#lack of rust maintenance

[radibe5]

On top of this, Alphonse is also disabled, just not in as easily paralleled-in-reality ways.

“What? Like, a disabled protagonist? How would that even work? How could someone with a disability be the hero in an action show?” local anime trash boy wonders while sitting next to his box sets of Full Metal Alchemist, showing no hint of irony or self awareness. 

[sleepynoons]

DIE 4 YOU BY DEAN – kurapika kurta (hxh) x gn!reader, lovers to enemies!au + canon divergence!au, nsfw / 18+

genre – angst, horror word count – ~4,400 warnings – manga spoilers, graphic descriptions of gore/blood/human anatomy, murder, references to body dismemberment, violence, major character death, slight suggestive content, explicit language synopsis – kurapika's methodical, thorough, determined. there are very few things that can throw a wrench in his plans. for instance, he doesn't expect you to get in his way. at all. notes – i cannot stress enough how dark this fic is - like ao3 dead dove: do not eat level dark. please, please, please read at your own discretion. there's gore, graphic descriptions of said gore and the human body and blood. also, IN NO WAY SHOULD YOU REPLICATE THIS BEHAVIOR IN REAL LIFE. DO NOT MURDER PEOPLE FOR YOUR HOBBIES. the reader is a psychopath and does fucking horrifying things like killing people for the sake of their own interest. i do not romanticize this behavior, nor do i condone it in real life in any shape, way, or form.

Kurapika’s never been happier to see Yorknew City. He should be more alert, with all the people around him, hidden alleyways and towering buildings perfect hiding spots to attack him from afar, but really, he can care less. He defeated Prince Tserriednich, and he’s made it out alive from the Black Whale – he can finally rest, with his brethren’s eyes safely at his side.

He walks up to an apartment complex, a little shoddier and older than the rest. Entering a pin code, the entrance door slides open, revealing a shaky elevator, an antique otis with rusted hinges and grimy metal plating, orange instead of black from a lack of maintenance. He steps inside and presses the topmost button marked with an “R,” and the door closes with an ear-grating screech.

Despite its battered appearance, the elevator flies up, cables pulling and spinning with sturdy force and propelling him upwards to the rooftop. And surprisingly, there’s even a bell that chimes when the elevator comes to a staggering halt. The screech returns, followed by a clang as the elevator shudders in its spot, before the doors split apart. Kurapika scrunches his eyes as he’s hit with a gust of wind. From this height, he can barely see the ground, the crowns of people’s heads no different from dots of paint. He walks to the edge of the box, presses another button that is colored blue, and he hears metal grating against stone. He peers out to see an iron ladder attached to the wall on his left unfolding.

With his right hand gripping onto the door pocket, Kurapika kicks a leg out, propelling and swinging himself out of the elevator so that he can easily catch a rung of the ladder with his left. He steadies his feet on a lower rung and hoists himself upwards. It’s a short climb, and he leaps onto the roof of the complex when he’s close enough. There’s nothing here, except for a tall rectangular unit.

Just like the ladder, the unit is composed of metal walls to withstand the loud currents of wind. Shielding his face with an arm, he paces, resisting the force of being swept away, towards a side of the iron box where there’s a bolted door.

When he steps inside the unit, he sees you sitting on the ground before an easel. Your wrists and forearms are smeared with paint, colors a little stale underneath the glow of the cheap light fixtures around the room. Your hands are wrapped around a thick and wide brush, but you’re not using it, simply staring at the large square canvas sat in front of you. You’re intensely scrutinizing your work, eyes tracing the streaks of azure and black striped over white. It seems you haven’t noticed him, so he simply leans back against the door and patiently waits.

Kurapika probably stands there for at least an hour. It’s hard to tell time in a confined box with no windows, and he doesn’t want to check his smartphone. But it’s a restful, satisfying hour as he watches you diligently work, making a few broad strokes before sitting back down, repeating this process over and over and over again. It isn’t until you run out of paint and you pick up a large tube of azure that he makes his presence known.

You’re using oil paint, there are no windows, and you’re not wearing a mask of any sorts.

He doesn’t want to scare you, though, so he clears his throat first before saying loudly enough, “You shouldn’t use that in here.”

You still startle, shoulders jumping slightly at the sound of his voice. Your head quickly swivels around, and he sighs with a soft smile as you yelp in surprise. Before he knows it, you’ve dropped both the tube of paint and the brush onto the floor and are racing over, arms stretched out above your head.

He catches you with ease as you jump towards him, his hands resting at your waist and under your thigh like always.

“You’re back!” you shout. Kurapika doesn’t respond, simply burying his face into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply.

He can smell turpentine, wood, and your shampoo. You wrap him in a tight embrace, leaning your cheek onto the side of his head, and the two of you stay like that, unchanging and unmoving for several more minutes.

But of course, Kurapika has to let you go so that you can clean yourself up.

“You can’t use oil paint in here,” he repeats as he brings you back down to the ground.

You gasp and begin to profusely apologize. “Oh, gosh, you’re so right! Sorry, Kurapika, I totally forgot! I just had this idea last night, and something in me just knew I had to use these new paints I got, and you know, since  I –“

You continue to ramble as he gently guides you to the bathroom. He listens as he helps you rinse your hands, towels them off, leads you back to the living space, and sits down beside you in front of the easel. He enjoys the sound of your voice and your stories even more.

He’ll never say it out loud – not that there’s a need to because you both know –, but he loves you and your brilliant mind. The creative and childish wonder in his body has ceased long ago, but it’s not like he was that kind of person in the first place. But you (your ability to source inspiration from lingering glimpses of your dreams that are somehow at times as grotesque and tortured as his, the coffee shop you frequent every day, even the bare walls of this unit; the way you articulate your thoughts so cogently and transfer them through the languid motions of your palms and fingers as you guide the handle of a brush; the deep-set look in your eyes, because he knows you never stop thinking and imagining and dreaming) are so admirably different.

He feels so light-headed, lulled into delirium by fatigue, the soothing pitches of your voice, the gentle swipes of your fingertips against his forehead when you brush his hair out of the way, and this high sticks with him through the rest of the day. He doesn’t know how he does it, but it’s as if he’s stuck in a trance. The heat of the stove as the two of you cook dinner does nothing to stimulate him awake. If anything, he feels himself sinking deeper into this state as the two of you shower together, condensation and body wash sticking your bodies together, before tumbling into bed, your lips and slick smooth and tacky against his skin. You make his head spin in the most pleasurable and comforting of ways, and Kurapika thinks this is as happy as he can get in this life.

–

Kurapika stirs from the incessant buzzing of a phone. He squints at the light coming from the dining table and realizes that it’s a call from his. With a grunt, he pulls himself out of your hold, upset at the loss of your warmth, and pads over.

HIs annoyance dissipates, though, as soon as he recognizes the caller.

He hasn’t told you anything – you know nothing about his upbringing or his job or his ability to use nen or what he intends to do in the future –, so he has no choice but to slip outside, even if he knows you never wake without incessant prodding. But now that he’s less tired, he can think more clearly, and even in your presence, he can never be too careful.

“Melody, what’s going on?”

Kurapika thinks he’s lucky that the night is relatively still. He doesn’t have to scream just to have his voice heard.

“Kurapika.” Melody’s voice crackles through. “Are you in a good spot to talk?”

“Yes. Did something happen?”

“I know you’re exhausted, but I thought you would want to know as soon as possible.” Melody pauses, allowing Kurapika to brace himself, before resuming, “We looked through all of the prince’s belongings. We’re missing a set of the eyes.”

Kurapika thinks he’s been punched in the gut – no, actually, it feels as if his innards have been torn out of his body, and his tormentor’s holding them in front of his face, laughing hysterically at his shock and despair.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but he manages to croak, “How.”

“I counted multiple times, but there’s definitely one less than what you told me. I’m already looking into where the last set could possibly be.”

Devastation cannot even begin to describe what he feels.

As always, though, he needs to move. He cannot rest until all of his clan’s eyes have been claimed.

“Where are you?” Kurapika asks as he walks to the edge of the rooftop.

Melody sighs. “I’ll find you. Please, Kurapika, breathe.”

–

It seems, right before the Black Whale took its leave, Prince Tserriednich had made one last transaction. Though it’s not clear what he had received in exchange, he had sold a single pair of eyes to an unidentifiable individual.

The transaction was made online with a new user. Despite intense hacking and scavenging, none of Kurapika’s sources could find communication logs between the prince and this user, aside from the prince’s first and only message offering the eyes. That must mean whatever this person wanted to trade was so desirable that even Prince Tserriednich himself would buy it at the cost of two irreplaceable Scarlet Eyes.

Kurapika has been stuck in the same hotel room for days. He’s also been barely eating or sleeping. His haggard state must be significantly more worse than what he thinks because even his always disheveled master eyes him.

It’s been several days since Melody broke the news to him, and he’s made no progress since the discovery of the transaction. Any minute now, though, she should return from where the computer on which the account was made was located, and he’s praying that there’s some lead that he can work with.

The doorbell rings, and Izunavi gets the door on his behalf.

Melody can tell that Kurapika’s not up for any stalling, so even with a gentle cadence, she cuts straight to the chase.

“It was one of the computers located in the chemistry wing of a public library. I asked if anyone frequented there, but I was only able to get a list of high schoolers that attend a nearby school.”

“Interrogate them.” His voice is chilling. He can sense Melody and Izunavi tense at his demand.

His mentor’s the one to intervene. “Kurapika, they’re just kids.”

“You don’t know!” Kurapika yells. “There are children who are professional Hunters – hell, I became one at 17. You don’t know!”

“I already looked into them,” Melody speaks. He can hear the clicks of buckles being undone, no doubt Melody opening her flute case. “They’re innocent.”

He can’t hold back, seal, extinguish the curdling scream in his throat. “Then what do you expect me to do?!”

His anger is sedated by the warm and round timbre of Melody’s flute, a tune soft and slow, an adagio in the face of his collera. Try as he might – teeth piercing lip to draw blood, nails biting into calloused palm –, Kurapika cannot resist Melody’s nen, and he feels his body relax into the back of his chair against his own volition.

Melody does not sway despite Kurapika’s fury. She continues to inform him kindly and gently. “The others have decided to stay back to watch and follow any suspicious visitors. This might take a while, so I suggest” – she rests a hand on his shoulder – “you try to rest. Remember, Kurapika, breathe.”

It seems he’s always stuck in a limbo, the success of his singular, feasible goal always somehow managing to escape him. But Melody’s right. There’s nothing for him here, so he might as well go back.

–

While you know nothing about Kurapika, he knows quite a bit about you. He’s aware that you’re an aspiring artist , you have a distaste for green bell peppers, and you have a weird fascination with colors. In fact, concerning that last point, you’re very specific and precise with your colors. Kurapika’s no art aficionado, so he doesn’t get it at all, but for each painting, you spend most of your time constructing and mixing and swirling the exact palette of hues you plan on using.

This time, when he comes back, you’re on the bed staring at an open notepad and a large color palette in your lap while balancing a graphite pencil with an upwards quirk of your lips. You spot him instantly, so there’s no delay between Kurapika stepping into the room and you hopping onto him.

As always, you cheer. “You’re back!” You don’t comment on his appearance.

And as always, he breathes you in, smelling faint wisps of charcoal, eraser shavings, and laundry detergent.

“What are you working on?” he asks as the two of you pad over to the bed.

Before the two of you sit down, though, you twirl around with a beaming, excited look on your face. “Kurapika,” you yelp, “I’m holding an exhibit!”

He leans over to congratulate you with a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations,” he says as he pulls away. He glances at the notepad, now sprawled on top of the covers, and says, “I’m guessing you’re drafting then?”

“Yes!” You begin to explain the theme of your gallery, something about how colors are perceived similarly, even by vastly different cultures. You explain how purples are usually associated with royalty, golds with wealth and prosperity, reds with sacrifice – it seems you’re very interested in the psychology that undergirds all of these relations. “It’ll be the central piece of the whole thing!” you exclaim as you gesture with your whole upper body.

“Will you let me come see the exhibit?” he asks once you finish.

You laugh, eyes closed and head thrown back. He loves it when you laugh like this – without a goddamn care in the world.

“Of course! When have I ever denied you?” you giggle. 

After a bit, Kurapika excuses himself to take a shower. On his way to the bathroom, though, he passes by your oil paints. They seem a little flatter. He simply shakes his head, noting to remind you later to not use them inside again.

–

It’s quite rare for him to be at home while you’re out. And recently, you’ve been going out a lot, always leaving with a pep in your step, either going to speak with the exhibit manager or to a studio where you can paint without choking on fumes. There’s been no news from his colleagues either, so really, Kurapika’s never felt so aimless or restless in his life. He considered taking on a few brief missions, but he was sternly told off by Leorio to “just be.” Usually, he has no qualms about defying Leorio’s desperate pleas, but given that his friend really saved his ass on the Black Whale, he has no excuse but to listen to him for once.

Kurapika alternates between sleeping and reading books. He never realized how many books you had in this unit. Now that he thinks about it, this place is practically all yours at this point. He owns this place – bought it as a shelter – but had asked you to move in here out of concern for your safety. At the time, he was still hunting down the Spiders and was afraid they’d target you. But in this bleak, isolated space, you’ve managed to create a brimming sense of life. 

Anyway, Kurapika comes across a row of environmental science textbooks you’ve stored in a cupboard meant for mugs and glass cups. He’s not surprised when he sees all the dog-eared pages and sticky tabs jutting out of it, but it’s strange that you’re reading such things. He never knew you were fond of science.

But there’s nothing better to do, and Kurapika would take any opportunity to learn more about you, so he thumbs through one of the textbooks, spending extra time chuckling over the pages you’ve practically made illegible with your penned annotations and doodles.

–

Melody doesn’t contact Kurapika until three weeks later. Basho had been tailing a man and arrived at a theatre four towns away. Apparently, during Izunavi’s and Melody’s shifts, they also followed separate library-goers to the same place. Though there was never a specific time or frequency at which these visitors came and went, they always sat at the same computer, reading up on the same topic of odorants. After some digging, it turns out the theatre is home to a collective of Fine Arts Hunters.

Kurapika wastes no time in reconvening with his colleagues at another hotel. After thorough investigations, he learns that, though the collective is large and a community for many musicians, artists, writers, and more, there’s a sub-group of members who’d go to extreme lengths to collect their desires, whether that be specific artworks or coveted tickets to ballet shows or even artists themselves. When he learns about this, a chill runs down his spine. Kurapika almost wishes that you won’t make it big, so you won’t ever be in such danger.

The next step then is to find the specific member who placed the transaction. Melody is more than happy to take on this infiltration mission.

“It might help me locate the Sonata of Darkness. I’ll report back soon.”

While it’s impossible for his anger to subside, even by the slightest degree, it’d be remiss of Kurapika to not feel immense gratitude and appreciation for his colleagues. Not only did he drag them into the succession fiasco, but he’s also now bringing them into his personal business. It’s almost ironic, really. Kurapika doesn’t like involving those that are important to him in personal matters, whether that be out of safety concerns or fear of betrayal, but it seems receiving aid once in a while can be immensely gratifying and beneficial.

Kurapika spends the next two days waiting for Melody’s return. As promised, she returns swiftly. Though she has no name, she is completely confident with her information.

“They’ll be at the exhibit.”

–

You don’t expect Kurapika to come home in the middle of the night. It’s not that you usually know when he comes home, but rather, you know he cares for you so much that he’d rather sleep outside than come back in the middle of the night with the risk of disturbing you, even though that’d never happen.

The unit is dark, aside from a single lamp that stands beside you. There’s also a stool placed next to your canvas, the largest that you’ve ever worked with, and your reference placed on top of it. It’s normal – and actually very encouraged – for artists to use references to aid them in their work.

You look at Kurapika’s frozen expression.

“Kurapika! You’re back!”

There’s no jumping into arms or tight holds on each other’s bodies or deep breaths of each other. You realize, then, scattered around you, on the floor, are several uncapped tubes of oil paint.

You scramble and fumble with your apology. “I-I know you said to not use oil paint inside, but you know, my exhibit’s in literally two days, and I’m still not happy with this painting, and –“

“Why do you have that.”

It’s not a question.

You can’t answer, regardless. You’re confused, so instead, you follow his line of sight to your reference.

“Oh, that?”

You drop your brush onto the ground, paying no mind to the smears of burgundy against the stone floor, and walk over.

You’re always mesmerized when you look at it. You mumble, feeling yourself entering an entranced daze, “It’s my reference. They’re really pretty, right?”

You have no idea what’s going through Kurapika’s mind. You’re no longer paying attention to him, so you can’t see the way his face contorts and distorts. You can’t hear the roaring in his ears or the pounding of his heart or the terrified, desperate, furious scream that is itching up from the pit of his stomach, up his esophagus, threatening to spill forth from his pharynx.

All you can think about is the red of these Scarlet Eyes you managed to get and how you want to replicate the same red in your painting.

“You know,” you whisper, hands delicately stroking the canister that holds the eyes, “I can never seem to get the right shade. But that’s because it’s not just red. There’s… gold, some flecks of hazelnut… For once, I can’t even describe a color with words…”

Kurapika swallows thickly.

In as steady of a voice as he can manage – which is not at all, so his voice just sounds low and is only a little louder than a grunt –, he grits, “Why do you have that.”

This time, you look up. Again, you don’t comment on his appearance. “I told you, it’s for my painting.”

“I didn’t know you were a Fine Arts Hunter.”

You startle at this. “Kurapika,” you gasp, “are you a Hunter, too? I didn’t know!”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes!” you chirp. “But just collecting is no fun, you know?”

“What do you mean.”

You shrug. “Well, I’m an artist, too, so I want to create the very paintings I want to collect! It’s a little weird idolizing those of my own kind.” You say the last part in a whisper, as if it’s some inside joke or reference that he’s supposed to be understand.

Kurapika knows he’s no damn artist. Now, more than ever, he’s glad that creative part of him, if it ever existed in the first place, is gone and dead.

“Why do you need those eyes.”

“You’re so interested in them. I can give them to you as soon as I’m done with them!”

He wants them now, but really, he wants them after prying it out of your cold, dead, rotting hands. Kurapika lurches forward, but you jump back in response.

“Hey! If you really want them, you can take them now!”

He lunges again, but you move away just in time again. This ferocious chase continues around the entire unit with you screaming at him to calm down while escaping his every attempt to catch you.

“Kurapika!” you yell, as you leap into the air, almost touching the ceiling of the unit. “I’m going to help calm you down, alright?”

He’s seething, but his combat instincts tell him to pay close attention at this very moment. “What are you going to do!” he shouts, frustrated that he’s missed you once again.

But before you can answer, Kurapika suddenly feels a sharp pain in his head, forcing him to still in his movements. You try to approach, but he backs away with every step you take, even though every movement makes him feel dizzier and dizzier. Eventually, he collides with the kitchen counter, where he can barely hold himself up.

“I’m a Transmutation nen user,” you explain. Kurapika doesn’t understand why your voice sounds so distant, as if it’s muffled by water or several compact cotton balls. But you don’t know that, so you continue explaining, “I can change the quality of air molecules, so I’m going to put you under for a bit.”

Kurapika can only manage to lazily look up at you. You’re chewing on your lip, guilt evident on your face. “That’s why it never really bothered me to use oil paints here because I studied how to neutralize the turpentine.”

That’s the last thing he hears before collapsing.

You scream in terror, running to catch him. But it’s too late as the side of Kurapika’s head collides with the sharp edge of the stone countertop. You hold onto his shoulders, preventing his unconscious body from slipping further down onto the floor, and you take off your apron to dab at the blood trckling down the lines of his neck and ears.

But that’s when you notice it. Or rather, that’s when it clicks.

You’ve always been annoyed at yourself for this, but Kurapika loves this about you. You’re so inconsistent, inspiration only coming in waves and bouts, but when it does hit you, you’re on a roll until you’re done. It’s frustrating, especially since becoming a professional artist usually necessitates having to consistently produce bodies of work to make a living, but it’s never been an entire hindrance.

Truly, though, you’ve never had as big of a revelation until now. You heave Kurapika’s body over to the lamp that is now lying on its side, most likely having been knocked over by your game of tag earlier. You swipe at his blood again, this time with a crumpled sheet of notepad paper, and you watch as the color blooms and spreads through the corner.

It’s not like you’ve never used blood, or the human body for that matter, before in your work. Now that you recall, the one who gave you the Scarlet Eyes made you create a series of artworks out of some dismembered body parts he had. You crinkle your nose at the recollection, having remembered how horrible of an experience it was given that man’s fetishes.

You come back to the thought of Kurapika’s blood, and you know that he’s what you need. Your artwork lacks the haunting depth of the red in the Scarlet Eyes, and no amount of blue or purple or brown can fix it. Kurapika’s blood, though, is already so vivid and striking against the cream of the notepad, and you have no doubt it will blend beautifully with the snow white of the canvas, as well as the other colors you already have painted on.

You make a mental note to check how blood reacts to oil paint. It shouldn’t change much in color or smell, you hypothesize, but you’ll have your friends look it up for you like always.

You lean down, kissing Kurapika softly on the lips.

In a loving, gentle whisper, you say, “You know, Kurapika? You’re always so kind and helpful to me.

Even in death.”

winter event masterlist

[pootimedes]

dude i had a dream that we got another portal game where wheatley comes crashing back down to earth and somehow both him and chell end up in another dysfunctional science facility run by an angry robot, who went mad after a lack of proper maintenance and now runs the facility almost as bad as wheatley ran aperture, that they have to escape. chell fends up finding a very damaged wheatley, barely alive in a room full full of the facility's reject cores. chell uploads wheatley's consciousness to the body of an unprogrammed core, and they set off. during the whole thing, wheatley keeps trying to make it very clear that he's sorry for what happened, and does everything in his power to help chell out.

in the boss fight with the big guy, we see that he has he has somewhat of a humanoid frame, connected to the ceiling by the back with a bunch of wires and circuitry, and is red with rust, from living isolated from the rest of the facility, simply because the task of tending to him was too dangerous of a job for anyone, and the very few staff still alive in the facility had no idea how to shut him down.

his attacks were mostly melee in the first to second wave, utilizing a giant claw hand at chell, which would either try to crush chell by slamming it down from above her, swinging it at her from the side, or try to grab her by the head to crush her.

he would only use one ranged attack in the first to second wave, which were homing missiles that you had to throw back at him. think undertale mad dummy but 3d (you don't get a portal gun so there are some different mechanics, not really "portal" is it then?)

the third and final wave would add electric shock type attacks, big guy weaponizing his own decaying body in a pitiful attempt to take chell down. also lazers. lots of lazers.

chell would do the usual 'throwing the bosses projectiles back at them', while wheatley messes with big guy's controls while he's out to try and weaken him, accidentally making him stronger after the second time big guy gets knocked out.

if you manage to survive the last wave and take him out, big guy explodes, and an ominous 60 second timer comes on the intercom, along the lines of "central core discone-(garbled)-truct initiated in 60.. 59.. 58.." giving you just enough time to grab wheatley before the timer ends, which gives you an option between two endings.

if you chose to use the time to grab wheatley before making a break for it, the counter will end only a few seconds after you make it to him, and you get a sick ass parkour sequence with the facility crumbling and burning behind you as you make a break for the emergency escape pods. once you make it to the end, you get a cutscene of wheatley and chell riding the escape pod to the surface, having a bit of a heart to heart moment with wheatley, him thanking chell for not being mad with him, even if chell doesn't talk. well, you get the option to, by pressing space, (getting you an achievement called "it can talk!?")a little callback to the beginning of portal 2. you reach the surface, getting you the "forgiveness" achievent, and the game ends. congratulations on your marrige, chell

if you choose to leave without him, you can hear him worriedly saying things along the lines of "what are you doing? where are going?" before realizing you're leaving him behind and starts panicking. as the door to the escape pod closes, you get an achievement called "coward's way out" as you hear a distant "don't leave me, DON'T LEAVE ME!" further guilting you for being a greedy achievement hunter, you monster. In the escape pod, you get a whole minute of of uninterrupted silence before arriving at the surface, earning you the "you know what you are? selfish." achievement, before ending the game.

there would also be a shadow achievement where you do absolutely nothing and wait for the self destruct counter to finish, killing the both of you.

ok, most of this wasn't in the dream, i just started getting ideas

(edit: i just had the idea that chell was in a similar kind of situation to ratman, where she was an employee at this facility, working in robotics when uh oh spaghettios all her coworkers are dead and she's stuck in hiding from the giant robot running the facility)

[witchofthesouls]

Can we get some cybertronian birb Jack bonding with Optimus? Good soup

Optimus had long gotten used to waking up with a small frame curled upon him. Even with an attachment for a bitlet's recharge slab with sheets and pillows that hadn't been scrap salvenged or rotted by rust, Jack crawled into Optimus' berth.

Despite the extreme suppression of his presence, Jack was a highly affectionate sparkling. Different from the usually self-contained human teenager that Optimus was used to. Little fingers grabbing the seams along his legs and waist, a small frame easily scaling up his height, an immature wingspan clattering against his smokestacks, a nuzzle across his neck-cables or an insistent, worldless demand of a cuddle for comfort, the strange, elusive EM field burbling joy in his own steady one for attention, and finding Jack slotted over his back or hugging his side during recharge in a sheet bundle.

Jack wedged himself between Optimus' back and the wall, hooking slim talons into armor, so in case Optimus decided to leave the room, then Jack was hitchhiking along side with well-practiced habit of utilizing magnets to keep in place.

Such as this morning.

Optimus slipped out of the berth, stretching out, frame hissing and cracking as it loosened up. Jack was barely a noticeable weight on his back as well as a heavy sleeper, slightly twitching when the sheets were left behind. Softly snoozing as Optimus walked in the Ark's hallway, not even hitching with the increased noise, but then again, Jack had settled down easily in trading hubs and space ports far busier and facilities that lacked the appropriate crew space for Cybertronians. Happy to tuck away against Optimus' frame or inside the cab to save room and a physical deterrent against more unscrupulous souls that tracked an immature frame of an advanced mechanical species.

Because as clever Jack may be, he could be overwhelmed with enough preparation as he lacked the full scope of transformation abilities, including an alt-mode and weaponry system.

Optimus heard the flapping wings before a few corvids perched on his shoulders, finding a purchase on the exposed cabling of his protoform. The blackbirds were highly vocal: chittering and making undulating calls; excited as the birds had long memorized the morning schedule of shower time.

Unlike their own dimension, where the flagship had to be abandoned due to the severe lack of resources to get a modicum of a functionality, not even worth it considering how small their team was, this Ark was liveable and retained most of its functions with the unfortunate exceptions of downed flight capabilities and long-distance transportation warp gates.

Here, with the help of nearby hydrothermal springs, volcanic activity, and Oregon's wet climate, the Autobots had a fully stocked shower rack with no strict rationing on the distilled water, heat, or usage.

It was an indulgence that Optimus allowed himself to enjoy, especially since Jack needed far more maintenance compared to him. Jack's frame was immature, still developing and reconfiguring itself orn by orn, including his limbs and wingspan. Seams lengthening or shortening. Some disappearred completely and slowly resurface over the months. Dry brushing was a necessary evil- no matter how much Jack squirmed, whined, and tried to avoid it by squireling away in hard to reach areas -in ports with limited-to-no available solvents for personal care. Grime that settled deep into Jack's current frame development would cause protoform irritation, armature warping, delayed growth, and uneven coloration.

Jack eventually learned to appreciate grooming in wet baths, especially in places where he was free to roam around or splash about.

Within a private stall, both animals and sparkling screeched back and forth, circling the enclosed space before Jack willingly went to Optimus' lap, kicking out his pedes, splaying out his wingspan as wide as possible.

Optimus had never told anyone that he still carried or, at least, regained some tidbits of his Wastelands history as he switched from blunt digits to claws. Jack purred, grey-blue optics dimming as the sharpened tips picked at his seams to remove any dust and dirt, and they settled in a familiar, pleasant groove where Jack chattered about dreams and yesterday's adventures, wiggling around as Optimus guided his frame to reach other seams, fields meshed in a homey, comfortable buzz under the hot spray of multiple shower heads.

Jack vibrated with pure joy when Optimus scrapped the last areas and ushered him off, and shook his entire body, platelets clattering in a similar ripple as, much to the corvids' continuous delight, a manner similar to the birds' ruffled feathers as they used a soaking bowl for wash rags as a birdbath.

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

(Based on an ask for @pilot-boi About a Wall-E Whiteknight Au, and given Wall-e was instrumental to my childhood, I cannot help but write something for it. Because it's an AU, and they're both Human and not Robots, I took a few Liberties with the scene in the movie.)

~~~~~

Weiss was beyond frustrated. Nothing, after nothing, after nothing - no signs of life aside from the most extremophile of bacteria, protozoans, insects, and the occasional mold on fecal matter to imply the continuation of species on this gods-forsaken ball of mud.

She slammed the door of the cargo ship she was investigating shut, the rust sticking to her now dirtied gloves. Ugh.

She drifted by the crane of it, not noticing the creaks as it followed her, eventually ripping her back onto the magnet that hadn't fallen in the centuries of just sitting there.

And so Weiss snapped.

She whipped Myrtenaster out, igniting the plasmic blade and slicing the disc that held her back to pieces, before using her energetic glyphs to shred the the hulking metal antique, making it into even more scrap than it already was.

It toppled into the next ship, and then the next one, like dominoes. Deep, resonate bellows of creaks from the sudden movement after centuries of dormant stillness shook Weiss to her core.

She watched them fall, and for the time since her landing, let her feet settle against the ground. It was hard, dry, and barren, like the rest of this abandoned home. Weiss sat against an anchor, the fire and sparks filling a growing void in her chest, not unlike the one meant for plant life in her pack.

She sat there in silence - something the Passengers spoke of when in the few times she was allowed to meet them crossed her mind - A campfire. Whatever that was, it was meant to be shared with Family, something she'd been missing for a long time, her siblings being designated to different vectors of maintenance and service.

"AHem?"

Weiss reeled, drawing her sword once more, and startling a nearby person - A Person?!?

"Wer bist du?" She asked on high alert - this planet was meant to be dead, she was meant to find life here - who or what was this ... Person?

The person didn't respond, shaking violently at the sight of her blade - they appeared masculine, broad shouldered with dirty-blonde hair, though it was difficult to tell if that was due to genetics or living situation.

"Quis es?"

No Response.

"你是谁?"

No Response, but they did seem slightly less frightened given the lack of aggression.

"Chi sei?"

Their shaking slowed as they looked more inquisitive and confused than scared now.

"Qui es-tu?"

"OH! Je- Je M'appelle 'Jaune.' Vous parlez Anglais?"

"Yes I speak English."

"Oh, good!"

'Jaune' continued glancing at the glowing rapier. They seemed frightened of it still. Until he drew his own Weapon.

It wasn't as elegant as Myrtenaster, clearly older and having been used more - an old working tool for scrapping large objects, the thin, yellow sheen of plasma raced across it's edges.

"This is my Cutting tool. Your's is cool to!"

Weiss, once again, was thrown for a loop. He had drawn a dangerous device and waved it like it was a piece of extra piping.

"Jaune? Do you have a title or last name?"

The (boy?) seemed to flush at her pronunciation at his name.

"Jaune, of the A.R.C. Ministry"

"Arc?"

"Allocators of Recycled Components."

"How are you alive? Are there others like you?"

"Oh yeah! A lot, like, two hundred, three hundred others in the Bunker? Primarily we survive on Spirulina Compound. It provide most of our Oxygen and Food stuffs."

Weiss stood for a moment, deactivating her sword and pondering this - They'd been living in space for centuries. Earth was dead, barren, she was only barely able to survive due to advanced CO2 recycling.

"Have .. have you been following me?"

"Yep! You just seemed so pret-"

He was cut off by an alarm in his overalls. He lowered the visor to the helmet he wore, staring past her Weiss's shoulder.

"We need to leave Now." Jaune said, grabbing Weiss' wrist with a surprising amount of force, which she took none too kindly.

She reactived her Blade as she tore her hand away from him. "WHAT make you think You can grab me-"

"SANSTORM!" Jaune shouted, pointing past her "WE NEED TO GO, FOLLOW-"

Before he could even move to grab Weiss again, he slammed a massive tower shield in to the ground, covering himself from the blast of sand that tore at her skin and suit -

Weiss was whipped away, barely able to keep upright against the torrential winds, her Glyphs her only saving grace.

She Called out for the boy, anyone, frightened and alone, her suit's helmet the only thing allowing her to keep her eyes open even as it because scratched and muddled.

A hand found it's way to her wrist again, a dim yellow glow standing out against the violent dust letting her know she'd been found by Jaune.

It gave her some small comfort to not be alone as he dragged her somewhere, hopefully safe.

~~~~~

I fucking LOVE Wall-e. I made my First OC for Wall-e (Not that I knew what that meant at the time.) I had the Three-Disc Special edition, the Movie and it's Featurette Presto, The Second Disc with a gallery of the Bots, the Lots of Bots read-along, Burn-E (Who I imagine to be Qrow with his luck) and all the other special features, and the Digital Copy Disc to download it onto a Laptop or P.C. back when owning a digital copy of a movie was something special, and that's not even halve of it!

[followyourfleart]

𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏

Chapter 12 -

Day 2 of the mission to get back the dam is going just as you thought it would - long, painstakingly deadly and smothered in blood.

....................................................

Trigger Warning:

Gunshots, attempted murder, and murder

Please be cautious when reading this chapter! Your mental health matters.

Word Count: 9.2 k

Previous/Next

Drip

Drip

Drip

Water leaked from the rusted pipes overhead, droplets falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern into the puddle forming at your feet. The sound echoed in the quiet, a steady metronome that only seemed to amplify the stillness around you.

You had never been this close to the dam before. From a distance, it was just another piece of the landscape, a monolith of gray stone and steel standing against the rushing waters. But up close, it was massive, towering over you like some ancient fortress, its cold walls worn down by time and weather.

The air smelled of damp concrete, rust, and the faint scent of moss creeping up the cracks. The low hum of the turbines reverberated beneath your feet, sending a faint vibration up through your boots, a reminder of the power surging through the place. Or the lack of now.

You adjusted the rifle slung over your shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap as you took a step forward. The sound of your boots against the damp floor was swallowed up by the cavernous space.

Nathaniel was by your side, his presence solid but silent as he swept his gaze over the surroundings. He barely spoke, but that wasn’t unusual. Nathaniel had always been quiet—watchful in a way that made most people uneasy. But now, in the damp, echoing belly of the dam, his silence felt heavier, as if it carried an unspoken warning.

The group had been split up, and you and Nathieal were handling securing the first floor. You knew Joel and Tommy were on the opposite side, and would meet with them in the maintenance room after securing the East and West wing respectively. 

“You head down, check the doors,” you whispered, keeping your voice low. No reason to be loud—not yet. “Make sure no one else pops out on us.”

Nathaniel turned to you, his gaze flicking between each door along the corridor, lingering on them like he could see something you couldn’t. His body tensed just slightly, his hand shifting along the strap of his rifle. His hesitation was brief, but it was enough to set your nerves on edge.

“I’ll be right behind you,” you added, softer this time.

He gave a small nod, then moved forward, his steps careful, deliberate. You followed close behind, your own footfalls quiet against the damp concrete floor.

The hallway stretched out ahead of you, dimly lit by a few flickering bulbs mounted along the walls. The doors you’d mentioned lined both sides—old, industrial things, thick metal with rusted hinges. Some were slightly ajar, revealing nothing but shadowed rooms filled with forgotten equipment and dust-covered control panels. Others remained shut, their locks rusted over, the paint peeling away in jagged strips.

Nathaniel reached the first open doorway and paused, his head tilting slightly as he listened. He didn’t step inside, just stood there for a moment, fingers flexing slightly over his rifle’s grip.

You swallowed, your own nerves prickling.

Nothing. No movement, no sound beyond the quiet hum of the dam.

Nathaniel exhaled through his nose and moved to the next door, his posture rigid, shoulders tight.

You kept watch, sweeping your gaze along the length of the corridor, watching the way the shadows shifted with each flicker of the overhead lights. Your ears strained for anything—any sign of movement, any indication that you weren’t as alone as you hoped to be.

As you both moved down the hall, the weight of the silence pressed down on you like a heavy blanket, thick and suffocating. Every step felt too loud, every inhale like a sharp whistle in the cold air. The dim, flickering lights cast long, shifting shadows against the damp concrete walls, warping familiar shapes into something eerie, something that made your skin crawl.

You dragged your fingers absently over your throat, wincing at the faint ache beneath your touch. Your breathing still wasn’t right—not after what happened. The bruises along your windpipe made each inhale feel tight, shallow. It wasn’t enough to slow you down, but it was enough to make you hyperaware of every sound you made. Enough to make you paranoid that even your own breath could give you away.

Nathaniel moved ahead of you, his posture tense but controlled, his rifle lifted just enough to be ready in an instant. His head turned slightly, sweeping his gaze from one side of the hall to the other, cataloging every door, every crevice, every possible place a person—or something worse—could be hiding.

The sound of something dripping echoed down the corridor. A pipe leaking. Maybe rainwater pooling through a crack in the ceiling. You tried to ignore it, but the steady rhythm of it felt like the slow ticking of a clock, winding down toward something inevitable.

A sudden noise from deeper inside the dam made you freeze.

A shuffle. A scrape.

Then, a quiet thump.

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

Nathaniel had heard it too. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. His expression didn’t change, but you could see it in his eyes—the sharp glint of tension, the quiet calculation happening behind them.

He lifted two fingers, signaling toward the next doorway.

You nodded.

With careful, practiced movements, you adjusted your rifle, pressing your back against the damp wall as you approached the door. It was cracked open just enough to let a sliver of darkness spill out into the hallway. A stale, metallic scent lingered in the air, and something about it made your stomach turn.

Nathaniel was already in position, standing just opposite you on the other side of the doorframe. He raised an eyebrow—ready?

You exhaled slowly through your nose, fingers tightening around the grip of your weapon.

Then, in one swift movement, Nathaniel nudged the door open with his boot, sweeping inside first with his rifle raised.

You followed immediately after, eyes scanning the room, breath locked in your throat.

It was dark. Darker than the hallway. The only light came from a small, grimy window near the ceiling, where weak moonlight filtered in through a layer of dirt and grime.

The room was cluttered—old desks shoved against the walls, rusted metal shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten tools and supplies. Papers were scattered across the floor, their edges curled and yellowed with age.

And then there was the body.

Slumped against the far wall, head tilted at an unnatural angle. Blood had pooled beneath it, though it had started to dry, turning tacky against the concrete. A gun lay loose in their hand, fingers curled around the grip like they hadn’t wanted to let go, even in death.

You swallowed hard.

Nathaniel stepped forward carefully, toeing a piece of paper aside with his boot. He crouched near the body, expression unreadable as he examined the gun, the blood.

Then he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Not fresh.”

You followed his gaze, your stomach twisting at the sight. He was right. The blood had lost its bright, wet sheen—it had turned dark, thick, and congealed against the cold concrete. The smell of it, coppery and stale, lingered in the air, heavy enough to settle at the back of your throat. This hadn’t just happened. It had been hours. Maybe even days.

“Shit, is that…” Your voice trailed off, but you already knew the answer.

Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “One of the guards?” He finished for you. His gaze flickered over the dead man’s uniform, over the faded patch sewn into the fabric, barely visible beneath the crusted blood. “Yeah. It is.”

You let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers against your temple. The situation was getting worse by the second. If the raiders had managed to take out one of the guards inside the dam, then they were already deeper in than you thought. And if this guy had died days ago—

“We have to move faster,” you said, stepping toward the door. Your hands moved on instinct, checking the hallway beyond for movement, for shadows that didn’t belong.

“Agreed.” Nathaniel’s voice was steady, but you could feel the urgency in it.

You turned back to see him prying the gun from the dead man’s hand, his fingers working carefully, prying stiffened joints apart. The guard had held onto it even in death, his grip so tight that his knuckles were still frozen in place. Nathaniel had to flex the fingers open one by one before finally tugging the pistol free.

Without hesitation, he tucked it into the extra holster at his hip. More ammo was always better.

Clearing every single room was taking painstakingly long, your muscles coiled with tension as you moved, every step measured, every corner checked and double-checked. Your back ached from staying on high alert, body constantly pivoting, ready for anything. The silence was unbearable—the kind that made every creak of your boots sound deafening, every breath feel too loud.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering emergency lights. Each door you passed was another risk, another potential ambush. The longer you searched, the clearer it became—whoever had done this had been methodical. They hadn’t come in guns blazing. They’d come with a plan.

You stopped in front of the maintenance room. The door wasn’t locked. The handle was busted, hanging by a few stubborn screws. Your fingers hovered over it for a second, exchanging a glance with Nathaniel. He nodded once. You pushed forward.

The room was a mess of machinery and panels, blinking lights casting eerie glows across the walls. You weren’t an engineer, but even you could tell the damage was bad. Wires dangled like severed limbs, circuits fried beyond repair. Several panels flashed an angry red, warning signs blinking in steady intervals.

“Broken turbines…” you muttered under your breath, stepping over a tangled mess of wiring. “Wires disconnected… shit, these fuckers really wanted to mess us up.”

Nathaniel let out a low breath, scanning the damage. “Surprised they didn’t think about it earlier,” he replied. His voice was flat, but you could tell he was just as pissed off as you were.

He moved toward the door and grabbed a nearby metal pipe, jamming it against the handle, barricading it as best as he could. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it’d buy you time.

Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “They cut off more than just the turbines,” he muttered, nodding toward another busted panel. “They got to the security system too. Cameras are down.”

That sent a chill down your spine.

“Then we’re fucking blind,” you whispered.

Nathaniel exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

Your stomach twisted. If the cameras were out, then Tommy and the others had no idea how many raiders were still inside, how deep they’d gotten. You couldn’t just sit here.

“We have to get to the control room,” you said, stepping back toward the door. “If we can restart at least part of the system, we can—”

A noise.

Both of you froze.

Footsteps.

Coming from the hallway.

Your breath hitched, and your fingers curled instinctively around your gun. Every nerve in your body was bracing for impact, for the worst—

If it was Joel, he would have—

“Red Bird.”

The tension in your chest cracked just slightly, the weight of those two words pressing through the silence.

“Fuck…” you breathed, lowering your gun but keeping your grip firm just in case. You waved a hand toward Nathaniel, signaling him to move. He hesitated for only a second before exhaling sharply, cracking the pipe off the handle and unlocking the door with slow, deliberate movements.

Tommy’s face was the first thing you saw. His usually warm features were gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He looked exhausted, worn down by hours—maybe even days—of stress. Behind him, Joel stood rigid, his gaze sweeping the room with sharp precision, taking in every detail before locking onto you.

You held his stare for only a moment before he pushed past Tommy, closing the distance between you in three long strides. His presence was immediate, overwhelming, like a storm rolling in fast. His eyes, dark and unreadable, scanned you quickly—your face, your hands, the way you were standing. His fingers twitched at his sides, a restrained movement, as if he was stopping himself from reaching out.

“I’m fine,” you murmured before he could say anything, shaking your head. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t exactly the truth either.

Joel didn’t look convinced. His gaze flickered to your throat, where bruises lingered, ugly and deep. His jaw clenched, muscle ticking, and for a moment, he looked like he might say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled through his nose, stepping back just enough to let Tommy take the lead.

“We need to get the power back up,” Tommy said, his voice hoarse. “We got folks workin’ on it, but they cut off more than just the turbines. We don’t know how many of ‘em are still inside.”

“Perfect,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone like venom. “And we’ve already found one of our own. Dead.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. His shoulders were taut, barely containing the frustration simmering under his skin. “Shit,” he muttered. “We gotta focus on what’s next.”

You shifted your weight, trying to swallow down the bitter taste in your mouth. “What’s next is making sure there aren’t more of them waiting to be found like that.”

Joel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, steady, the kind of tone that carried weight without needing to be raised. “Then we stop wastin’ time standin’ around.”

There was no arguing with that.

Nathaniel adjusted his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder, nodding toward the hallway. “We need to get a count of who’s missing. If we’re down more guards, it means there’s either more bodies… or hostages.”

A sharp, unpleasant thought twisted in your gut.

Hostages.

It made sense, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. If whoever did this had planned on taking prisoners, that meant they weren’t just here to destroy Jackson. They wanted leverage.

Tommy clenched his jaw, his voice darkening. “Then we better find ‘em before it’s too late.”

The hallway stretched out ahead, dimly lit by emergency lighting that flickered inconsistently, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Each step you took felt like a risk—like something could jump out from around the corner at any moment. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was the kind of quiet that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Joel moved ahead, his steps near silent despite his size. You weren’t sure if it was experience, instinct, or both, but he carried himself like a man who had walked through worse halls than this, seen worse things waiting at the other end.

You just hoped this time, whatever was waiting wouldn’t be more bodies.

But deep down, you weren’t that hopeful.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Once the four of you stepped out into the open air, relief should have come—should have washed over you in a wave of reassurance that the worst was over. But instead, you felt… separate. Detached. Like you were watching from a distance as the others fell into the arms of the people who cared about them.

Molly wasted no time in reaching for Nathaniel, her hands cupping his face as she twisted his head side to side, searching for any injuries. “Jesus, Nat,” she muttered, her brows pulling together. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Nathaniel, ever the stoic one, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Wasn’t exactly having a great time myself.”

Molly ignored his sarcasm, her fingers brushing over his jaw, then trailing down his arms as if checking to make sure all his limbs were still in place. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, her usual biting remarks softened by something rawer, something real.

A few feet away, Maria stood close to Tommy, her gaze sweeping over him with careful precision. She didn’t reach for him the way Molly had reached for Nathaniel, but her presence was grounding, her touch restrained but deliberate as she finally placed a firm hand on his arm. It was a quiet confirmation. You’re here. You’re okay. Tommy, for all his usual bravado, leaned into it—just slightly, but enough to be noticeable.

You stood there, watching, your fingers flexing idly at your sides.

No one rushed to check on you.

Not that you expected them to.

Joel was there, a few steps away, but he didn’t move. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t close the space between you like the others did. He just stood there, his dark eyes flickering over you, scanning, assessing. You could see it—the calculation behind his gaze, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly like he wanted to do something but didn’t quite know what.

Your throat tightened, but you pushed past it, forcing a smirk onto your face. “Don’t look so worried, Miller. I didn’t even get a scratch.”

Joel didn’t smile. He didn’t argue, either. He just exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before finally muttering, “Yeah. Right.”

Then, just as quickly as he’d let his concern show, he turned away.

The moment passed.

Molly was still fussing over Nathaniel. Maria and Tommy were already walking back toward the rest of the group. And you?

You were just standing there.

Swallowing hard, you rolled your shoulders, shaking off the invisible weight pressing down on you. It was fine. You were fine. You didn’t need anyone hovering over you, didn’t need anyone checking for wounds or cupping your face like you were something fragile.

You’d gotten used to it.

Still, as you turned to follow the others, you felt it—that absence. The space where something should have been. The ghost of a touch that never came.

Molly’s eyes drifted away from Nathaniel, her relief at seeing him intact shifting into something sharper, something more urgent. Within seconds, she was in front of you, her hands gripping your shoulders, grounding you before you even had the chance to realize how much you needed it.

“You okay?” Her voice was steadier than it should’ve been, but her eyes betrayed her—trained on your neck, fixated on the deep, ugly bruises blooming across your skin like a sick reminder. Her fingers twitched slightly against your arms, like she wanted to do more but didn’t know where to start.

“Anything happen?”

“Nothing.” It came out too quickly, but you didn’t correct yourself. “First floor’s fine.”

Molly didn’t look convinced, and the longer she stared, the harder it became to hold the weight of her gaze. She let her hands rest against you, neither pulling you closer nor letting go, just there. You exhaled, steadying yourself. “Just…”

She caught onto your hesitation immediately, her brows knitting together. “Just what?”

You swallowed. “Found a body.”

Molly stiffened.

“Don’t know who,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “But I know it was one of ours. One of the guards assigned to protect the dam.”

Molly exhaled sharply through her nose, her hands dropping from your shoulders. For a moment, she just stood there, processing, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“I hate to say I knew it was coming…” she muttered finally, her voice hollow. “But God, it’s still terrible to hear out loud.”

Her expression darkened, her usual sharp humor stripped away. You watched the way her shoulders tensed, the way she turned her head slightly like she needed to look anywhere but at you. It wasn’t just anger or sadness—it was something deeper, something closer to dread.

You glanced over at the others. Joel stood beside Tommy, his posture rigid, arms crossed over his chest like a shield. They were speaking in low, grave tones, voices just quiet enough that you couldn’t catch the words. But you didn’t need to—you knew that look, the hard set of Joel’s jaw, the way his fingers flexed subtly against his biceps like he was barely keeping something restrained.

Molly exhaled, her hands coming to rest on her hips as she followed your gaze. The weight of everything hung between you, thick and suffocating.

“But at least we know who we’re dealing with,” you continued, your voice steady but laced with steel. “And we know how far they’re willing to go to hurt us.”

Molly’s jaw clenched, and she nodded once. The air around you felt charged, tense, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You looked her straight in the eye, making sure she felt the weight of your next words.

“That just means we give them ten times worse.”

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of Molly’s lips—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. A smile devoid of humor, sharp as a knife.

“Now that is the kind of math I like,” she muttered, tightening her grip on the strap of her backpack.

Maria’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. “Alright! Listen up!”

The words sliced through the murmurs, silencing every conversation in an instant. Maria wasn’t one for theatrics—when she spoke like this, it was because something serious was about to go down.

“We’re going in,” she continued, her voice steady but fierce. “We’re going in, and we’re taking back what those bastards took from us.”

The energy in the room shifted. It started as a low ripple, a murmur of agreement rolling through the crowd, but it quickly gained momentum. People nodded, fists clenched tighter, weapons adjusted. The determination in the air was almost tangible.

A few voices rose in response, quiet at first, but then stronger. It wasn’t exactly a battle cry—no one was foolish enough to start shouting—but it was a promise. A whispered oath passed from one person to the next, each word dripping with the weight of their anger, their resolve.

Maria didn’t waste time reveling in it. She moved quickly, separating people into groups, forming the plan of attack. Every person had a role, a purpose. There was no room for dead weight.

You already knew your assignment before Maria even turned to you. Your job was as simple as it could be—at least on paper. Protect the engineer.

The girl who had helped hitch the dam to Jackson in the first place. The one who had made sure the water kept running, the lights kept flickering, the town stayed alive. Without her, none of this would be possible. And that made her a target.

You turned your head, searching for her among the crowd. It wasn’t hard to spot her—she stood out, not because of her presence, but because of how much she tried to shrink into herself.

She was young, maybe early twenties, with plain brown hair that fell just past her shoulders, blending in with her warm brown skin. There was nothing particularly striking about her appearance, nothing that would draw attention in any other circumstance. But here, in the midst of a brewing war, she was the most important person in the room.

She wasn’t a soldier. She was like you. Her hands, though calloused from years of work, weren’t made for violence. They were built for precision, for carefully threading wires together, for making things function when the world tried to tear them apart.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. You could see it in her posture, in the way her hands twitched at her sides, in the way her eyes darted from person to person, as if gauging whether she could trust them with her life.

She didn’t have to worry about that with you.

You stepped toward her, making sure she saw you before you spoke. “You stick close to me, alright?” Your voice was calm, steady, meant to be reassuring.

Before she could answer, a hand brushed just above your elbow, the touch light but enough to make you jump. Your head snapped to the side, only to find Joel standing there. His fingers barely lingered before he pulled back.

“No wandering, no hero shit,” Joel added, his voice low but firm, cutting through the air like a blade. His eyes flicked to the engineer. “You focus on your job, and we’ll focus on ours.”

The girl swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she processed both of your words. Still, she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line of determination. “Okay.”

Simple. No wasted words. Good.

Joel exhaled, satisfied with her answer, but he didn’t leave just yet. Before he turned, his grip tightened around your bicep—not hard, not painful, but firm enough to hold you in place. His presence loomed closer, the rough scratch of his beard almost brushing your temple as he leaned in, voice a whisper just for you.

“Stay by my side,” he murmured, the quiet intensity in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “At all times. If things go to shit, then I want you right next to me so I can get you the fuck out.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest. There was no room for argument, no opening for your usual stubbornness. This wasn’t just orders. It was something else—something heavier.

You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay even. “Alright. But the same goes for you. Be next to me so I can help you too.”

A beat of silence. Then, barely audible, you swore you heard the smallest chuckle under his breath.

“Thanks.”

The warmth of his grip vanished as he stepped back, heading toward Maria and Tommy. They were gathered with a group of settlers, all of them armed to the teeth, their weapons catching the dim light. There was an energy buzzing around them, a mixture of anticipation and dread.

You let out a slow breath, forcing the tension in your shoulders to ease. Then, turning back to the engineer, you caught her watching Joel as he walked away, her gaze lingering like she was trying to piece him together.

“I’m sorry,” you said, breaking the silence. “I haven’t asked your name yet. I mean, I know who you are, just haven’t personally…” Your words trailed off as you awkwardly rubbed the back of your neck, your eyes flickering up toward the dam, searching for something—anything—to fill the gap in conversation.

The girl blinked before quickly straightening, as if shaking herself out of a daze. “My name is Gemma. Gemma Callaway.” She held out her hand, fingers slightly shaky but her grip firm when you took it.

“Callaway…” you repeated, nodding as if the name carried weight. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. “Great meeting you.” You exhaled through your nose, glancing around at the sea of tense faces, rifles being checked, blades being secured. “Not the best place to meet someone, huh?”

Gemma let out a short, dry laugh, her lips twitching into something that barely resembled a smile. “Yeah, I usually prefer first introductions over coffee. Not while standing outside an old dam, about to possibly die.”

You huffed, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Coffee sounds a hell of a lot better than this.”

Her eyes darted back to the crowd, watching as Maria barked out last-minute instructions, Tommy murmuring something to Joel, who nodded with that same ever-serious expression locked onto his face. Gemma’s fingers twitched at her sides, betraying her nerves.

Gemma’s question hung in the air between you, her uncertainty clear in the way she fidgeted with her fingers, twisting them over and over again like she was trying to hold onto something solid. Her voice had been quiet, hesitant, as if she was bracing herself for the weight of your answer.

“Yeah,” you said after a beat, tightening your grip on your gun. The cold metal pressed against your palm, a grounding sensation that yanked you back from memories you didn’t care to revisit. “Couple of ransacking trips. Clearing out places. It’s been years, though. I’ve been a teacher in the meantime.”

That last part made her pause. “A teacher?”

You glanced at her. “What, that surprising?”

She hesitated before shaking her head. “No, it’s just… I guess I didn’t expect someone going out on a mission like this to be  a teacher.”

You let out a quiet huff, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Comfortable job. It’s easy to not want to go back out once you get used to it.”

Gemma nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

But you weren’t sure she really did. Because you hadn’t just been a teacher. You’d been something else before that, something you weren’t eager to talk about.

Before Jackson, before the warmth of a classroom and the quiet, structured life that teaching provided, you had been out there. Fighting. Surviving. Making the kind of choices that haunted you in the dead of night.

Going back out meant reopening wounds you had spent years trying to close.

“You scared?” you asked, cutting into the silence before your thoughts could spiral.

Gemma let out a breathy laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “Terrified.”

“Good.” You gave a sharp nod. “That means you’re thinking. Stupid people aren’t scared. Stupid people get killed.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, the weight of your words settling in. Around you, the group began moving forward, boots crunching against the dirt as they followed Maria’s lead. The steady rhythm of movement was almost hypnotic, a wave of bodies pushing toward a singular point. You and Gemma drifted with them, carried along by the tide of people.

“Just… there’s so many people relying on me,” she murmured, almost to herself.

“You did it once, what… five years ago? You can do it again.” You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, hoping to pat her worries away.

“It’s different now,” she said, shaking her head. “I have a kid. I need my kid to be safe, you know?”

Your stomach twisted into knots.

A kid. Someone waiting for her. Someone looking for her.

You forced a thin smile, one that you hoped she wouldn’t notice didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Then I guess I’m keeping you safe until you step back onto your porch.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A gush of steam slapped your face, and you almost choked on your cough trying to stay silent. Gemma looked up at you, her wide eyes filled with concern while you waved her off.

Focus, you wordlessly told her, going back to watching your end of the hallway. She returned to her work, completely focused on the panel, bent over wires and circuits. Joel had the opposite direction, steady, silent, always watching.

Your mind swore it heard noise from your left, a shuffle from your right. Tricks, this dam was playing mind games with you. And for some reason, it was working.

Your hand was so tight on your gun it was imprinting onto your skin. Your skin was glistening from sweat, even though it wasn’t hot. Snow was still outside and seeping into the dam. Every nerve in your body was on fire, but you bite your tongue, because if you panicked, Gemma would jump out of her skin.

The plan Maria had proposed was simple; scout the first floor, then have 4 teams of 6 go and secure the second and third. Next, while those 4 teams occupied the raiders, Gemma would go painstakingly slowly through each panel on all three floors, checking for what she needed to fix in the main control room on the 3rd floor, with you and Joel by her side.

No had spoken for the last hour, and Gemma was just finishing up the last panel on the second floor with a huff and a small smile at her work. Truly, she was an expert.

She stood up, bag of supplies full and her notepad of everything wrong with new markings. She looked to Joel, who took in the both of you before motioning to the hallway that led to the stairs.

All your steps were too loud, you felt like they reverberated throughout your body like waves. You kept your head moving, looking into the darkness only illuminated by hanging yellow bulbs.

“Watch your-” Joel’s mouth opened, before it was shut down by the loud clang and whimper of metal hitting metal, of a body crying out in pain.

Gemma was on the floor, clutching her knee. All her stuff, every darn wrench, screwdriver, and material laid out on the floor. A piece of metal flooring was lifted, its edges sharp and dyed red with fresh blood. You didn’t have to see to know Gemma was definealtly bleeding.

For a moment, no one spoke. Dared breath.

Then, you heard it. Thudding of boots, sounds of angry yelling

Shit, shit, shit!

Your boots slammed against the metal grating as you half-dragged, half-shoved Gemma forward. You dove for her notebook. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, nearly drowned out by the chaos behind you—shouted orders, pounding footsteps, and the sharp ping of bullets ricocheting off the steel walls.

Move. Move. Move.

And then—they came out of nowhere.

A flurry of movement, the flash of gunmetal, the unmistakable click of safeties switching off. You barely had time to react before Joel was shoving you both back, his voice a low, urgent growl—“Run!”

Now, you were sprinting blind, tearing through the second floor of the dam with no clear way out. The emergency lights flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows across the narrow walkways. The place was a goddamn maze, pipes and catwalks twisting in every direction, each turn looking more like a dead end than the last.

Think. Think. Think.

You reached an intersection, your heart slamming against your ribs as you tried to orient yourself. Left? Right? Forward?

A bullet whizzed past your head, embedding itself into the rusted wall beside you.

No time to think.

You grabbed Gemma’s wrist and pulled her toward the left. “Keep moving!” you barked, voice raw with adrenaline.

“I— I can’t—” she choked out, stumbling again.

You didn’t let go. Didn’t stop. “Yes, you can! Just fucking run!”

Another gunshot. Closer this time.

You risked a glance over your shoulder—three of them, dressed in patchwork armor, rifles raised. You could see their faces now, twisted with the kind of determination that meant they wouldn’t stop until  you were dead.

Your grip on Gemma tightened. “Stairs! Go—now!”

She practically threw herself onto the stairwell, her hands scrambling against the railing as she half-ran, half-slid up the steps. You turned, raised your gun, and fired off two shots—one hit the railing, the other clipped the shoulder of the guy in front. He grunted, staggering back, but his friends kept coming.

You wheeled around and bolted after Gemma. Only two words echoed in your mind. Joel. And turbines.

The turbines. Right.

You shoved Gemma forward. “Keep going—we get to the turbines, we get the hell out of here!”

“I don’t know where the fucking turbines are!” she cried, voice on the edge of panic. 

“Yes you do—just stay with me!”

The stairwell twisted downward, the air growing colder the deeper you went. The gunfire above had slowed, but you knew better than to assume you were in the clear.

They were still coming.

Gemma tripped on the last step, catching herself against the wall. You barely gave her a second before pulling her forward again, bursting out into an upper-level corridor. Dim emergency lights flickered overhead, casting eerie red glows over the rusted pipes lining the walls.

A crash echoed from somewhere behind you—metal against metal, maybe a door being kicked open.

They were close. Too close.

Up ahead, a heavy door sat slightly ajar, steam curling from the hinges. A faint, rhythmic hum vibrated through the floor—the turbines.

“There!” you gasped, gripping Gemma’s arm and hauling her toward the door.

You shouldered your way inside, immediately raising your gun, eyes sweeping the room for threats.

Empty.

Gemma collapsed against the nearest console, her entire body trembling. “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, her breath coming in uneven gasps.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your hands were shaking too damn much as you yanked the door shut behind you, twisting the heavy lock into place with a metallic clang. You braced yourself against the cold steel, inhaling sharply through your nose. Your pulse was still hammering, the echoes of gunfire ringing in your ears, but you forced yourself to shove it all aside. You didn’t have the luxury of breaking down. Not here. Not now.

Gemma looked at you, her wide eyes still glassy with panic, her chest rising and falling too fast. She looked like she was about to fall apart. Like she was two seconds away from cracking into pieces.

You grabbed her notebook off the console and threw it onto her lap. “Work,” you ordered.

She flinched at the sharpness in your voice, but she didn’t argue. Her fingers curled around the edges of the notebook, knuckles pale with tension. You saw the exact moment she forced herself to take a breath, to focus. You could practically hear the switch flip in her brain as she pushed herself up from the console and turned toward the mess of wires and screens before her.

Even with the lack of proper materials, she dove in, her hands moving with mechanical precision. The turbine loomed over her, the massive machine making her look small in comparison, a dwarf against a giant. She flicked switches, adjusted dials, yanked open panels. The hum of electricity pulsed through the room, vibrating through the floor, mixing with the distant echoes of shouting from above.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to move.

Your gun was still hot in your grip as you paced toward the opposite side of the room, scanning for anything—any other way out, any sign of movement beyond the grated walkways above. The emergency lights flickered, casting jagged shadows along the walls.

The shouts upstairs were getting louder. Closer.

Shit.

You turned back to Gemma. “How long?”

She didn’t look up. “I don’t know.”

You ran a hand down your face. “Guess.”

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temple with the back of her wrist before refocusing on the console. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

That wasn’t going to cut it.

“Make it ten.”

“That’s not how it works,” she snapped, her voice tight, the stress cracking through. “I can’t just magically fix the whole damn system faster because you tell me to.”

You clenched your jaw. You knew that. Of course you knew that. But you also knew that you didn’t have fifteen goddamn minutes.

You turned back toward the door, listening.

The gunfire had stopped.

That was worse.

It meant they weren’t wasting bullets anymore. It meant they were moving carefully. It meant they were looking for another way down.

Gemma was muttering under her breath, flipping through her notebook, her fingers moving over the worn pages. The paper was stained, corners bent, smudged with old grease.

She was good. You could tell. The way she worked, the way she moved—she’d done this before. This wasn’t just some theory she had learned and hoped would work. She knew what she was doing.

You just had to buy her enough time to finish.

The metal walkway above creaked.

You snapped your head up.

Gemma stilled. “What was that?”

You raised a finger to your lips, motioning for her to stay quiet.

The sound came again—soft, deliberate.

Footsteps.

Someone was already in the room with you.

Your stomach turned to stone.

Slowly, carefully, you raised your gun, stepping away from the console, scanning the overhead walkway. The shadows made it impossible to see clearly, but you could feel it. The weight of being watched.

Gemma didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Your finger curled tighter around the trigger.

A single, drawn-out second passed.

Then—

A shadow shifted above. A figure moved, slow and deliberate, rifle raised.

Not one person.

Two.

Shit.

You had to act first.

You turned, grabbed a nearby wrench off the console, and hurled it at the far side of the room. It clanged against the metal, echoing through the turbine chamber. The figures above flinched, their heads snapping toward the noise.

You didn’t wait.

You grabbed Gemma’s arm and yanked her down just as the first shot rang out, the bullet slamming into the console where she had been standing a second before. Sparks erupted from the impact, casting a brief, electric glow through the dim turbine room.

The gunmen shouted—harsh, frantic words that were drowned out by another round of gunfire. The noise ricocheted off the steel walls, turning the space into an echo chamber of chaos. Their movements were erratic, shadows darting above like restless phantoms, shifting between the walkways, their shapes distorted by the flickering emergency lights.

You spared a quick glance at Gemma. She was frozen, eyes wide, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. She looked seconds away from completely shutting down.

No time for that.

You pulled her with you, keeping low, moving swiftly along the grated floor. She stumbled, barely keeping up, her boots scraping against metal. Your grip on her arm was tight—probably too tight—but she wasn’t protesting. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold onto her wrench.

Above, the shadows split.

Fuck.

They were flanking.

You could hear the heavy thud of their boots as they moved, one staying high, the other descending. They weren’t panicking anymore. They were closing in. Calculating.

You yanked Gemma toward the cover of an overturned workbench, shoving her down behind it. She hit the ground with a muffled grunt, pressing herself against the cold metal.

Your heart was a hammer in your chest, every beat rattling in your skull.

Think.

You had to think.

Your gun was loaded, but that didn’t mean shit if you didn’t know exactly where they were. Firing blindly would only give away your position, and from the sound of it, they already had the upper hand.

You risked a peek over the edge of the workbench.

A shadow moved along the catwalk.

Another figure was descending the stairs on the far side of the room, rifle raised, scanning.

You had seconds before they found you.

You looked at Gemma. Her breath was coming too fast. She was still on the verge of breaking apart.

You gritted your teeth and leaned in close. “Listen to me. You stay down. You keep quiet. No matter what happens, you don’t move unless I tell you. Got it?”

She nodded, but it was jerky, unconvincing.

“Gemma.”

Her breath hitched. She forced out a whisper. “Got it.”

Good enough.

You took a slow, steadying inhale. Then you shifted your weight, tightening your grip on your gun.

The man on the stairs was closer now, the barrel of his rifle swinging in an arc, searching.

Your shot had to count.

One breath in.

One breath out.

You rose just enough to take aim—

And fired.

The bullet hit home, slamming into his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling back into the railing. His gun clattered against the steps as he crumpled, blood spattering the steel.

You barely had a second to process before the second shooter returned fire.

The first bullet missed, but the second shattered against the edge of the workbench, sending shards of metal flying. You ducked, dragging Gemma lower as she let out a strangled gasp.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

You could hear the injured man groaning. He wasn’t dead. He was still a problem.

And the second shooter wasn’t stopping. He had the high ground, which meant you were completely pinned.

You needed an out.

Your gaze darted around the room, scanning. The turbine. The emergency ladder. The electrical panel—

That was it.

You turned to Gemma. “Can you trigger a surge?”

She blinked at you. “What?”

“The power grid. Can you overload it?”

“I—” She hesitated, glancing toward the console. It was across the room, fully exposed. “I’d have to—”

Another bullet struck the bench, cutting her off. She flinched.

You made a decision. “I’ll cover you. Just do it fast.”

Gemma hesitated. “I—”

“Gemma, go!”

She sucked in a breath and nodded. Then, with one last glance at you, she bolted.

The shooter spotted her immediately.

You fired before he could.

Your bullet missed his head by inches, but it was enough to force him back. He ducked behind a pipe, returning fire, but his shots were rushed now, less precise. He wasn’t expecting you to be this aggressive.

Gemma reached the console.

Her hands flew across the controls, yanking levers, twisting dials. You couldn’t see what she was doing, but you prayed she knew what the hell she was doing.

Another bullet tore past your arm. You hissed, barely dodging in time.

Then—

The lights exploded.

A surge of electricity pulsed through the room, flickering wildly, sending arcs of blue-white energy snapping through the air. The turbines groaned. Sparks rained from overhead panels.

Then—darkness.

A thick, swallowing void that devoured the entire room in an instant.

Your breath hitched. You blinked rapidly, but it didn’t make a difference—you couldn’t see a damn thing. Not your gun. Not your hands. Nothing.

But if you couldn’t see them, then they sure as hell couldn’t see you either.

“Gemma!” You shouted, voice raw. “Get the hell out! Run!”

No answer. Just the hurried patter of her footsteps retreating, metal screeching as she shoved open a panel or a door—maybe both. She was getting away. Good.

If they heard you, if they came for you instead of her, then so be it.

You shifted, adjusting your grip on your gun. Your fingers brushed against your thigh—damp. Blood. Yours? Maybe. No time to dwell on that now.

A sound cut through the dark.

Metal scraping against concrete. The first shooter was getting up. His rifle dragged against the ground—then stopped.

Silence.

A silence so deep it pressed against your ears, as if the darkness itself had weight.

You swallowed hard, pressing your back against the cold steel wall, tracing the grooves with your fingertips.

Should you move? Stay put? Keep this guy occupied, let Gemma get as far as possible?

A thousand possibilities ran through your head at once, colliding, tangling, demanding action.

Then—

A whisper.

Not words. Just breath, close, too damn close.

He’s hunting you.

You turned your head, slow, measured. Listened.

The air was thick with static energy, the faint hum of machinery that had just died still clinging to the space.

Then—a shift.

Boots. Careful. Deliberate. Someone moving with the kind of patience that said they’d done this before.

He was testing you.

Waiting for you to make a sound.

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your weight on the balls of your feet.

Another step. Closer.

You gritted your teeth. He’s too close.

You moved.

Not away—forward.

You launched yourself toward the sound, body slamming into solid weight. The impact sent both of you crashing to the ground, your knee jamming hard into his ribs.

He grunted, the breath knocked out of him, but his reflexes were fast. Too fast.

A fist connected with your side, knocking you sideways. You hit the ground, rolled, barely dodging as his rifle swung wildly in the dark.

Shit.

You scrambled to your knees, hands searching—gun, gun, where the hell was your gun?

Another movement. Above.

You ducked just as something heavy—a boot—swung toward where your head had been seconds ago.

You lashed out. A fist, an elbow—anything.

Your knuckles connected with flesh, the impact sending a shockwave through your arm.

The shooter reeled back. A sharp inhale—pained. Good.

You lunged again, tackling him with full force, sending you both careening into another console. Your back screamed as you hit metal, but you didn’t let go.

You gripped the front of his jacket, driving him backward, slamming his skull against the railing behind him. He cursed, struggling, but you didn’t let up.

With a brutal shove, your body hit the ground, face slamming against the cold, hard floor. The air was knocked out of your lungs, and your chest burned as you gasped desperately for a breath that wouldn’t come. 

Ropes appeared around your wrists dug deep into your skin, making it impossible to move your arms, trapping you further beneath him. His weight pressed down on you, suffocating, and you could feel every inch of his body on top of yours, forcing the air out of your chest.

Something cold and rough burrowed into your face, pressing hard against your skin, making you gag. It wasn’t just his weight—it was the barrel of a gun, digging into your cheek. The metallic smell filled your nose as you breathed in, and the lack of air made your vision blur. The world around you went hazy as your stomach twisted, threatening to spill its contents. You fought the rising nausea, swallowing hard, but it didn’t stop the panic creeping into your veins.

Not again. Not again…

Your thoughts felt scattered, jumbled, crashing into each other like waves in a storm. Fear swamped you, the familiar sense of being trapped threatening to drown you. You have been here before. You had fought back, survived before. But now? You couldn’t breathe. Your body felt weak, helpless.

Gotta move…

The thought flickered through your mind, sharp but fleeting. You couldn’t stay like this. You couldn’t let him win. But it was hard to focus, harder still to push back against the overwhelming weight of his presence. Your body screamed to move, to escape, but the ropes held you down, each twist of your body only tightening the restraints.

Joel...

His name was a lifeline, a thread that tethered you to something real, something that could still save you. You needed him. You needed to survive. You had to get free. But every movement felt sluggish, like the world was moving slower than you, dragging you under.

He shifted slightly above you, and you took the momentary shift as an opportunity. With every ounce of strength, you tried to buck him off, but it was useless. He was too heavy, too strong, his body pinning you to the floor, and the more you struggled, the more the gun pressed against your face. You tried to twist your neck to get free, but it was futile. His weight, combined with the ropes, kept you helpless.

His voice came then, low and mocking, as if he knew you were trapped, as if he knew you wouldn’t escape. "Tell God that you tried."

You gave one last wiggle, and used your legs, arching them up and hitting his back. He snarled, and twisted to pin them down.

Now… now, now, now!

You lifted your entire body, using every ounce of energy to throw him off balance. His body crashed onto its back, and you scrambled, stumbling against the consoles for any leverage. The darkness around you was suffocating, the lack of vision disorienting, but you couldn't afford to hesitate. You needed to move. The cold, metallic surface of the room scraped against your skin as you pushed yourself up, your hands reaching out blindly. A groan echoed behind you, and you could hear the shuffle of his feet, his erratic breathing cutting through the silence.

He was getting back up.

No. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You didn’t have time to waste, didn't have time to think about the bruises on your body or the exhaustion seeping into your bones. You couldn't wait any longer. The faces of Joel, Gemma, and the others flashed through your mind. If you didn’t stop him now, he'd go after them next. He’d finish what he started. You couldn’t let that happen.

Save yourself, Joel’s voice rang in your head, low and urgent, a memory that had burned into your mind in moments of desperate clarity. You knew what he meant. You had to survive this. You couldn’t let him win.

Your boot connected with something soft—his nose, maybe his mouth. The impact rang out through your body, and you didn’t stop. You stomped, bringing your heel down harder, aiming for anything—his throat, his face, his chest. Anything to put an end to this.

You felt the warmth of his blood seep through the fabric of your boot, staining your skin. The pressure of his body underfoot lessened with each brutal strike, his struggles slowing. You didn’t care. You kept going, each hit landing with a sickening crunch that rang through the air like a twisted symphony. Bone, flesh, you didn’t know what was breaking, and at that moment, you didn’t care.

Your mind raced in a blur, heart thundering in your chest as you let your instincts take over. You were in survival mode. You weren’t thinking—just acting. The force of your stomps echoed with each strike, and the groaning beneath you became quieter. With every punch of pain, you wondered—who was it breaking? Him or you? You or him? Was it even possible to stop this?

The pain in your limbs flared with every step you took to bring him down, but you couldn’t stop. Not now. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Every hit felt like it was ripping through you, the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm you, but you pressed on.

Then, the sound. A sickening crack—bone snapping, followed by a gurgling sound that made your stomach lurch. It was him. His body gave a violent jerk, then stilled.

A breath. Then nothing else.

You froze. The silence around you became unbearable. Your body tensed, heart pounding so loud you swore it could be heard in the next room. You waited, but there was no movement, no sound. His blood gurgled out from the wound you had created, pooling beneath you.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess—was he still alive? Did you do it? Was it over? The shock coursed through your veins, paralyzing you. The adrenaline that had kept you going suddenly drained from your body, leaving you shaking, weak. You should’ve felt relief, but all you could feel was the cold weight of what you had just done. The violence that surged through you in those moments left you empty now, drained.

Your legs felt like they could give out at any second. The world around you seemed to tilt, the room spinning. You couldn’t hold on much longer. Every step toward the exit felt heavier than the last, your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Your strength was fading, draining with every heartbeat. Your breath was shallow, strained. It felt like you were walking through mud, each step requiring more energy than you had left.

You gasped, a strangled breath escaping as your vision blurred. It was all too much. The noise, the violence, the shock—it had caught up with you. You stumbled forward, almost falling, but somehow your feet found their way to the door. You could hear the faintest echo of the sound of blood splattering against the floor, the sickening reminder of what you’d just done.

And then, everything went black.

Rip. Long ahh chapter

Happy Reading!! ♡♡♡

[veritas-scribblings]

grey - @bartylusmicrofic - words: 840

Regulus carefully steps his way across the lawn. Over the years, with the lack of maintenance, Riddle House has fallen into a state of disrepair. The weather and the elements have eaten away at the window shutters. Loose, broken tiles, which have fallen from the roof, have been stacked neatly along the outside of the house. Ivy continues to grow unchecked up all facades, threatening to swallow the manor house entirely. There’s something unnerving about the stark contrast between how well-kept the grounds are compared to how dilapidated the house is.

‘The groundskeeper still lives here,’ Evan explains, casting his torch light low so they can creep up the drive and towards the front door. ‘But he never goes inside, so we should be fine.’

The front door opens easily and Evan leads them inside. The entrance hall is grand, though it is blanketed in dust and spiderwebs, which trail upwards to the rusted, dirty chandelier.

‘Apparently,’ explains Evan, shining his torch around the room, ‘Lord Riddle’s son ran away with some local girl, Merope Gaunt, but then had an affair and abandoned her while she was with child. So her brother came to the manor in the dead of the night and butchered the entire family for the offence. Right carved them up. They say the house is haunted. Violent, sudden deaths normally lead to hauntings.’

‘And we’re here because you’re hoping to find the dead bodies?’ Barty asks sceptically. ‘I hate to break it to you, but we’re not going to be smuggling dead bodies out in your backpack.’

Regulus rolls his eyes, trailing after Evan who takes them through what looks like a sitting room. The wallpaper is peeling. There’s graffiti on the walls. Piles of books scattered on the floor. They’re here twenty, maybe thirty years too late if Evan’s looking for fun artefacts.

‘No one’s smuggling any dead bodies out,’ Regulus snaps. ‘They were cleaned up by the police, dumbass. Do you really think they just left them laying about?’

‘Not dead bodies,’ Evan says with a shrug, peering at a photo frame that lays on the rug in the middle of the room. The glass is shattered and the picture is so faded and dusty that Regulus can’t make who is in it. ‘Maybe ghosts. I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost. For, you know, educational purposes..’

‘Evan’s talking about ghosts!’ Barty frowns and asks, sulkily, ‘Why am I a dumbass, but Evan isn’t?’

‘Because he loves me more,’ Evan snickers. He leads them through a winding pathway of abandoned rooms, evidently searching for something.

‘He does not! Tell him, Reg.’ Barty must pull a face behind Regulus, because Evan cackles again. ‘Yeah, well, Reg has sex with me, so obviously he loves me most.’

‘That’s your determinant for love? Who Regulus has sex with?’ Evan turns around slightly to give Barty a pitying look. And then, a little more playfully menacing, ‘Hey, Reg, how would you fancy a quick shag in a haunted house? We can traumatise the ghosts.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Barty throws his arms around Regulus from behind, pulling Regulus backwards into a fierce, possessive embrace. He rests a cheek against the top of Regulus’s head, using his free hand to flip Evan off. ‘Mine, bitch.’

Barty tugs Regulus back even more, pivots slightly so he can kiss Regulus. It’s a firm, aggressive kiss that’s a little bit teeth. Regulus does have half a mind to struggle and pull away just to see how Barty will react. Because Evan, Regulus knows, is baiting Barty for the fun of it, and Barty will never not get territorial where Regulus is involved. There’s something so very endearing about it that Regulus can’t help but humour Barty.

‘And for the record, Barty,’ Evan says, scoffing and walking off, ‘I will not be standing guard while you and Reg shag for revenge in Lady Riddle’s bedroom, or whatever idea you’re currently entertaining.’

‘Aw.’ Barty pouts a little, looking down at Regulus pitifully. ‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ he asks, because Barty is your proverbial only child who has never learnt to share.

‘I’m not having sex with either of you in a haunted house,’ Regulus retorts, following Evan to what he presumes will be the drawing room where the Riddles were ‘carved up’. ‘It’s disgusting in here. We’d be liable to catch a disease.’

They come to a stop, approaching the drawing room, when there’s a thunk in the distance. It’s a slightly metallic sound, like someone whacking the ground with something heavy.

thunk. thunk.

Evan, the absolute freak, looks excited, whirling around towards the direction of the sound.

‘Groundskeeper?’ Regulus mouths silently as Barty sidles up beside him so he can drape an arm around his shoulders. In what Regulus assumes Barty thinks is a ‘protective’ sort of way.

Evan shrugs. Shining his torch ahead of him, he takes a few steps forwards. Because obviously he has never seen a horror movie in his life: you never follow the sound, you never seek it out.

[ruzzellgoldgrin]

DWC May 2025

Day 1 Cruel/Beauty

Heavy footsteps approached the rusted gate, the hinges half-broken from lack of maintenance. The small cemetery grounds was sandwiched between a low-income apartment and a pawn shop. This part of town was bad, even for goblin standards. A lone hobgoblin pimp leaned against the nearby brick wall, accompanied by a crew of goblin women in various animal-print clothes. They gave passing glances to Ruzzell as he pushed open the gates to enter the courtyard. Garbage littered the sheetmetal tombstones and artillery shell grave markers. He trudges along the shambled treadplates leading up to the back lot near the last rows. A small corner lot with two vacant bombshells. A green incandescent lamp bent over the graves with a crooked neck, the heat of the light adding to the mugginess of smoggy air. Taking a knee to inspect the graves closer, Ruzzell's breath would hitch up, a stymied cry trying to escape his clenched teeth.

"Treble Jazzglam, Saxophonist, Dockworker, Soldier, Beloved Father. Mixxie Jazzglam, Cocktail Waitress, Laundry Cleaner, Soup Kitchen Cook, Beloved Mother."

Tears mixed with the acrid smoke in the air, blurring his vision of the plaques. The man fell down to the floor, no longer able to keep his sobbing from within. It had been more than a decade since he had escaped from Undermine, but in his exodus had left family and friends behind. He had always wondered what had happened to his parents, to the life he had left behind. To have come back after all these years, only to find greasy graves and a totalitarian cartel destroying families and neighborhoods like this was worse than he could have ever imagined.

"Mom... Dad... I'm so sorry... Damn it all... I should stayed.... I SHOULD HAVE STAYED!" The last blurt rang out of the narrow alley, one of the working girls peaking around the spiked fence. Wiping his eyes with his ivory scarf, a streak of grey grim stained the fabric. Taking the scarf, he knelt up to their plaques, rubbing off the veneer of filth that stains all surfaces of Undermine. Tarnished metal underneath, he could make out his harrowed face glaring back at him. He huffed uneasily, trying to compose himself.

"I'm gonna kill 'em. I'm gonna make dem rat bastards pay for whats they done to yous! I'll keep Clikki safe too. Always..." His native accent slips out as he finds resolve in his purpose. He picks up the tin can at the base of their graves and leaves a bouquet of roses he had smuggled into Undermine. The flowers, clean and unsullied by the taint of this dark subterranean city was a brilliant crimson red, more vibrant than any of the sickly green that choked everything around it with its omnipresent hue. He stands up, dusting off his clothes before storming off and vacating the grounds.

(Mentions of @Tipster)

(@daily-writing-challenge)

[noodledoodlebugs]

Nick Valentine in: Machine vs Man.

Based on Sonnet 29 by Shakespeare

for @bookwermthings for the Secret Santa.

Nick Valentine is… something.

Nick sits up on his bed. It was summer, so the fans were kicked on at their highest setting. Nick slept on the top floor, slightly cracking the door for more air. He has been staring at the blank metal wall for what felt like hours. He is a synth, yes, but something else entirely. He has a personality. He can dream, he can want, he can loathe and hate, and while he does not need to, he can smoke.

So why must people look at him as if he were a rogue, as if he was one of them? As if he was nothing more than and “tin for brains” robot, hellbent on destroying their life and taking their loved ones? The fear of him has only helped a few times when he was new. But as the new wave of synths began rolling out, people learned more about the capabilities of synths. Now instead of being curious and frightful, there was only hate.

The wasteland is an awful place.

Nick takes his rusted metal arm and caresses it down his face, tracing the edge of his rubbery skin. He can hear the clicks and whirs of his inner mechanisms, careful not to touch any of them. It was already hell trying to keep up with maintenance. He closes his eyes and imagines his past. How it felt to be human. He can feel the benches he’s sitting on. He can taste the warm air and can feel it on his skin again. The sun is bright, warm, and forgiving. He turns to find Jennifer by his side, hair blowing gracefully in the air.

She looked… wonderful.

He can feel Jennifer caressing his face again. She speaks something into the air, smiling. Nick looks back at her, only to find her going limp. He grabbed her, holding on to her, calling out her name. He’s now in the street, lying in a dark alleyway. He can hear someone crying, tears rolling down his cheek.

Nick snapped out of his daydream, frazzled. There was a glow of orange from the cracked door. If he still had skin, he would have been sweating. He sighs and parts away, hastily putting on his jacket and crumpled fedora.

The wasteland is a terrible place. He needed a distraction.

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

Nick needed to find passion. Yes, he had a job of being a detective, but he lacked fulfillment in the joys of life. He needed to find the simple joys of the wasteland.

Sun peeked through his door, filling the room with a bright light and a warm breeze. Nick sat at his office desk feeling heavy. He needed to start from his home and find the simple joys of Diamond City. Swiping paper and ink pens, he opened his daily issue of Publick Occurrences. He had asked Ellie the night before to find the case files for missing people. Right on cue, Ellie barged into Nicks office, holding a large manilla folder, stuffed with a stack of papers.

“Here are the files you ordered Mr. Valentine.”  Ellie said, settling down the papers.

“This is perfect, thank you Ellie” Nick said grabbing them, flipping through them. He has been on the same case for a few weeks now, maybe he just needed to switch gears. He notices Ellie’s eyes seem to be drooping. “You seem a bit tired, are you good?”

“I am fine, don’t worry. I just need a cup of coffee.” She said. She quickly left, coming back with a whistling kettle, spoon, and a mug filled with crushed coffee beans. Ellie pours some hot water and sugar in the mug, mixing it with a bent spoon.

Ellie sips her cup of coffee, deeply inhaling. Warmth spreads everywhere across her skin. This sense of bliss, which was so rare in a land of savagery and hatred, was one of the longest she has ever felt.

Nick envied Ellie a bit. He wondered how it felt to taste again. He could feel heat throughout his body, but he could never taste the bitterness and pure happiness of a hot coffee after a long night. He can’t truly feel tired, so the bliss of a night rest continuously escapes him, and he doesn’t need to eat to energize. He can feel sensations, but nothing that made him human.

Nick closed the door to his office. He needed some fresh air.

Nick has had his fair share of visits to Good Neighbor. Occasionally, he went to look for a missing person and they would end up here. Other times, he had ran into the charming mayor, often giving grand speeches from the balcony, high off jet. It was impressive he wasn’t dead from overdose yet.

Today though, he found himself sitting with the mayor of good neighbor, Hancock. Hancock had invited him to one of his favorite shows at the Third Rail Bar. Hancock was a pretty chill guy. He had his fair share of wasteland tragedies, but he has kept his spirits high. If anyone knew how to find simple joys in life it would be him.

“If you’re looking for a slice of heaven in this wasteland, you are looking at the gates” Hancock says point to the red dim lighted sign.

“I know that you have good entertainment Hancock, if you didn’t, I don’t think Good Neighbor would let you get away with it.” Nick said walking inside down the stairs. He hears low music and chattering slowly fills the air.

Hancock and nick sat down at a table a few feet from the bar. Nick would have picked a table closer to the door in case things got seedy but decided to pick a table near the edge of the room, in the perfect viewing area of the stage. He was here to see entertainment.

“I’m telling you Nick. You’ve heard anything like this before. Absolutely breathtaking.” Hancock smiled, downing a bottle of ale.

Nick responded with a quiet hum.

 The lights dimmed into a dark blue, leaving only a spotlight onto the stage. Music filled the room, and the crowd hushed. Magnolia stood in the corner singing, the crowd drawn to her as if she were a siren. She steps off the stage and walks around the tables, swaying and dancing as if she were weightless. Hancock cheered from the tables, drank another bottle, and hummed along quietly to the songs.

Nick studies the room. He enjoys the music and the atmosphere, but doesn’t feel fulfilled, only con. It felt as if he was biting into a cloud. Soft, sweet, but empty. He envies Hancock a bit, how he can just be around people. How he can give speeches, leaving the city hanging on to his every word. He was respected, feared, but most importantly loved. Even if it is a crime-ridden city, it’s a city of misfits all counting on him to keep it moderately peaceful.

The crowd cheered as the song came to an end. Some shout for encore. Magnolia waves her hand and sits at the far end of the bar, drinking in hand. No wonder Magnolia was one of the top acts in Good Neighbor.

Nick got up to leave his table, walking towards the stairs.

“Nick wait! Aren’t you staying for the second set?” Hancock called out to him, slightly buzzed.

“Sorry Hancock but my schedules full again. I have to get back to work” he says trudging up the stairs. He continues his journey back to Diamond City, determined to find joy in his life.

The wasteland is an awful but interesting place.

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

Nick had taken a break from his detective work. After taking a trip to the Colonial Taphouse and earning a glare from the various drunk patrons, he decided to cut his trip short and take a smoke break. Its odd, despite not being able to get addicted, smoking was a reflexive action. Lighting his cigarette, he looked outward to the city.

“Hey.”  Said a voice beside him. It was Piper.

“Hey Piper, what are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“Enjoying the view. The city looks so beautiful from up here” she says, sighing wistfully. Her eyes sparkled looking down at the city. “What about you? You don’t drink… unless I missed a crucial update.”

He rolled his eyes. “I needed to take a break and clear my mind.” Nick said, still looking down at the city. The city’s bright lights are normally blinding, but today they seem inviting. They both watched the area silently. After a while, Piper got up from leaning turning to the stairs, before momentarily pausing. She fishes out a letter from her coat pocket and hands it to Nick.

“Before I leave, Blue invited you to a party.” she says, handing him a small note. “Come to the home plate if you have the time tomorrow, me and Hancock were invited, along with a few others.”

Nick grabbed the note. A party? Here? The details were vague, but the party included free food and drinks, and the invitation extended to all of the Sole Survivor’s personal companions. Why him then? He can’t eat or drink, so why bother even making an invitation for him.

Only one way to find out.

Nick had been invited by the Sole Survivor for a small dinner party. He followed the directions to the home plate, where he was greeted by Sole. Opening the door, he found a large table filled with food and drinks, surrounded by several chairs. The food wasn’t particularly fancy, it was warm deviled eggs, spam, and Fancy Lad Cakes, served with Insta-Mash and tatos. Each seat had a can of purified water, except one. That must be his seat.

“Oh, hey Nick, was wondering when you were going to show up.” Piper said cheerfully. “Come, have a seat, I’m sitting next to you.”

Taking his seat next to Piper, he looks around. Codsworth was serving up the purified water and handling setting up the table, keeping it in an orderly fashion. Macready and Sole talked outside, greeting the other companions coming in. Hancock and Cait walked in, chatting about fighting styles. They both notice and waved at him and continue their talk on how efficient a spiked baseball bat was for combat. Dogmeat licked his hand and wagged his tail, earning a few head scratches from Nick, and scampered off, finding his seat underneath the table.

Nick smiled. He had found the thing he was missing. His simple joy.

The wasteland was an interesting place.

[intheshadowsbehindyou]

The Mercs take Y/N to a nearby carnival in the badlands

WARNING: Chaos ensues. Why the fuck would you take them anywhere?

Scout:

- He’s fine with this. He used to love going to carnivals. It was all him and his family could afford on weekends.

- You’re somewhat bothered by the heat but he’s resilient as fuck. “You want me to grab you some water, babe?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer. Returns in fucking milliseconds with water. You don’t know how he’s so damn fast.

- Sits on the fariswheel with you, he had planned this to be super romantic but he feels awkward. He tries to lighten the mood by standing up in the car and whacking his ball into the poor crowd of people. “Watch this. This is for you, babe.” The sandman ball hits a guy in the face and probably kills him. You’re pretty convinced he’s not alive anymore. “Home run!” He calls out. “Woooo!”

———————————————————-

Solider:

- EXCITED. EXCITED. EXCITED. If he were a dog he’d be wagging his tail. For all the wrong reasons. You know full well you’re in for a ride. It’s not a thrill ride.

- He takes the shooting games way too seriously. Gets mad when he doesn’t get the plush toy prize and pulls out his actual stock rocket launcher to rely on pure splash damage. (Where the fuck did he even hide that?) They’re forced to hand him his prize in fear for their lives.

- If you lose a game, he beats the shit out of the person running the stall. He insists it’s their fault and the game was rigged. Your shot is flawless.

- You leave him alone for TWO SECONDS and he’s already harassing a random bird on the fence he believes to be a Russian drone. Children are staring at him. You can’t take this man anywhere.

——————————————————————-

Demoman:

- He’s not used to this. He went to the Highland games as a kid. Never really had a carnival around his village. He experiences a bit of awe and intrigue as you walk the streets with him. He’s still in his vest and the people of Tuefort are heckling him. They know he’s one of those annoying mercenaries. He thinks this is fucking hilarious.

- He hates the food though. Eugh. He discovers pretty quickly he has a dislike for fried chicken. Insults America’s tastes to hell and back. Almost fucking vomits when he tastes the mac and cheese. What the fucking hell is wrong with you people?

- “Err.. Dontae think those rides are a bit dangerous?” He asks, jutting his thumb behind him. He doesn’t notice the kiddy rollercoaster breaking into pieces behind him followed by screaming families. He’s probably too used to that sound to process it coherently.

- Suspiciously eyes the men setting up the fireworks for tonight. He glares at them while sipping the cheap alcohol he begrudgingly bought at one of the food stalls. Nitpicks them for setting them up wrong. He sets them up himself but the fireworks nearly kill everyone. Turns out he made them more efficient. By that I mean deathly. “No, sweetheart. they’re FIREWORKS. FIREWORKS.” you tell his drunken stupid ass.

—————————————————————

Engineer:

- Oh fuck he’s excited. He had good memories going to carnivals as a kid. Eats like a fucking beast and doesn’t hold back. You watch this man consume more than his own body weight.

- Goes straight to the mechanical bull. Asks you to hold his cowboy hat he wore on the way here. “Sit back and let a big man like me show you how it’s done, darlin.” He doesn’t even fall off once. It looks like he’s barely even moving. He stands up on the fucking bull and flips off the last guy who ate shit on it. Embarrassing him in front of his kids.

- As you’d suspect he’s sort of insulting the lack of regular maintenance on the rides. Whilst in line for the Zipper he shakes his head like a disappointed father and scraps the rusted paint off the ride with his glove. Crushing it to dust between his fingers. Shakes his head some more and sighs.

- Congratulations. The state of these rides have broken this poor man. He can’t take it anymore. Take him to the petting zoo with the farm animals right now before he suffers a brain hemorrhage.

———————————————————————

Heavy:

- “What did little baby say about carnival?”

- He’s heard of carnivals in plenty of books but his life of isolation has prevented him from ever experiencing such a thing. The concept is almost alien.

- Well, he goes with you and he hates it. He looks like an incredibly discontent kitten the entire time. As you ride with him in all the kiddy rides, he looks even more pissed as he just so happens to break one of the rides upon sitting in it. The consequences of being a giant mass of muscle are truly unfortunate on this day.

- His face brightens up a little bit as you buy him a footlong sandwich. He’s never seen a sandwich this big before. He eats the entire thing within’ minutes.

- Finally you find a place in the carnival he somewhat enjoys but pretends not to. He hits the high striker so hard the bell fucking breaks and goes flying. He complains that this game is too easy — until he’s handed a cute little toy bunny of course. “I have been gifted rabbit?”

- Everybody is now batshit afraid of him.

———————————————————————-

Pyro:

- YAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

- Bouncing in the car the entire way there. Miss Pauling had to drive you two there because Pyro doesn’t own a vehicle. She sighs in exasperation and asks pyro to“please quiet down, sweetie. Pauling is thinking.”

- You have a massive dog jumping off the walls of the car right now. They can’t sit still. Pauling is miserable. In other words, water is wet.

- Once she drops you off she makes you both swear to not catch anything on fire. It’s bad for business and doesn’t give them a good look. Pyro has no intentions of listening to her and heads straight for the fire eating performance. In their point of view; these people are somehow consuming rainbows.

- They do all sorts of things with you. Allowing you to lead the way to any attraction you felt drawn to. Whether it be trying to get dolls or getting on a ride. They seemingly want to do as much as possible before the sun goes down.

- after you tell them it’s late, they groan in despair but nod obediently. Prioritizing your guys’ shitty adulthood of work was sadly something that had to be done. They held your hand on the way back. Carrying a shit load of plush dolls in the other massive glove.

- “Did you two have fun?” Miss Pauling asks, you swear she puts on a motherly voice just for pyro. He excitedly claps his hands and agrees with her. She blinks though and sees the chaos behind you. You trace her gaze with confusion, wondering what she was gawking at. For some reason the entire carnival was on fire and you didn’t even notice on your way out that it spread to pretty much every corner.

- You both look back at Pyro. They’re holding a match. Of fucking course. Miss Pauling rubs her face. “I’ll call the firemen..” She sighs in defeat.

————————————————————-

Sniper:

- “Carnivals are stupid.” He says, a lit cigarette between his teeth. “Jus’ mediocre entertainment. Not even good. Believe it or not I have standards for my own personal pleasure as well. I’m not going to some stupid thick headed colonel sanders’ freakshow to eat hot grease n’ Emu legs.” You have to correct him that it’s technically turkey legs. “Whatevea mate.”

- You somehow manage to convince him anyway. But he was doing this only for you. He growls as you drag him by the hand onto the carnival grounds. Wishing he was back in bed. He glares at everybody who even dares breathe in his direction.

- He likes the farm animals well enough but quickly diverts his attention away in slight intrigue upon seeing the shooting gallery. You are thrilled and BEG him to win a prize for you. “There’s no way in hell i’m doing that, love.” You want to see this guy in action and the look of shock upon everybody’s faces as Sniper beats multiple children.

- Well.. Okay. But only because you keep inflating his ego with your compliments. He goes up, gives the person in charge his money, and brings the scope to his eye. Multiple kids are in the gallery next to him and missing every single shot on the fake cardboard animals. He mutters an insult to their ineptitude. He doesn’t even have to look to know they didn’t land a shot.

- Sniper takes down literally all the targets within’ seconds. Including the ones that the poor children were shooting at. Every. single. cardboard animal.

- The person running the stall begrudgingly gives him the biggest teddy bear they have. The Teddy bear that multiple families present were wanting to get in the first place. Kids are complaining and parents are complaining. Life’s suddenly great. Sniper looks amused at the amount of attention and cracks a smile at you. He wonders how you knew this would make him happy.

—————————————————————————

Medic:

- “Ack! what complete nonsense! I am far too busy of a man for such boyish games!” He acts dramatic about it. Crossing his arms and turning up his nose.

- “Yeah but— what if somebody dies on the broken ass rides? That’s like free organs right there.” You say.

- “Hoo. Well, you do have a point. Alright! I’m convinced. But only this once.”

- Medic is actually rather terrible at the gun related games. He can’t aim precisely. At one point you found a crossbow related game and he held his hand over his mouth in embarrassment. Realizing he had managed to hit everywhere but the desired target. You joke that hey— at least a life isn’t on the line this time. He passive aggressively slaps you over the head lightly with his glove and moves to the next game.

- You go to the bathroom and come back to see him dragging a bloodied dead body into his car. “Ah, I’d explain but it’s a rather long story!” he says enthusiastically. Accidentally holding up his equally bloodied ubersaw, and then immediately hiding it behind his back.

- He won’t go on the rides. He’s bold and brash but he isn’t an idiot. He knows full well those things aren’t structurally sound. He stands up tall in his usual thinking pose. A finger to his chin as he takes in the sight of the rides. “What are you thinking?” You ask him. He grins at you. That disgusting, devilish, i’m-making-an-evil-plan grin. You are now scared.

- He steals an entire fucking carnival ride for less than moral medical purposes. The ENTIRE FUCKING THING is in the back of his car and the car is chugging along. Wheezing and trying to get this thing back to the base. He’s going to break it apart and sow the parts onto a Frankenstein-like creature.

_________________________________________

Spy:

- Mother of god, can’t you guys go on a more relaxing date? One with less screaming, noisy music, and people? What about a nice five star restaurant? Or the park?

- He refuses to eat any of the food. At all. He’d rather starve in a ditch than eat such filth. Not even bothering with the alcohol. He avoids people like the plague and you’ll turn to ask him a question and WHOOOOSH! he won’t even be there until you reach your hand out and blink his invis watch by poking him. “Stop cloaking, pussy.”

- He literally begs you to choose another place. PLEASE. End his suffering. You swear you’ll find something here he enjoys though.

- You were standing in line for a ride and once you got to the front he had stepped out of line and said “Oh! after you.” In typical gentlemen fashion. Letting you go on the entire ride by yourself. You glare at him from the ride and he’s smirking mischievously. Waving his fingers to greet you.

- For the rest of the night he takes it upon himself to mess with you. You offer him some cotton candy and he hands it to a little boy in a stroller instead while nobody was looking. You saw that in the corner of your eye. “Im not fucking blind, Spy.” You say. He puts his hands behind his back innocently. “Oh, what? I consumed the wretched morsel like you asked!” “No, you didn’t Spy.”

[batim-newboss]

Inktober 2024

Day 23: Rust

With the lack of maintenance and supplies, many things in the studio fell apart or rusted up.

[boneapplet]

Servo Sanctum pt 4

Relationship: oc!Blood Angel x machine/afab!reader

Word Count: 1733

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5

               The city seemed to swallow sound. Even the footfalls of armored giants are dulled beneath layers of fine gray dust and the bones of broken architecture. The distant sounds of battle—las-bursts, bolter fire, shrieks too warped to be human—have faded behind them as they moved deeper into the ruins. Here, the skyline chokes in upon itself. Towers bent like broken fingers. Roads end in sheared-off drops or walls of rusted debris. The air is thick with static and memory.

Dace walks point. His psychic senses sweep outward in pulses—not finding resistance but meeting a strange pressure. Not malevolent. Not warp-tainted. But dense. Weighty. Like memory. Like grief. To his left, Gaius moves in silence, hand never far from his sheathed power sword. Verno brought up the rear, scanning rooftops and alleys through soot-smeared optics. Halix stalks their flank, bolter lowered but ready, the occasional spark still twitching at his damaged vox-seal. And in their center walks the woman. She is quiet, her face still and unreadable.

Only once does she glance over her shoulder—when Dace murmurs, “Where are you leading us?”

She doesn’t meet his gaze. Just says, “Shelter. Not safety.”

Soon standing before it. A fissure in the ground where the road collapses inward, exposing a vast maintenance corridor beneath. Ferrocrete pillars jut out like broken ribs from the edge. A half-melted road sign is slumped nearby; its surface warped beyond recognition. Dace kneels near the drop, eyes narrowing.

“It’s stable,” the woman says softly, appearing beside him.

His fingers brush the jagged rim. “I sense old power,” he murmurs. “Buried deep. Not daemonic… but close enough that it watches.”

Verno edges up to peer down beside them. “What kind of place is this?”

“It was a junction once,” she says. “Before the war. The old city grew over it like moss on stone. Most forgot what was underneath.”

Gaius tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t.”

The woman doesn’t respond. Instead, turning slightly and gives a single low whistle. From the ruins, a soft shuffling answer. Three small forms emerge from the shadows of a half-toppled transit shell—dusty, quiet, and far closer than they should’ve been. The girl, Mar, steps forward first, chin high, though her hand still clutches a scavenged piece of pipe. The other two children linger behind her, wary.

Halix's grip on his bolter tightened, barely heard due to his damaged vox. “Throne. They were gone. I didn’t even notice—”

“No one did,” Verno mutters, shifting slightly, unease coiling in his stance. “They were right under our guns.”

“They wander,” the woman says evenly. “They come back when called.”

“You let them leave?” Dace asks, a quiet sharpness entering his voice.

“I don’t own them,” she replies. “They move like the lost do. But they follow me when it matters.”

Dace turns fully now, studying the children—not their weapons, or lack thereof, but their silence. Their caution. Their trust in her.

He exhales slowly.

“You kept them hidden from us.”

“They are safer that way.”

“And you trust us now?”

Giving the faintest ghost of a shrug. “I trust your hesitation. And that your weapons are still aimed at me, not them.”

A beat passes then Dace looks down into the dark of the collapsed street. His senses prickle again—somethings down there, waiting. Watching.

“We descend,” he says. “No delays.”

The squad moves, Gaius taking point with Verno following suit. Halix covers their rear. The woman descended after them, one hand steadying the ledge as she guides the children with the other.  Dace waits at the rim, eyes trailing them down, then scanning the skyline one last time. They had wandered—right past a squad of Astartes. Hidden beneath ruin and storm. He hadn’t noticed, and that is the most unsettling thing of all. Dropping in after them, vanishing into the ash-lit dark. Behind him, faint and flickering, a buried glyph blinks to life.

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

Every step taken echoes strangely—muted and prolonged—as if the dead city still listens, its hollow veins keen on the intrusion. The deeper they descend, the more the upper world vanishes. Even the acidic wind has been left behind. The only light now coming from their armor-lamps, flickering halos catching glimpses of corroded supports, fused wiring, and collapsed conduits.

No animals. No vermin. No carrion insects. Nothing lived here. Yet, the Marines keep their weapons drawn. Dace leads with his helm clipped to his belt, exposing a face grim with focus. His black hair stirring faintly despite the still air, moved by the subtle hum of psychic pressure coiling around him. It isn’t hostile—but it is dense, like pushing through water where something large might still be drifting in the depths.

The woman walks silently, guiding the children with slow, practiced gestures. They move like they've done it before. As if traversing the bowels of a dead world is familiar. Dace takes note of that.

“Lieutenant,” Gaius says. “Do we even know how far we landed from grid-point?”

Dace doesn’t break stride. “No.”

Behind him, Verno swings his bolter left and right, optics sweeping every alcove and cracked bulkhead.

“We were supposed to deploy grid-side. City’s edge. This isn’t the edge. We’re buried gods-know how deep.”

Halix's voice filters in next. Maintaining rear guard, the damaged vox-pack at his collar hissing faintly.

“Thunderhawk went into freefall after we lost power. No nav beacon. No locator ping from Orison. No vox from the other squad.”

Verno adds, “They might’ve gone down harder than us.”

Gaius counters, “Or missed the drop zone completely.”

Halix grunts. “Or they didn’t survive.”

That simple sentence hangs in the air. None of them answer. Ceramite boots grind softly against dust-silted ferrocrete. Overhead, thick cabling sags like veins split from muscle. Once, this might’ve been part of the city’s spine—power or transport junctions built during the golden centuries of expansion. Now, it had the feel of an ossuary. Silent. Forgotten. Waiting.

They pass old warning signs—many in High Gothic, others scorched beyond recognition. One still faintly read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — SIGIL CLEARANCE BETA-THETA-9

The letters are half-melted; edges bubbled like old flesh. Dace pauses near a ruptured inspection panel, resting a gauntlet on it. The metal is ice-cold. Not from environmentals—but age. Cold with the absence of time. Cold with silence. Dace closes his eyes and reaches out—gently, warily. Like testing water. Something pulses. Not a presence. Not a daemon. But a memory. A weight. Old power. Not psychic—not quite. But kin to it. A relic’s echo, buried and half-asleep. Opening his eyes again, frown deepening.

“The city’s wrong,” he says aloud, voice graveled. “Warp’s thin here. Dull. But something... presses. Like it’s pushing back.”

Coming to stop beside him. Her pale face remains unreadable, but her hands moved instinctively to the children—checking they are close.

“You’re close to the first threshold,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel it more deeply the further we go.”

Gaius asks, “Threshold to what?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she moves ahead, approaching a wide, jagged fissure in the floor. It yawns before them like a broken wound, a place where the road has collapsed into layered sub-levels below. A faint, greenish-blue glow seeps up from the depths. Not warp-light. Not firelight. Something older.

They move in single-file through the chasm, their armor dimming the phosphorescent blue-green light that bleeds from the stone itself. This wasn’t the glow of technology. Nor rad-burn. Nor warp-taint. It feels organic. As if the city still dreamed beneath their feet.

Gaius is the first to speak, his tone clipped. “These walls… they’re not standard ferrocrete.”

Dace runs a gloved hand along the exposed strata. The material is smooth, too smooth, almost glassy to the touch. Laced with faint veins that pulsed when his hand passed over.

“Not just ferrocrete,” he says. “Something else, fused into it. This place is older than the city above.”

Behind him, Verno sweeps his bolter in slow arcs, every motion precise.

“We should’ve seen signs like this before—if the upper levels were built on top of this. But this wasn’t uncovered by chance. This… it was meant to stay buried.”

The woman descends last, the children silent shadows at her side. Her face remains neutral, but Dace catches it—the slightest tilt of her head, the briefest hesitation. She knows this place.

“You’ve been down here before,” he says, without turning.

“Only the edges,” she replies. “The core stays sealed. Until the bombardment cracked it open.”

Gaius steps onto a curved platform that overlooked a vast inner space—part junction, part vault, part cathedral. The chamber stretches wide and down, deeper than their lamps can pierce. Bridges and gantries spiraled inward, most broken or corroded, some still barely intact.

A great mural spans one curved wall, so faded it could barely be seen. But the shapes linger: tall forms cloaked in robes, circles etched at their feet, lines of code and flame interwoven like scripture.

Halix whispers. “What the hell was this place?”

Quietly she says, “A cradle. Or a tomb.”

That silences them. Dace steps to the edge of the platform, looking down. Below, in the gloom, something shimmers. Not light. Not movement. Just… a presence. Watching. Waiting. He feels the pressure again, stronger now. Less like water, more like a heartbeat through stone. Not daemonic, no—he would know. But not safe, either.

“Something’s awake,” he murmurs.

Verno kneels and taps a console half-buried in rubble. It sparks weakly. Symbols lit across its panel—not Gothic, not Mechanicus binaric. A different language. Older. Whispering across circuits like memory trying to take form.

“Lieutenant,” he says, “this system’s still active. And it doesn’t like us here.”

“No alarms?”

“Not yet.”

Gaius nods at the woman. “What happens if we go deeper?”

She looks at the children then at them.

“You find out what the Imperium tried to forget.”

A silence falls over them.

Dace looks over his shoulder. “We descend further. Carefully. Log everything. Keep psychic shields tight.”

Halix grunts, “Still think this is a simple squashing of heretics?”

Dace doesn’t answer. Turning toward a wide corridor that opens on the platform’s far side—its arch etched with symbols nearly erased by time, but still glowing faintly beneath their gaze. All of them descend into the dark. Into the place where the Imperium had buried something it could not destroy.

[screenmobile]

How Long Do Patio Enclosures Last?

So, you’re sitting there, probably sipping your coffee, staring at your backyard, and thinking, “How can I make this space more enjoyable year-round?” Well, patio enclosures might have crossed your mind. They’re like the middle ground between enjoying the great outdoors and not wanting to deal with bugs, rain, or those random gusts of wind. But if you’re considering making this addition, a fair question pops up—how long do patio enclosures actually last?

The Lifespan of Patio Enclosures: What’s Typical?

Here’s the thing—patio enclosures aren’t a one-size-fits-all deal. Their lifespan depends on the materials used, the local climate (hello, South Bend winters!), and how much care you’re willing to put in. Generally speaking, most patio enclosures last anywhere from 10 to 30 years. That’s a pretty broad range, right? Let’s break it down:

Aluminum Enclosures: These are popular because they’re lightweight yet sturdy. With proper maintenance, they can easily last 15 to 20 years.

Vinyl Enclosures: Resistant to rust and rot, vinyl enclosures can stretch their lifespan up to 30 years if maintained properly. They’re the low-maintenance friend we all wish we had.

Wood Enclosures: Wood is classic, but it’s a bit high-maintenance. With regular sealing and a watchful eye for pests, wood enclosures can last 10 to 15 years.

Glass Enclosures: If you’re going for a full-on sunroom or something akin to a greenhouse, glass enclosures can last upwards of 20 to 30 years, depending on the frame material and glass quality.

What Can Shorten Their Lifespan?

Ever noticed how some things just don’t seem to last as long as they should? Patio enclosures are no different. Here are a few culprits:

Weather Conditions: South Bend isn’t exactly known for mild winters. Snow, ice, and strong winds can wear down materials faster than a calm, sunny climate.

Poor Installation: Cutting corners during installation is like building a house on sand. It might look good for a while, but give it a few storms, and you’ll see the cracks—literally.

Lack of Maintenance: Out of sight, out of mind? Not so fast. Regular cleaning and checking for damages can add years to your enclosure’s life.

The Upside of Regular Maintenance

Think of maintenance like flossing. It’s annoying, easy to skip, but boy, does it make a difference. Regular maintenance doesn’t have to be a huge chore. Simple tasks like washing the windows, checking for rust or mildew, and tightening loose screws can extend your patio’s life by years.

When to Consider Replacing Your Enclosure

Knowing when to let go is tough—whether it’s an old T-shirt or your patio enclosure. Here are some signs that it might be time for a replacement:

Structural Damage: Cracks, rust, or warping are bad news. If you spot these, it’s time to think about replacement rather than repairs.

Persistent Leaks: Occasional water can be fixed, but if you’re placing buckets every time it rains, it’s a sign the enclosure has reached its limit.

Discoloration or Fading: If your once-pristine enclosure looks more like a relic, it might be time for an upgrade.

Can You Prolong the Life of Your Patio Enclosure?

Absolutely! Prevention is key. Think of it as an investment in your home’s comfort and aesthetic appeal. Using high-quality materials, sealing any gaps, and keeping an eye out for wear and tear can go a long way.

Why Invest in a Patio Enclosure?

Still on the fence about adding one? Let’s consider the perks:

Extended Living Space: It’s like adding another room to your house—perfect for family gatherings, lazy Sunday afternoons, or even as a workspace.

Increased Property Value: Real estate investors and homebuyers love additional living spaces. A well-maintained patio enclosure can bump up your home’s value.

Seasonal Enjoyment: With the right enclosure, you can enjoy the outdoors year-round—minus the mosquitoes and pollen.

Making the Right Choice for Your Home

Choosing the right patio enclosure comes down to how you plan to use it. Are you looking for a quiet reading nook or a lively space for family dinners? Your lifestyle should guide your choice in materials and design.

Getting Professional Help

While DIY enthusiasts might relish the challenge, sometimes it’s best to call in the pros. Screenmobile South Bend offers tailored solutions that fit your needs and budget, ensuring your patio enclosure not only looks great but lasts as long as possible.

Final Thoughts

A patio enclosure is more than just a home improvement—it's a gateway to enjoying your space in new, weather-proof ways. Whether you're looking to entertain, relax, or simply add value to your home, a patio enclosure can be a game-changer. And when you choose quality materials and maintain them properly, you’ll find your enclosure lasts well beyond the initial estimate.

Ready to transform your outdoor space? Don’t wait to make your home the relaxing retreat you’ve always dreamed of. Reach out to Screenmobile South Bend today and start planning your perfect patio enclosure!

[drawing-prompt-s]

Promphet update

Hey, I'll be gone for a little while longer but I wanted to give you guys an update because I know some of you have been concerned.

I moved out of the apartment and into a new unit today. This has a win and some losses.

The win is of course I am not at least no longer living with my roommate and basically her friends since those mfers should have paid rent for how nightly they're over. I live diagonal from her, but I will take what I can get. It also made the move easier.

Downside, she stole or destroyed basically everything of mine in the common areas that she could. What items she didn't just steal or use and never replace (and this goes for her friends/gusests as well), are thoroughly unusable. Aside from the most expensive at least - but I could have had her head on a spike for it.

But this damages ranges from now missing every cleaning product I owned (fabulosos, bleach, detergent, etc - so many etcs), to missing personal items or finding them in worse condition than they were left (my room was tiny, I only had so much room), to straight up just destroying my cookware or stealing it. She stole most of it and damaged pretty much all the rest - cookware less than a year old is now rusted beyond repair and had to be thrown out. I have one pot and 1 pan now everything else is missing. This coming from the girl who threw a whole fit in mediations about not wanting her things touched and separating our stuff out, only to help herself to using and destroying mine, of course).

On top of that she blatantly ignored mediation compromises and was just a general dick - even the maintenance men helping me move were commenting on it. After I realized she had stolen my things I didn't even want to both getting the food, but they told me to sit tight and they got what they could. She stole and kept most of my food as well, of course, because she got full dictation over what could and could not go.

The office provided me a $50 card to Walmart - which is nice because they're not technically responsible for anything of mine lost or stolen. But after the both the leasing and property managers came to talk to her the latter realized that this was going to go south quickly and decided to at least try and help cover some of my missing items. it wont be much of a dent considering Walmart prices, but it's a nicer gesture than I expected, and they got first hand experience with even a tip of her behavior that I have endured for the last 4 months.

4 months of this. I am so, so, so tired. I am certainly rambling but her and her friends did not let me get any sleep the night before. Which only made today worse - besides living off saltines and unsweetened apple sauce for more than a week (I ran out of the saltines 3 days ago - I splurged on take out with how hungry I was today though, and so I didn't pass out).

I am still made about the cookware though. Cookware is so expensive and most all of mine was gifted.

I can't sleep yet because I have to work, but god I want to. I am so tired. I have been so tired. I'm just crashing on the couch for the next few days.

2. Because I moved units today I was able to take Jolene to the vet and get her treated. She's doing good. A little mad at me for taking her and she got car sick, but she's cuddled up with me as I work and write this post. Looking sweet as can be and stealing my heart.

3. I feel like there was supposed to be a third part to this, and I started writing it, but for the last 4 months my mind has been fuzzy. Especially right now with the lack of sleep. So it just vanished from my head immediately. Sorry ya'll.

Give me a few more days and hopefully I'll be back good as new.

Your local, mostly friendly, eldritch Prompt Prophet

[crimeismydayjob]

Durant Care/Training Comprehensive Guide

Warning: This is a LONG post. I am taking requests for Pokemon to create guides for. Check this document to see what I've done and what has been requested:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1MbFTUIxn33-6GJEnGCISkWlcD1AU1BXwdbhABTgPC7g/edit?usp=sharing

Overview

Classification: Iron Ant Type: Bug/Steel Abilities: Swarm, Hustle, or Truant Egg Group: Bug Gender Ratio: 50% male, 50% female Size: 1'00" / 0.3 m Weight 72.8 lbs / 33.0 kg Native To: Rocky mountains, dry grasslands & savannas, deserts, caves. They create sprawling nests underground. Primarily in Unova, Kalos, and Galar.

3/10 - Would not recommend anyone keep a Durant other than for battle or in an academic/educational context.

Diet & Nutrition: Opportunistic Omnivore - Durant primarily consumes vegetation and fungi, but they will hunt or scavenge smaller Pokemon when necessary, especially if food sources are scarce. Their diet is heavily influenced by availability and their environment as they're capable of adapting to many foods.

Recommended Foods: Leafy Greens & Tough Vegetation - Durant have strong mandibles suited for breaking down fibrous plant material (e.g., Gogoat leaves, hardy root vegetables) Fungi - Some colonies have been seen cultivating fungi underground, a few even harvest fungi from Foongus and Paras. Berries - Durant can digest a variety of berries but tend to favor Rawst, Aspear, and Chesto berries. Protein Sources - While not primary hunters, they scavenge fallen pokemon and attack weaker bug-types like Wurmple or Cutiefly when an easy meal presents itself. In captivity, protein supplements work just as well. Minerals - Durant's steel typing means they require metals to maintain their exoskeleton. In the wild they ingest iron deposits. In captivity, iron supplements are required. Foods to Avoid: Sugary or Soft Foods - Durant's digestive system is adapted for tough, fibrous materials. Sugary foods can cause digestive issues and sluggishness. Processed Pokemon Food - There are few Pokemon food brands that cater to Durant. Many lack the mineral content and fiber Durant need, leading to weaker exoskeletons over time. Fatty Meats - While Durant can digest proteins, excessive fats may cause lethargy due to not being able to digest the extra fat. Pokemon with Natural Toxins - Wild Durant may occasionally consume carrion but they don't possess the immunities to toxins produced by Pokemon like Venipede or Salandit.

Grooming & Maintenance: Durant are generally low-maintenance Pokemon in terms of grooming as their exoskeleton naturally protects them from dirt and damage. However, regular upkeep is necessary to prevent rust and weathering. More upkeep is required for Durants kept alone since they usually groom each other.

Rust Prevention - If a Durant is frequently exposed to moisture, they may develop rust along their joints. A dry environment and iron-rich diet help, but if rust appears a gentle rub with a fine-bristle brush (or steel wool in severe cases) can remove it. In severe cases, casts or bandages may be required to cover weakened areas after rust is removed. Mandibles - Durant rely on their mandibles or defense and foraging. In captivity they should be provided with hard minerals to chew to maintain strength and sharpness. It's also recommended to occasionally brush their mandibles to remove debris. Molting - While adult Durant do not molt like most bug-types they do shed thin flakes over time, periodic dust baths are recommended to help remove flakes. Young Durant require additional help with molting if it is housed alone, the metal exoskeleton is difficult for them to remove on their own. Providing rough surfaces for them to rub against is usually enough, in severe cases do not attempt to remove shed on your own, bring the Durant to a bug-type specialist.

Daily Exercise Requirement: Durant are high-energy Pokemon that require constant physical activity to prevent destructive behaviors. In the wild they are always moving and sleep only around 5 hours each day. A sedentary Durant may become restless and aggressive, especially if housed alone.

Recommended Activities: Digging - Durant should have access to diggable material (e.g., compacted soil, sand, or synthetic burrowing pits). If housing doesn't allow digging, artificial tunnels should be provided. Weighted Training - Durant are incredibly strong for their size and benefit from their strength being tested. Providing large stones or other heavy objects to transport mimics natural behaviors and provides physical activity.

Mental Stimulation Needs: Unlike highly intelligent Pokemon, Durant do not require complex mental stimulation but benefit from task-based enrichment.

Recommended Activities: Foraging - Hiding food within puzzle boxes, buried caches, or inside snuffle mats encourages natural foraging behavior. Scent Trails - Durant use pheromones and scent tracking to navigate. Setting up scent trails using pheromone sprays or strong smelling food is a good way to encourages natural tracking behavior.

Common Health Concerns:

Rust/Metal Degradation - Caused by frequent exposure to moisture or improper diet lacking in necessary metals. Identified by discoloration, joint stiffness, brittle exoskeleton. Prevention/Treatment - Maintain a dry habitat with proper ventilation. Ensure a mineral-rich diet. Remove rust gently with fine-bristle brushes in early stages. Aggression & Stress Disorders - Caused by solitary housing, lack of activity, or disruption of territorial instincts. Identified by increased hostility, attacking trainers, obsessive patrolling behavior. Prevention/Treatment - Pair or group housing is recommended for Durant as they thrive in colonies. Provide patrol routes or enclosed pathways to mimic natural behavior. If solitary, double down on exercise and enrichment to prevent restlessness. Overgrown Mandibles - Caused by lack of wear from proper chewing materials. Identified by difficulty eating, misalignment of mandibles, reduced effectiveness in battle. Prevention/Treatment - Provide hard materials to chew. In severe cases a specialist should manually file down mandibles.

Best Living Conditions: Durant require spacious, well-ventilated enclosures that allow for digging, patrolling, and maintaining a structured environment.

Burrowing Access - Durant should have access to diggable material such as compacted soil, sand, or synthetic burrowing pits. If tunneling isn’t possible, artificial burrows and tunnel networks should be provided. Strict Containment – Due to their compulsive digging and escape tendencies, enclosures should have reinforced flooring or deep perimeter barriers to prevent tunneling out. Cool, Dry Environments – Durant thrive in low-humidity, cool-temperature habitats. Excessive heat or moisture can cause exoskeleton degradation, rust, and lethargy.

Temperament

Generally Behavior: Durant are highly active, defensive Pokemon that thrive in structured environments. They are naturally territorial and protective, often displaying high aggression toward intruders, even those significantly larger than them. While they lack the problem-solving of more intelligent Pokemon, they exhibit strong instinctual behaviors and rely heavily on routine. They function the best in colonies or structured teams, as their natural inclination is to work toward a collective goal. Solitary Durant require careful management to prevent stress-induced aggression or erratic behavior.

Drive Level: High

Instincts:

Territorial - Durants are naturally defensivev of their homes and will aggressively attack intruders. Offensive Drive - While not mindless attackers, they rarely back down from threats and will fight to incapacitation if it feels threatened enough. Foraging - They are task-driven and will continuously seek out food, minerals, and nesting materials. Tunneling - Durant are natural burrowers and will attempt to dig anywhere they can. Including into furniture and walls if no adequate tunneling place is provided. Escape Prone - Not due to intelligence, but because they dig constantly and can tunnel out of enclosures if not properly contained.

How They Interact with Other Pokémon: Durant prefer working in groups and function best with Pokemon that share their work ethic. While cooperative within a structured group, they do not bond emotionally like more intelligent Pokemon. Durant are also highly territorial and will not tolerate strangers in their space even if not directly provoked. Due to natural predator-prey relationships with Heatmor, Durant may react aggressively toward fire-types. Non-threatening burrowers (e.g., Sandshrew, Diglet, Drilbur) may be tolerated.

Companion Pokémon:

Compatible - Paras, Foongus, Sandshrew, Drilbur Caution Advised - Any pokemon that might be seen as food (small bug-types) like Wurmple or Cutiefly. Not Reccommended - Heatmor and fire-types, as Durant have an extreme aversion to intense heat and flames.

Trainer Compatibility:

Best Suited For - Experienced trainers who can provide constant activity and structured environments. Competitive battlers looking for high-durability Pokemon. Trainers with the space to keep multiple Durant together. Not Recommended For - Casual trainers who want low maintenance Pokemon. Small apartment living. Trainers with delicate or small Pokemon. Trainers with aggressive or fire-type Pokemon unless kept separate.

Training

Difficulty: Advanced - Durant are driven by instinct, making them stubborn and resistant to traditional training methods. While they can be conditioned to follow commands, their territorial nature and aggressive tendencies require strict structure, patience, and experienced handling.

Bonding: Durant do not bond emotionally like more intelligent Pokemon but form loyal relationships through routine.

Socialization: Should Be Limited - Durant are naturally territorial and do not react well to unfamiliar Pokemon or strangers. It is not usually worth it to try and socialize a Durant and often causes significant stress. If needed for work, Durant should be conditioned from a young age to tolerate specific individuals, but they will always be defensive towards strangers.

Common Behavioral Issues & Fixes:

Refusal to Back Down - Durant will fight until incapacitated if not properly conditioned. Trainers must actively train recall commands and reward highly for successful recall to prevent unnecessary injury. Escape Attempts - Provide designated digging zones and structured tunneling tasks to redirect the behavior. Bored Durant will chew or dig into anything.

Best Fit For:

Security & Guard Roles - Durant's territorial instincts and aggressive defense make them excellent for guarding. Entire colonies can be made to guard if all other needs are provided for. Mining & Excavation - Their burrowing skills and powerful mandibles make them ideal for clearing tunnels or transporting materials. Competitive Battling - Durant excel in defensive, endurance-based combat where their resistance help them to tire out and outlast opponents.

[cassidychronicle]

Out of curiosity, do you know what broke the clock tower?

@chadaverage

Not entirely sure honestly? I’m thinking it might’ve been the lack of maintenance, or maybe too many rainy days.

Poor thing was rusted the first time I took a look at it..more so too dry.