming a lullaby his mother used to sing to him. By the time Arthur had run out of tears, the sun was rising, but Charles did not dare stop holding the man. He fell asleep in his arms, cradled against his chest.

[diredigression]

Fallout February, Feb 12, Wasteland Recipes AND Comradery

Another edit of an old chapter, that kind of fits both prompts. Sad comradery is still comradery, right? And half fitting both prompts counts for one full prompt right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Sole, Chapter 2

She isn’t sure how long she’s been awake. She assumes she must have slept, but she can’t summon the effort to care about when.

All she knows is that she has been working. Trying to make the place habitable, whatever that means here. She and Codsworth have cleaned the inside of what had once been a house, the neighbors’ house, people she probably had been friendly with before they were vaporized or had asphyxiated in that vault. She’s probably supposed to care. But all she really cares about is how had they managed to let their house fall into such disarray? The missus must be so ashamed. The atrociously dirty floor, giant bug carcasses scattered throughout, door falling off the fridge, not that the fridge works anymore anyway. Codsworth tends to the maintenance of the doors and equipment, to the extent that they can be fixed, occasionally bringing furniture from neighboring houses, while she sweeps and scrubs the floors and tables. 200 years abandoned or no, the state of the place is shameful. Mr. Garvey had chosen the house for its convenient workshop. She had intended to insist on hosting them at her own home; she knew she had left it pristine. But she hadn’t actually been able to make herself go to it. A wall had gone up in her mind around the idea, and something very quiet and deep had convinced her that trying to circumvent it wasn’t a good thing.

Not that she really believes it has been 200 years. That was silly. Cod’s real time clock hardware must’ve been damaged in the bombing. She hasn’t bothered asking her new companions either. She does believe that the bombs fell; she’d seen it, after all. At least, she can mostly convince herself of that. And just look at the state of the place. But 200 years? Incomprehensible.

Mr. Sturges has been working outside. He’s patched the holes in the roof and the walls, trying to weatherproof the building. As for Mr. Garvey, she vaguely remembers him gathering them together in the Concord street, the three survivors, and shepherding them towards Sanctuary. Missus Murphy had wanted them there, after all. Had somehow known about her old home. Convenient, as she would have led them that way anyway. Where else felt safe? Upon arrival though, once bedrolls were laid out and he’d made sure everyone had eaten and had their injuries tended, once Mr. Sturges had repeatedly assured him that everyone was okay and there was nothing else he need do, that all the injuries would mend even though apparently they’d long since run out of stimpaks and she had none of her own—Mr. Garvey had gone dark. He’d spent the next…however long it’s been…wrapped in his bedroll, empty eyes staring across the room, barely moving but to accept the food she’s diligently fed him.

Scrubbing floors, cooking, feeding recalcitrant eaters. Life almost feels normal. Except she doesn’t usually cook with bug and dog and these things Mr. Sturges called “tatos” that are definitely not actual tomatoes. But that’s life in wartime, learning to cook with whatever you have available. She is no stranger to this. She makes do. It’s not like she can taste the food, anyway, and the same probably applies to Mr. Garvey. Mr. Sturges offered to cook and to feed Mr. Garvey multiple times, but he apparently finally realized that she only meets this with mortification rather than appreciation and finally stopped. Damned if she isn’t still capable of doing her job, and how dare he imply otherwise.

They fall into routine, and eventually she begins tracking time again. Wake, prep breakfast for the men and then herself. Clean whatever is next on the list. Prep lunch. More cleaning. Prep dinner. Haul water to the bathtub, as the running water isn’t working. Take a bath. It’s bad enough that she only has her skintight vault suit to wear, day after day. She can’t stand the shame of being filthy around company, no matter how much water she has to haul. Go to bed, her in one room and the men in another. Mr. Sturges had tried to convince her to sleep in the same room, something about keeping watch and staying safe. But what is going to hurt her in the house? And god forbid she sleep in the same room with strange men.

Day after day, the routine continues. The house becomes less dirty and better walled. Cook, clean, wash, sleep. Cook, clean, wash, sleep.

Then one day, Mr. Garvey returns to life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’s trying to spoonfeed Mr. Garvey a vegetable stew, the dinner she’s been most comfortable making lately. It’s been hard to make herself feed it to someone when she knows it isn’t salted, because apparently salt is an impossible ingredient to find here in the post-nuclear-apocalypse. But she can’t taste the lack of salt, so she makes herself pretend it’s fine. They have to eat something or starve, after all.

It’s been a hard day. Mr. Sturges has cobbled together a water purifier, somehow managing to scavenge sufficient supplies from across the town. Judging by the cursing she heard, it hasn’t been a pleasant task. Mr. Garvey is being harder to feed than usual, starting to actively fight her instead of placidly accepting whatever she makes him do.

Then he starts sobbing, words slipping out between great, horrifying wails. “I can’t even f…freaking…eat right.”

She looks up for Mr. Sturges, frantic. She’s vaguely aware that this isn’t his job, she’s supposed to be good at this, but she can’t bring the ability to mind. But he’s right there, taking Mr. Garvey from her, cradling him against his chest. “Hey, now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t move. I can’t help you rebuild. I can’t even eat right.”

“Come on, there’s nothing to apologize for. You worry about you, and everything will take care of itself.”

“I’ve failed everyone who ever relied on me. I led them to Concord. I got them killed. They’re dead because of me.”

“You’ve been through a rough time, man. The worst. But it’s not your fault. You got us out of Quincy, you got us out of Lexington. You—you saved my life, man. I wouldn’t be alive if not for you. And you tried your damndest to save their lives too. That’s all any of us can do.”

“They’re all dead…”

Mr. Garvey’s sobbing softens into sniffles, and Mr. Sturges holds him and whispers gently. She slips out of the room. This is no longer her duty.

[cody-baxter-isms]

Prince Among Thorns: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Weiss sat next to Whitley on a Bullhead, poking her hands with a toothpick before breaking it in half. Something most people would’ve seen as odd, but for the Schnee siblings, it was as normal as fiddling with a ring or brushing hair behind your ear.

Weiss removed another toothpick from her bag and returned to her poking. “We’ll be in Vale shortly, I’ll help you get settled in the apartment before leaving for Beacon in the morning.”

Whitley nodded stiffly in response. He was trying not to panic. Everything was changing, and change had always been hard for the fifteen-year-old. Weiss knew this well and wished her father wasn’t making him come along for the hundredth time. It's only years of therapy that is keeping Whitley together at this point.

When the Bullhead landed Weiss took Whitley’s hand (for her own benefit more than his) and led him towards the address she took the time to memorize earlier.

Once they reached the apartment Weiss made sure that everything was actually moved in ahead of time as promised. A quick look around showed that everything was more or less in order. All the furniture and food was there as planned, as were the TV and Whitley’s keyboard, which he rushed over to check on like a worried parent looking for injuries on their child.

Weiss helped Whitley unpack his things in the master bedroom before putting a few of her own outfits in the closet of what will be her room on the weekends. After giving a quick once-over, the heiress nodded to herself and walked back out into the main lounge.

She found Whitley sitting there, the binder she’d prepared for him set out on his lap. She had written down Whitley’s new schedule, plus all sorts of directions and phone numbers, into it, and had left it out on the coffee table for him to look over whenever he was feeling lost. It seemed he’d already taken to it.

Weiss smiled shortly at her brother, before entering the kitchen, hoping to make them something to eat. A simple meal came to mind--nothing more than chicken breast, rice and green beans--something she had learned how to make before leaving the Manor.

“There’s a park on the other side of the street, you can see it in this window.” she says pointing to the window that the table was next to, “I want you to visit the park once a day, at least for a few minutes. You can do a quick walk around can’t you?”

Whitley hesitated before quickly nodding. He felt like he owed Weiss that much.

He took a few seconds to find a place to sit--some place that would be comfortable for him for his time living in this apartment--and they begun to eat in silence. As was the norm for the Schnee’s. Only speak when spoken too.

Weiss, during the course of the meal, realized that they didn't have to do that in this place. This place could be their new home, in a way, and they could make the rules and the norm they wanted to live. So, she smiled and spoke. “You’re being really brave Whitley.”

Whitley looked up, both surprised and confused. “What?”

“I know this is hard for you. But your doing really well so far.” Weiss tried to explain.

“Oh, well, thank you.” Whitley remembered to smile, “and thank you for everything else.”

Weiss smiled.

After dinner they got ready for bed. As she headed towards her own, Weiss looked into Whitley’s room. “Have a good night Whitley,” Weiss smiled “I might not see you until the weekend, but I’ll call you tomorrow night. Alright?”

He nodded. “Ok, have a good night…” he frowned, and in an almost desperate sort of plea, said, “Please don’t forget about me.”

“Whitley…” Weiss walked over and hugged him, “I won’t.”

He wasn’t so sure of that.

By the time Whitley woke up the next morning, Weiss was already gone, heading off to Beacon for her initiation. As he entered the empty lounge, taking in the foreign surroundings that he still had a while to get used to, he found himself feeling more alone and more afraid than he had in a very long time.

“Ok...ok. I can do this.” Whitley muttered to himself, pacing around the lounge as he tried to collect himself. “I can do this...I’ll make breakfast, then go to the park like Weiss wanted me to...yeah.”

Easy. But both of those things terrified him.

“Put oatmeal in a bowl, put milk in the oatmeal, microwave for 1 or 2 minutes. Like cereal.” He said the directions out loud to himself, like a mantra almost. He repeated the steps over and over as he entered the kitchen… then promptly walked back out.

He’ll have brunch.

Weiss pushed the cart full of luggage towards Beacon, distracted by thoughts of her brother. ‘Is he going to be ok? Is he eating? Is he having a panic attack right now?! He’s never been without staff keeping a quiet eye on him before!’

‘No, Weiss, you have to trust that he can take care of himself, or at the very least, learn how, if this is going to work. And it has to, becoming a Huntress is your dream. Whitley can survive on his own during the week… right?’

Her thoughts were interrupted by a girl in a red hood falling on top of her luggage. Most of which was full of Dust. She gave the silver eyed girl a glare as she pulled her up. “be more careful, the Dust will explode.” she chastised while trying to keep her voice below a yell out of habit.

The girl shrunk in on herself “s-sorry. I-I didn't see you and-”

Weiss nodded, “sure you are. Just be more careful.” she said trying to stop the girl from rambling. She bent down to pick up her luggage.

“ah! let me help!” the girl cried as she bent down to help Weiss.

Weiss sighed but allowed the girl to help her. While she’d rather that the girl didn’t help, Weiss couldn’t deny that it was a lot of luggage for one girl to move on her own. Once they’d gathered the luggage again, the two then walked to the auditorium together--though mostly begrudgingly on Weiss’s part. While she had learned patience with her brother, that patience didn’t last too long for those outside her family.

But for now, until she found her teammates and could start forming bonds, that meager patience she did have would have to do.

Weiss surveyed the small corner of the room she’d claimed for herself and nodded with a huff of partial satisfaction. After their meeting in the auditorium, each of the initiates had been moved to a large foyer room in the academy where they would be resting for the night. While the quarters weren’t quite up to her standards, she--whether she liked it or not--made due with what she had.

Sighing, the heiress sat down on the bedroll, sleeping bag, and pillows she had for her sleeping space. Tapping her hand on the roll beside her, Weiss pulled out her scroll and pulled up her brother’s scroll number. She needed someone to talk to--she wanted to talk to Whitley.

The scroll rang for a minute, and then she heard her brother pick up on the other end.

“Hello Whitley, how was your day?” Weiss asked with a smile.

The first thing Whitley did was notice the fact that Weiss’s hair was down, which usually meant that she was getting ready for bed. He took a small moment to figure out his response. “I’m doing ok. How did initiation go?!”

Weiss huffed “I thought it was going to be today, but apparently it's tomorrow.”

Whitley frowned “oh, I’m sorry.” he apologised.

“it’s not your fault.” Weiss dismissed “did you eat today? Go to the park?”

Whitley looked sheepish “I-I had a couple of apples.” Weiss frowned and Whitley hurried to continue “a-and some granola bars and such an-and I meant to go to the park, honest, b-but the thing-- I don't know what its called-- that you press I--… ugh-- I don't know how to cross the street yet.” he pouts “I’m sorry Weiss… I am.”

Weiss was going to respond but she was interrupted by some girls conversation, she glanced over to see Ruby Rose, the girl who fell on top of her luggage, and Ruby’s sister, who Weiss had yet to recall a name for. They were standing in front of a girl who was clearly trying to read and they were being the loudest ones in the room, next to herself, but she liked to think that she has an excuse.

She sighs “I have to deal with something.” Weiss glares at her brother “but we’re gonna talk about this later. Good night Whitley.”

“g-goodnight Weiss.” Whitley got out before Weiss ended the call. He starts sniffling as he pulled his covers towards himself. He feels like he had failed Weiss. He was horrible. And she ended the call because she was so mad! She was going to forget to come back because he was useless.

He shut his eyes and whimpered as he let these thoughts consume him. Afraid and in need of comfort.

Meanwhile, Weiss stood up and stormed over to the pain in her side with an affinity for red. “Miss Rose! Leave this poor woman alone, can't you see she’s just trying to read?”

Ruby’s sister, who was Blonde and perplexingly looked nothing like her, immediately came to Ruby’s defense.

“Oh, lighten up, Snowflake, we’re just trying to make friends here!”

Weiss placed her hands on her hips, her face turning a bit red from irritation at how casual Yang was being. After a moment, though, she let out a breath, and returned her frustrated frown to the blonde across from her.

“Be that as it may,” Weiss said, “it seems to me that Ms…” And she turned to the raven-haired girl sitting on the floor, in front of all three of them.

“Belladonna,” the ravenette calmly replied, turning intrigued golden eyes on Weiss.

“Right,” Weiss nodded back at her, before turning her gaze back onto the two sisters. “Ms Belladonna doesn’t really seem interested in making friends at the moment. So, for the sake of everyone else who would like a good night’s rest before what could very likely be one of the most stressful days of their lives, could you both kindly keep it down!”

By the end of her slight rant, it was clear that her patience from earlier that day had run short, and she was ready for the day to end. Ruby, she noted, seemed to curl in on herself in embarrassment. As soon as that happened, the blonde beside her almost seemed to visibly bristle.

“Hey, lay off,” she almost shouted, “We’re just trying to have some fun--no need to go and bite me and my sister’s heads off!”

“She’s got a point, though, Yang,” the odd girl said, taking her sister’s hand in what seemed to be an attempt to calm her. “We should probably go to bed, too--after all, the sooner we get to bed, the sooner we start our initiation tomorrow!”

Yang glanced back at her sister, and Weiss could see the mental debate in her mind before the blonde shrugged and sighed. “Alright, I guess you’re right.” She turned to Weiss and gave the heiress a short glare. “Don’t think this is over, though.”

Then, brightening back up, Yang smiled and waved back at the two other girls while her sister led her back to their spot in the room. “See you both tomorrow then, Bow-girl, Snowflake!”

Weiss seemed to growl at that. “Great,” she muttered under her breath, “an enemy already--and she interrupted my call with my brother too!” Huffing in frustration, Weiss turned back to her corner of the room and called back over her shoulder. “Well, goodnight, then, Ms Belladonna.”

Blake blinked once and watched Weiss leave. She watched her attempt to call somebody--perhaps this brother she’d heard her mutter about--before returning back to her book.

She had wanted to intervene earlier that morning, when she’d noticed the altercation between the Schnee heiress and the red-cloaked girl. She had been surprised then, when said conflict did not actually end with insults whirled about, and the two parted rather peacefully. And just now, that Schnee had actually come to her aid. Something she could’ve never expected.

It seemed there was more to Weiss Schnee than first met the eye.

For Blake, she couldn’t tell if that was a good thing just yet.

[gary36]

2 Soups for a Tray

Right then. Properly caffeinated and sufficiently indulged in cat therapy, it's time I got started and if I mispell anything I know a lovely audience member will tell me.

Here's a tale from the land of orange jumpsuits and tiny toothbrushes.

I'm not proud. Let's get that out of the way. Late one night I was on my way home from a job out of town. At around 9:30 I see blue light very dimly in my mirror. It should be known I was pulling a large trailer. What's more the running lights didn't work. I should've never agreed to drive the thing but jobs run late and I finish what I start. Now there's blue lights behind me, and my face is covered in my own blood. Now I promise to explain that but it's a story for another day. I pull into the next gas station and wait. I'm the subcontractor, I get the points off my liscence but nothing to pay. I'm cool. The cop's nothing special. He sticks to the facts. I've got no lights, he just needs to run my liscence. He's gone for a minute and I have time to get bored and wonder how much longer until I'm free. There was a long ways to go yet and the felines would be waiting on food. He gets back "Can you step out of the truck." Instruction, not question. "Yes sir." And I'm out. "Turn around." I do.

Handcuffs are on me before I can think about why I turned around in the first place. I'm confused. I go and sit in the back of a cruiser while the officer asks me questions. There's nothing but cold metal back there and with my hands compromised I wasn't comfy. Do I know there's a warrant for my arrest? No sir. Do I know why? No. Is there anything I want to tell now before I get stripped down? No. So we wait for someone to radio. If they want me I'm screwed. If they don't I'm free to go. We wait so long two more cops drive up to chat with my keeper. They all get a good laugh in at me hunched forward back there. I let it slide because if I'm lucky it'll be over soon. It wasn't.

Finally the radio condemns me. Then a long ride to county jail. First thing's first I empty my pockets. Write down all the contacts in your phone as fast as you can. Got it. Turn over your wallet. Now we're going to put your card on file so you can use it inside. Won't be an issue, no money. Then into the holding tank. There's three benches and two are broken. There's a sink and a toilet. I haven't slept in a long time and it's getting late. I lay on the bench. I jump awake and sit up to see a large man inside the tank as well. He's bald and surprisingly cheery. Neither of us says anything but he takes a seat. It's awkward silence for a long time. The cops ask him out. I'm alone. I lay down. The door opens and I jolt up. It's a stocky man with a beard. He loves to talk. "Why are you here?" Until he asked me I didn't know. I sigh with exasperation. Now I remember. "When I was twenty I got caught shoplifting. I never went to the court date."

About two hours later after pretending to be interested in the fight my fellow got into with his girlfriend and her ex, just as I'm beginning to wonder what'll happen if he actually expects me to be involved in the conversation, I'm asked out of the holding tank. I put finger prints on paper. A lady behind a desk tells me what I already know. I talk to a nurse. She wants me to come in to her office for the blood on my face. May not be until the next day. Fine. None of it felt the least bit real until I had to change. Out of my filthy work clothes into an orange jumpsuit that is entirely too loose and incredibly itchy. Having a cop watch me change took the rest of my dignity. Now I get a stylish green napsack, a pair of slippers that constantly fall off, a smelly hard pillow, to top it off a blue bedroll that is approximately 30 pounds. All the lawmen are surprisingly nice, maybe they had fun watching me carry everything. It's 3 AM and I walk into block B.

I don't know what I expected but I didn't get it. Everyone is asleep. I'm in a large room of white and green tile. It smells offensive. My bunk is 34. There's at least 50 men packed in the room. A third of them are up some stairs. It took a while to find my bunk because the numbering is present but without logic. I roll out my bedroll. It's bad. It's really bad. The pillow is a rock wrapped in plastic. The bed is running out of stuffing. I don't know who's in the bunk above me. I try to be quiet. For some reason I want to make a good impression. What a laugh. I peek in my stylish napsack and find a very worn blanket, a very short toothbrush in a wrapper, toothpaste in a ketchup packet, soap in a ketchup packet, 2 rolls of toilet paper, six blank strips of blue cardstock. Then my favorite. A pamphlet of rules. The pamphlet is hilarious. It urges me to tell a guard if I ever feel threatened. The room has three doors. Two upstairs lead to separate blocks. Five locks a piece. No guards. Downstairs has a big window into the halls, one pressure locked door and no guards. The pamphlet also reminds me that there's no weapons or drugs allowed in the county jail, and well... we'll get to that.

The next morning I'm jolted awake by the lights and a horn. No music just a very forceful "MEHHHH" and everyone is paying attention. A guard opens the pressurized door and bellows with a drill sergeant's enthusiasm "EXERCISE!" Almost everyone lopes along to the door. My bunkmate hopped down. A very lean man with dreadlocks. I watch them file out but when I realize that exercise isn't mandatory I decide to get my bearings. Only 3 people remained in block B besides myself and they were all keen on sleeping. I find 3 showers and five toilets. One shower and one toilet upstairs. It's suddenly obvious where the awful smell comes from. Jailbirds can't be bothered to hit their mark. I had to be careful to avoid puddles in my worthless slippers. The shower upstairs is the only vaguely warm one as I'd soon find out. The shower is not very helpful. There's not enough soap to get very clean, I'm still dirty from work. The walls of the shower are disturbing and I dare not touch anything. I use all my soap and half my toothpaste right away. I feel better but not much. My hair is a gnarled mess and the blood on my face is dry. I look fairly crazy, just guessing since all the mirrors were scratched to the point of not functioning. Everyone filed back in from exercise. At this point I realize my bunkmate is the only black guy in block B. Based on what I learned from TV he'd be in danger but he was cool as a cucumber. Before anyone can settle in it's breakfast time. A cart shows up. We all take trays and a single styrofoam cup. I get a sudden feeling of the first day at a new school and not knowing where to sit. I hear over my shoulder "Bunky!" That's how I met Shakespeare Jones. My bunkmate was incredibly well liked. Guys were always asking Shakespeare to come play cards or join in on some project or other. Shakespeare asked me a series of questions I would get used to, eating heartily as he did so. What did I do? How long was I in for? What happened to your face? Shoplifting and failure to appear in court. I don't know. Nothing violent. When Shakespeare was satisfied he became quiet and I decided not to bother him with similar questions. I turned my attention to the food. Breakfast looked and even smelled quite normal. With plastic spoon and grits in sight I dug in. And immediatly gagged. A sharp and distinct taste of bile slithered in my mouth. I tried the firm and sticky scrambled egg. The SAME sharp bile taste. I could barely overcome my instincts, it was work to swallow anything. Everything, even sliced carrots tasted like bile. It would've been impressive if I wasn't so hungry. I knew I couldn't be picky so I ate it all. I needed water to force down each bite. The water from the fountains is horrifying. It's warm. It tastes like metal. The fountain is grimy. After breakfast I settle into my bunk and just watch. Just to see how block B's ecosystem functioned. The basis of the economy is food and drugs we were not supposed to have. The highest tier of food is soup, followed by anything else from commissary (small bags of chips, coffee packets, mayonnaise, small slim jims), followed by cake.

A lot of people had cake. The cake came about once a day with lunch or dinner. Everyone was stockpiling cake by making containers for it out of two cleverly bent styrofoam cups. Most people saved it for later, others traded large amounts of cake for soup. Soup is just instant ramen. It's value was initially hard for me to understand. Lunch arrived before I could find out. Lunch looked normal. It tasted like bile. All of it, even the rice. My stomach was sore from trying to vomit even as I forced myself to swallow. I was starting to see what would be the greatest challenges in jail. I wasn't worried about my cats. I had a good roommate, he would feed them. I used my one phone call to let my roommate know the situation. Half way through explaining that I still didn't know how long I'd be locked up the phone cut out. I went back to observing. A commotion passed through almost every man in block B. I heard many whispers of "Billy White." A freckled man with a beer gut and a bandana who only ever wore one sleeve of his jumpsuit bellowed "Billy White's coming!" Several others echoed joyfully. The pressurized door opened. In walked the bald cheery man from the holding tank. With a smile on his face Billy White threw up his arms to a round of tired applause and set about high fiving and bear hugging the line of men to greet him. Thirty minutes after Billy White set up his bed he was pulled into a group of mischievous men. They whispered for a while. Billy White broke away from the huddle and walked upstairs to one of the doors with five locks. He knocked rapidly and loud. Then silence. Then he placed his ear to the crack in the door. Then he whispered to the door. A few minutes later something slid beneath the door and into Billy White's hands. It was shiny and smooth. The huddle formed again around Billy White, this time close to my bunk. A man crowding Billy White looked sickly, he saw me watching and told me to go somewhere else. I opened my mouth to speak but Billy White was first. "Layoff he's cool. Anybody who fights the cops is cool." The crowd automatically obeyed him. Shakespeare hung his head over from the bunk above and he was positively beaming. We both knew I'd never fought a cop. Billy White was making assumptions because of the blood on my face. I was allowed to watch the rest of the crime. Billy White produced a small cylinder from somewhere. It was a third the size and diameter of a #2 pencil and had a candy cane pattern. He twisted the thing and a razor blade grew out of the end. If he went through the same strip down as me then the only way Billy White had gotten that inside was up his ass. They search every where else. Billy White cut the shiny smooth stuff into rectangles. I don't know why. The crowd stumbled to the toilets downstairs where they could all just barely escape the view of the camera by going around a corner. A minute later the stench of criminal urine mingled with a strange chemical smell. News traveled throughout block B that the guys downstairs were smoking spice. The night of day 1 was lively. Most people stayed up talking. Shakespeare and I talked for hours. Shakespeare had been incarcerated a lot. He was the same age as me but had spent 7 years in prison and over two months in jail this time. He used to fight a lot. It used to help pass the time. It got to where he'd been broken and stabbed so much he just gave up fighting. Now he would do anything not to be bored. He had a daughter and a girlfriend waiting for him. Outside he was a custodian. Shakespeare couldn't believe I'd never been to jail. He said most guys talk more on their first day because they're scared. I told him I was terrified. I told him I'd never steal again. He laughed at that. He said that's what they all say. Shakespeare was always laughing mostly at his own jokes, he was too funny to be where he was.

On Day 2 I felt myself getting cabin fever. The room was explored. We never left. There was nothing to do. No matter what I did the eyes of at least twenty men were watching. After forcing down breakfast and lunch my stomach was turning. Shakespeare did a little dance and then made like he would backflip off of the upper floor. He made it look so authentic my eyes went wide. Shakespeare Jones was the only performer in block B. He made everyone laugh. Once he bellowed a joke I'll never forget because it makes no sense without context. "2 soups for a tray!" He called out to no one in particular. And everybody laughed. The trays are so rotten and the instant ramen so mysteriously valuable that the idea of auctioning off soup for a tray is a joke all its own. I finally understood the soup after Shakespeare drew a crowd together. Each man brought every food item he had. Fritos, bits of hotdog, bits of slim jim, a tin of onion dip, some mayonnaise, everything. Shakespeare provided the instant ramen. All the ingredients go into one trash bag. The trash bag is filled with water from the upstairs shower because it is the hottest. The bag is shaken. That's it. That's soup. Everyone argued over how to divide the soup until finally each investor had a cup full. They ate with much passion. It smelled alright, like instant ramen. Shakespeare offered me half his soup, I declined because the hotdog worried me and my stomach was already in knots. The investors chastised Shakespeare for trying to waste soup on me. Shakespeare pointed at me "Look at him man. He ain't got nothing." I layed down, I couldn't believe I was the poorest guy in block B. That night the guy in the bunk next to me packed up and went home. I was the only one awake so he offered me his stylish bag. I got a real bar of soap and travel size toothpaste. Score.

On the third morning the guards had us all step away from our bunks and hold still. They knew about the guys who smoked spice. They were doing a search. They threw shit everywhere. My bag remained intact though, other guys weren't so lucky. Some guys got taken outside. Some came back. After I ate breakfast I felt suddenly ill. I had a fever and I began vomiting. Not sure why. Thought it must've been the food. I stayed in bed all day. Shakespeare came by to let me know the rumors about me. In block B they thought I was a meth addict who knew Billy White on the outside. They thought I was going through withdrawals. I didn't eat dinner. Mistake. Hungry by midnight but still sick. Shakespeare asked how I was. I said my head was pounding and the food or water was killing my stomach. He said that wasn't normal. I figured if it was bad enough they'd take me to a nurse. I was supposed to have been already but it just never happened. Shakespeare told me I wouldn't go to the nurse until one of the guards confirmed I was dying. I didn't think I was dying.

Day 4 I wasn't any better. I was led to a room with 15 others to talk to a judge on an old boxy television screen. He asked us if we had lawyers. He asked if we were mentally competent. He set my trial date for next month. I asked the television how much longer I'd be in. He told me I'd be transferred within ten days to the prison in my county. Then after booking I would likely be transferred back to where I already was because the prison was overpopulated. All at my expense. On the way back to block B we passed a line of female inmates. The guys from block B went nuts. The women went nuts too. In a few seconds twenty or more people let loose all the most vulgar things they wanted to do to each other and then we rounded the corner. Back at bunk 34 I wiped out. The fever was worse. My insides were all wrong. My neck was stiff because of the worthless pillow. I missed my cats.

On day 5 I began to wonder if the food might kill me. Billy White gave me some coffee. For the first time I tried to sit by the TV. Usually the seats were all taken by the oldest men in block B. One of the gray inmates had his hand grafted to the remote and all requests had to go through him. One guy managed to get him on to a news channel. It was raining. I didn't know. I hadn't been anywhere near outside and I was starting to regret not taking my chance on day 1 to excercise. The coffee tasted like the metal in the fountain but I hadn't had caffeine in a while so it worked. Along with the morning news it nearly made me forget the headache. I was being pressured into relinquishing my TV seat, cake was brought up. I was about to explain to the man hovering over me that food wasn't an acceptable offer because I was vomiting all the time and the cake tasted like bile anyway. Before I could speak the guard opened the pressurized door and called my name. I didn't register what was going on. Finally Shakespeare put it in terms I understood. "You're going home man!" I got that. Confused and groggy I gathered my lumpy bed, my stiff pillow, and my fabulous bag. I gave Shakespeare the stuff he wanted out of the bag. I told him I'd find him on Facebook. He just smiled and shook his head.

I got naked for a cop one more time. I got back my dirty work clothes, my wallet, and my phone. I was led to the entrance where my sister was waiting for me. She had called. She had gotten worried. She went to my house. My roommate told her where I was. She payed my bail. It was a thousand bucks. It took me 6 months to pay her back. All because I tried to steal a shoelace, a soda, and a packet of Thai seasoning from Walmart. That's how my sister saved me from the second most painful experience in my life. Starla ex machina.

I looked for Shakespeare on Facebook but never found him. I check every now and again. I hope he got out and stayed out. I hope he got to see his daughter. I never stole anything again.

[diredigression]

Introducing: Sole

Yep, my SoSu has a super creative name. Whatever. But here’s the start of her origin story. And it’s dark. Enjoy!

CW: some gore, minor character death

Terror.

The newscaster’s voice on the TV. Nate’s frantic commands. Shaun’s wails. Panicked cries of neighbors searching for loved ones. The mushroom cloud, as if plucked straight from a bad movie and pasted suddenly into the tranquil sky. The echoing boom like the vault door saying the end. Horror.

Cold. Stiff. Trapped. Strangers. Nate. Shaun. Boom (the end). Screams. Scar. Cold. Despair.

Cold, stiff, trapped. Ice on her fingers. Ice on her face. Then, free. Falling from confinement to the hard ground. How long? An instant, forever. No movement. Just death. The Ables, dead. The Whitfields, dead. Mr. Russell, dead.

Nate, dead.

Nate.

Shaun?

Skeletons. Skeletons everywhere. Everyone was dead.

Just me…it’s just me…I’m the sole survivor.

A skitter. Something was not dead. Something charging, biting, life amidst the silence.  Something–a dog-sized roach??? Bleeding, grab something, protection, a baton. Roach guts. More roaches. Swarming roaches. Guts on her baton, her boots, her suit.

A Pip-Boy on her wrist.

Sunlight, and wind, and blue sky, and death. Shock.

Five people in the ancient museum. Preston, Sturges, Marcy, Jun, Mama Murphy. Living people. People alive in this nuclear wasteland. Friends. Mama Murphy, the sweet grandmotherly woman who somehow knew about Shaun and held her as she cried. Marcy, grieving mother; Jun, grieving father. Preston, who asked her name–I’m…I’m the sole…

Then more people, a swarm, angry, screaming, shooting. Preston and the others, shooting. Something shoved into her hands–electronics on a board–a gun? They wanted her to shoot people? Sturges pushing her towards the stairs as the others shot, something about power armor and a minigun; obeying instinctively. Encased in metal, cold, stiff, trapped. Chasing the strangers out into the street. Boom. The strangers fled.

A nightmare made teeth and horns and laughably oversized claws, rank flesh in their midst, charging with unreal speed. Mama Murphy, the sweet grandmotherly woman who somehow knew about Shaun and held her as she cried, now broken on the ground and spilling more blood than her tiny body should hold. Marcy next, grieving mother, thrown and cracked open against a building. Then Jun, grieving father, now a widower, now charging the nightmare with an animalistic roar, now a spray of red. Then the nightmare looking into her eyes. The weight of the minigun trigger under a metal finger. The end. Nothing.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been awake. She assumed she must have slept, but she couldn’t summon the effort to care about when.

All she knew was that she had been working. Trying to make the place habitable, whatever that meant here. She and Codsworth cleaned the inside of what had once been a house, the neighbors’ house, people she probably had been friendly with before they were vaporized or had asphyxiated in that vault. She probably was supposed to care. But all she really cared about was how had they managed to let their house fall into such disarray? The missus must be so ashamed. The atrociously dirty floor, giant bug carcasses scattered throughout, door falling off the fridge. Not that the fridge worked anymore anyway. Codsworth tended to the maintenance of the doors and equipment, to the extent that they could be fixed, occasionally bringing furniture from neighboring houses, while she swept and scrubbed the floors and tables. 200 years abandoned or no, the state of the place was shameful. Preston had chosen the house for its convenient workshop. She had intended to insist on hosting them at her own home; she knew she had left it pristine. But she couldn’t actually make herself go to it. A wall had gone up in her mind around the idea, and something very quiet and deep had convinced her that trying to circumvent it wasn’t a good thing.

Not that she really believed it had been 200 years. That was silly. Cod’s real time clock hardware must’ve been damaged in the bombing. She hadn’t bothered asking her new companions either. She did believe that the bombs had fallen; she’d seen it, after all. At least, she could mostly convince herself of that. But 200 years? Incomprehensible.

The men worked outside. They patched the holes in the roof and the walls, trying to weatherproof the building. Well, Sturges did, anyway. She vaguely remembered Preston gathering them together in the Concord street, the three survivors, and shepherding them towards Sanctuary. Mama Murphy had wanted them there, after all. Had somehow known about her old home. Convenient, as she led them that way anyway. Where else felt safe? Upon arrival though, once bedrolls were laid out and he’d made sure everyone had eaten and had their injuries tended, once Sturges had repeatedly assured him that everyone was okay and there was nothing else he need do, that all the injuries would mend even though apparently they’d long since run out of stimpaks and she had none of her own–Preston had crashed hard. He’d spent the next…however long it had been…wrapped in his bedroll, empty eyes staring across the room, barely moving but to accept the food she diligently fed him.

Scrubbing floors, cooking, feeding recalcitrant eaters. Life was almost normal. Except she didn’t usually cook with bug and dog and these things Sturges called “tatos” that were definitely not actual tomatoes. But that was life in wartime, learning to cook with whatever you had available. She was no stranger to this. She made do. It wasn’t like she could taste the food, anyway, and the same probably applied to Preston. Sturges had offered to cook and to feed Preston multiple times, but he had apparently finally realized that she only met this with mortification rather than appreciation, and he had finally stopped. Damned if she wasn’t still capable of doing her job, and how dare he imply otherwise.

They fell into routine, and eventually she began tracking time again. Wake, prep breakfast for the men and then herself. Clean whatever was next on the list. Prep lunch. More cleaning. Prep dinner. Haul water to the bathtub, as the running water wasn’t working. Take a bath. It was bad enough that she only had her vault suit to wear, day after day. She couldn’t stand the shame of being filthy around company, no matter how much water she had to haul. Go to bed, her in one room and the men in another. Sturges had tried to convince her to sleep in the same room, something about keeping watch and staying safe. But what was going to hurt her in the house? And god forbid she sleep in the same room with strange men.

Day after day, the routine continued. The house became less dirty and better walled. Cook, clean, wash, sleep. Cook, clean, wash, sleep.

Then one day, Preston returned to life. It was dinnertime. She was trying to spoonfeed Preston a vegetable stew, the dinner she was most comfortable making lately. It was hard to make herself feed it to someone when she knew it wasn’t salted, because apparently salt was an impossible ingredient to find here in the nuclear apocalypse. But she couldn’t taste the lack of salt, so she made herself pretend it was fine. They had to eat something or starve, after all.

It had been a hard day. Sturges had cobbled together a water purifier, somehow managing to scavenge supplies from across the town. By the cursing she had heard, it hadn’t been a pleasant task. Preston was being harder to feed than usual, starting to actively fight her instead of placidly accepting whatever she made him do.

Then he started sobbing, words slipping out between great, horrifying wails. “I can’t even f…freaking…eat right.”

She looked up for Sturges, frantic. She was vaguely aware that this wasn’t his job, she was supposed to be good at this, but she couldn’t bring the ability to mind. But Sturges was right there, taking Preston from her, cradling him against his chest. “Hey, now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t move. I can’t help you rebuild. I can’t even eat right.”

“Come on, there’s nothing to apologize for. You worry about you, and everything will take care of itself.”

“I’ve failed everyone who ever relied on me. I led them to Concord. I got them killed. They’re dead because of me.”

“You’ve been through a rough time, man. The worst. But it’s not your fault. You got us out of Quincy, you got us out of Lexington. You–you saved my life, man. I wouldn’t be alive if not for you. And you tried your damndest to save their lives too. That’s all any of us can do.”

“They’re all dead…”

Preston’s sobbing turned into sniffles, and Sturges held him and whispered gently. She slipped out of the room. This was no longer her duty.