#makeshift machine gun

[mothrasthorax]

Chat Noir with the pig miraculous after a long day of parental neglect:

Happy holidays!!

[chaoticwriting]

GOTHAM'S NEW ROGUE 4

Part 3

Danny looks at the guy skeptically. Last time someone approached him, they were Red Robin, Spoiler and Signal. This time, a dude that looks like an average office worker approaches him.

Trickster: Sure, why not?

???: Thank you.

Trickster: So, what do you want with me?

???: Let me introduce myself first. I am Clark Kent. A journalist from the Daily Planet. I would like to ask, is it true that you know Batman's secret identity?

Trickster: You mean those pictures I stole from his wallet? Yeah sure. Why do you wanna know?

Clark: As you know, I am a journalist. And it is our job to find out about news and share it with the general public. I am just thinking, what would you like to exchange for the real identity of Batman.

Trickster: Hmmm..... What price huh? Let me think for a moment.

Danny then continues to eat his food as he pretends to think about Clark's offer. Honestly, he doesn't give a damn about this Clark guy. He is also a vigilante once, so he knows the importance of their secret identities. While slurping away his last coke, Danny gains a very good idea (He thinks it is a good idea).

Trickster: Well, I don't think I would sell the pictures just yet since the card is still useful and I don't need money. However, I have a very interesting topic you can investigate.

Clark: Oh? What is it?

Trickster: Try searching for something called GIW. It is a government branch and I'm sure it will be a hit piece.

Clark: GIW? What is that?

Trickster: Well that's for you to figure out. Oh well. I'm pretty full now. Gotta go now. See you never.

Danny then disappears right in front of Clark before he can do anything. Clark can't even hear or see the kid anymore with his enhanced sense and x-ray vision further cementing that the kid probably has teleportation power.

Danny meanwhile is laying on his makeshift bed while watching the stars after he uses his power to clear the sky thinking what he just did is very smart. Unfortunately, he doesn't know this decision is as good as the previous time he thinks his idea is good.

-1 month later-

Danny is picking up scraps from the junkyard for his next prank. Collecting some toasters, some blenders and even some radios. Danny has spent a lot of time these past few months, tinkering with machines that he practically knows what component is in which appliances.

Suddenly, he sees a very familiar device among the junk. A sleek silver gun with a few green buttons on it. It doesn't have the usual designs that Danny used to see but Danny knows without a doubt in his mind that it is an ecto gun.

The problem is that, the gun is new. Very new. Like it is just created. And that means one thing. A GIW agent is here. Shit! Danny needs to run. But where? He has checked before this but the only place with enough ectoplasm to hide him is either Gotham or Amity Park. No where else in the world has as much ambience ectoplasm to hide him from the ecto detector.

But now that they are in Gotham, he might as well not hide since at such close proximity, the ambient ectoplasm can only hide him if they are not close. Danny is thinking very hard when his ears pick up something. A group of people is coming his way, and from the way they are all carrying heavy devices, they are probably GIW agents.

Danny against his better judgement turns invisible and flies high enough so that if the agents decide to shoot him, he will have time to dodge them. Danny watches quietly as the ecto detector bips faster and faster the more they go to where he is previously.

???: Damn it. I thought this is where Trickster is. But it's just the gun that you lost.

???: Hey, at least we don't need to file reports of missing weapons right? Also, didn't that thing already get set up by the Fentons to find Trickster?

???: It's probably them messing it up. It's not like them messing shit up is something new anyway.

???: Yeah. Let's just say it is a false alarm. I hear the higher ups are thinking of lowering our budgets next year if we don't produce any results soon.

???: Ugghh, don't remind me of that. Not only do they pressure us like that. I even heard that there is some guy that has been snooping around our base, taking pictures and stuff.

???: I hate those reporters. We are trying to do our job and save them from those savages, and yet here they are messing with us. Calling us genocidal maniacs and the second coming of Nazis.

???: If that is not bad enough, they even say that they feel like we should treat the ghost as if they are people. Ghosts are not people! They are merely beast pretending to be someone we used to know and love.

???: I would love to just punch those reporters to the face if not for the fact that Boss ordered us to stay put.

Suddenly their walky talky start to beep.

Walkie-talkie: Agent P, Agent Q. Return to the base of operation immediately. We are receiving visits from the higher ups.

Both of the agents reply with Roger and hurriedly run towards their van and drive off somewhere. Danny looks at them and decides, he has found what his next prank is going to be.

Part 5

[stareaterau]

Chapter 1 episode 6

← Previous episode

Next episode →

Index

(special thanks to @shirahoshiumi for the cover for this episode!

Writers, editor and proof readers: @kairamuwu @skimmeh @scrambledlikeeggs @ruden404 )

---

don't wander too far apart

CW: injury, description of pain, description of dead body, guns, knives

Read below↓

Disclaimer!!!! the whole chapter couldn't fit on tumblr, you can read the whole thing on archive of our own!!

Early dawn rises over the rubble and ruins littering the desert landscape, casting long shadows. The dark blues and greys of the twisting metal stand out in stark contrast against the red sand and sky. Like remnants of the passing night.

A lone figure sits in the rusting doorway of a rounded ship. Deftly, he picks at the inner mechanisms of an old gun resting in his lap. Surrounding him, lain strewn across the ship floor, are countless wires and parts of gutted weapons and machines. Across the sand at his feet lie long wires with small, shimmering shards of metal haphazardly tied on at random intervals. The wires cover the ground in a twisting, labyrinthine pattern. Some have even been attached above the doorway, hanging low as they sway slightly in the breeze, small pieces of metal clinking together in a quiet, dulcet tune – like a junkyard beaded curtain that had gotten tangled up in a wind chime and was forced to be a rudimentary intruder alert.

Amongst the metal art projects, just above his head, hangs a small crystal. Its glow casting him in a soft blue hue.

With a click, the last piece of the gun snaps into place. He picks it up out of his lap, testing how comfortably it rests in his hands, before reaching behind him and pulling out a scrappy, worn strap. He clips it onto the gun, satisfied with his work.

With a groan, he rises off the ground, his joints cracking from lack of use. Ducking out of the way of the hanging makeshift bells, he heads into the ship and towards the dingy cockpit. The windshield that had once allowed the pilots an unobscured view of endless space is now covered in a thick layer of sand and dust. Only slivers of light peak their way through the top edge of the glass.

There, in the repurposed space, lie beaten canisters filled with old cans and preserved rations. Amongst them is a dented pot and bottled water resting against it. He walks further into the room, towards a bed – if you can even call it that – fashioned from two passenger chairs and another storage container that had been wedged between them, along with old rags that had been stuffed in the gaps to make it long enough to fit a person. It’s messily cobbled together, but it does the job. As is made evident by the man snoring loudly, one arm slung over his eyes and the other holding a knife close to his chest.

Etho thumps his boot against the closest chair, hard. Echoes of the sound of dust falling between the gaps in the metal ceiling reverberate down the ship, but the other man sleeps on, undisturbed. Only the slightest scrunch of his face indicates that he had heard. Etho rounds the makeshift bed till he’s stood by his companion's head. He narrows his eyes at the sleeping man and raises his newly fixed gun.

He whacks the sleeping man on the forehead with the hilt.

Joel sits up in an instant. He swings his distinctly deactivated blade wildly with a cry, before blinking the sleep from his eyes.

 “What the hell, man?” Joel flops back down on the bed with a grumble, rubbing his forehead absently with his free hand.

Etho doesn't respond and just hits him again.

“I’M UP!” Joel barks as he pushes himself up and fully off the bed, and shoves Etho in the same movement. Etho, unphased, steps back around the chair to his side. Joel stumbles over to him, catching himself before he collides with a wall as he tries, and fails, to shake off his sleepy state.

“Blummin’ heck,” he complains, rubbing his head, “I don’t even know why you insist on getting up so early, man… ‘s not like we have a schedule.”

“The phantoms are gone, but the sun is still down,” Etho explains, for far from the first time, “Unless you’d rather we go patrolling the area when it’s hottest…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You just don't gotta be so mean about it.”

“Ah… Well, would a mean person repair an old blaster for you?” Etho pulls out a second gun, just as patched together with scavenged parts as the one slung over his shoulder.

“OH! YOU DID IT?” 

Joel’s head snaps towards Etho, eyes wide. The last remnants of sleepiness shed away in an instant.

“Yeah. While you were eating spiders in your sleep, I fixed a couple.” 

Etho hands the gun over to Joel. The Glare snatching it up immediately.

“How did you even get the stuff for ammo?”

“Granted, it was hard and we don't have much, but these ruins are old…” Etho runs his finger across the ship's dusty console. “Did you know they just had whole intact crystals in them back in the day? It's insane how many resources they wasted,” he pauses, “No wonder your kind ran into crystal drought so often… so wasteful.”

Joel stares at him with a flat look, “My kind?”

“You know…” Etho gestures vaguely.

“Vindicators?”

“Right… yeah. Well, lucky for us!” He shows off his own gun.

“What the hell? Yours is so much bigger!”

“Yup,” Etho brushes past Joel and walks out of the cockpit. Behind him, the Glare sputters as he rushes to follow.

“Wait, wait, hold on… Let me put my boots on first!”

Joel kicks at the dirt. Small glints of eroded metal sparkle in the sand as he kicks up small clouds in his boredom.

Etho hushes him quickly, as he grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him down behind the cover of a fragmented storage container.

“What?”

“Look!”

Etho gestures ahead of them. Joel's gaze follows his direction, quickly finding what had caught Etho’s attention – a dark shape moving across the brightening sky. They watch as a figure in the distance glides towards them on long, bright wings.

“Is that a phantom? During the day?”

“No… Its shape and colours are all wrong.”

Etho raises his new gun to his face, looking through the scope.

“It's a person.”

“What?” Joel squints at the figure, the sun's harsh glare obscuring the necessary details Etho’s scope was able to discern, “What business does an Avian have here?” 

“Dunno.” 

Etho’s sure that the figure hasn’t spotted them. Their flight pattern seems aimless, flying in a way where they’re just gliding through the air slowly, watching the land, rather than heading to any particular location.

Suddenly, the figure jerks, hard. Their wings losing height as they tuck into themselves. The figure clutches its chest and tumbles through the air, before seeming to regain their senses just enough to catch a pathetic amount of air under their wings. Only slightly lessening their painful collision with the ground.

Etho and Joel watch on as a cloud of sand appears from where they landed, in silence.

“Did you just shoot it?” Etho turns to Joel after a moment.

“What?” Joel bristles at the accusation, “No, of course not! You would have heard the stupid gun.”

“Maybe,” Etho trails off, “Or maybe someone else did?”

“Should we help them?”

Before they have time to think about it, the figure kicks themselves off the sand. It’s shaky and a struggle, but they successfully beat their wings just enough to carry them back up into the sky and distinctly, back in the direction they came.

Seconds pass in silence before Etho breaks it, “I think we should follow them.”

–

Scar wakes with a shout. A sharp and disorientating pain grasps at his heart like it's trying to pull the organ from his ribcage. He leans forward with a gasp, curling in on himself. He finds that his hands are already balled up in his shirt, clutching the fabric that lays across his chest. The pain tears and claws at his mind leaving his head spinning. Scar isn’t sure if he has his eyes open or not, his vision instead is flooded with white hot pain as static buzzes in his head.

“Oh gosh! Are you okay!?” An unfamiliar voice calls for him, “Scar?” He feels a large hand gently grab the side of his arm.

Scar takes in a shaky breath as he realises he had stopped in his panic. He leans forward, resting his head on whoever's in front of him as he tries to count his breaths, desperately willing the spinning to stop.

In an attempt to ground himself, Scar feels the space around him. He feels sand sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He feels the slow rise and fall of the shoulder beneath his head. They smell like ocean water.

Opening his eyes, he sees his jacket loose over his lap. It’s inside out. He can’t remember why, but he knows he needs it to be.

His name is hand stitched onto the label facing up at him. He can clearly remember being scolded for having the name of the jacket’s previous owner still printed on the inside. He had scraped away the print and threaded over it in bright wool, hoping that was enough. It wasn’t. But his superiors had gotten tired of reprimanding him and it wasn't like the name on the inside was a stranger to him – literally his next of kin – so they let it go.

The threads are pulling apart now, his name slowly becoming unreadable with wear. Ironically, it’s only now, years later, that Scar realises why they had wanted it printed.

Distracted enough from the pain that pulls at his chest, Scar moves. He holds a gloved hand out, expecting to see it covered in blood, but there’s nothing but frayed edges, and the burning feeling doesn’t falter.

Jimmy, the man Scar remembers and happens to be leaning against, dips his head into Scar's line of sight. 

“Scar, what's wrong?” he asks, his features softened with worry.

“My heart, it…”Scar bites down on his cheek as the pain spikes again. It’s a worryingly unfamiliar kind of pain. It feels like his core is outside of his body and being dragged across the sands. Like every single one of his nerves is set alight and in the wrong place. Scar doesn’t understand why or how, but it fills him with the need to run.

He places a knee under himself in an attempt to stand, but the moment he tries, he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of falling, the nausea keeping him firmly rooted on the ground. If Jimmy wasn’t already holding him, he most certainly would have eaten dirt… or sand.

Suddenly, his shoulder bursts with pain. Spikey nerves on the sides of his face and shoulder start to warm. He flinches, expecting to recoil like he's been punched, but there's no fist near his head.

Like the ping of a rubber band, Scar feels his heart slot back in place. Left raw, numb and exhausted from the whole experience.

Someone, he assumes Jimmy, brushes a tentative hand over Scar's bare shoulder. It stings. 

“Where did that come from?” Jimmy asks. Scar looks up to see red on Jimmy’s fingertips. Blood, from a fresh scrape on Scar's arm.

He lets out a groan, choosing to ignore the question of how he had even gotten such a wound. His head far too scrambled for the mental strain of self-actualising wounds. Instead, he wraps his arms around himself – ignoring the aching in his shoulder, as he does – and curls in on himself, reeling from the slowly fading aftermath of the unexplained pain.

“Is there anything we can do?” A new voice utters from his other side. “Is he injured? What happened?” they ask Jimmy, quietly… Tango, Scar remembers. 

The small Blaze kneels in the sand, leaning towards him, a concerned expression spread across his features. His long coat is draped over his shoulders, utilising it as a makeshift blanket. Lit by the flickering light of Tango's flame-like hair, Scar absently realises it’s still somewhat dark.

It can’t have been that long since Grian and he had fallen asleep.

Grian, Scar remembers the Glare. He looks around, expecting to see him curled up in his wings behind him. 

But he’s not.

There’s a distinct lack of a heap of grumpy feathers. Only a few strays lay alone in the sand where he had once been sleeping.

“Would you like some water?” Jimmy pushes something into Scar's hands. Scar turns back to look at him, instead staring through him unfocused, his mind preoccupied with the missing Glare. He nudges whatever he’s being offered away. His pain is temporarily forgotten as he pushes Jimmy to the side with a hand on his shoulder, looking beyond him in a search for the missing bird.

“Where's Grian?” he chokes, recent memories catching up to him. The illusions. Their talk that only ended when they woke the others up to take over their shift. He glances around once more, hoping that the Glare had just found a dark, easy-to-miss corner to bundle up in. But the air is cold in the early morning light, and the shadows hide no bodies.

Jimmy looks past his shoulder and then deeper into the cave, confusion dawning on his face. “No, wait, where is he?” he stands up, immediately bumping his head on the low wall. He lets out a whiny hiss as Tango pats him on the thigh with a sympathetic laugh.

“You were supposed to be on the watch… Wh…” Scar shivers in the cool morning air. He pulls his jacket over his shoulders, he stumbles to the front of the overhang. Spinning on the spot, he looks frantically in every direction. “Grian!” yelling and coughing, as his voice catches.

“Shhh, Scar… You said there were phantoms!” Tango hisses, shuffling towards him, at the edge of the cave, with a hand outstretched.

“Come back under here, we can figure things out,” Jimmy beacons him, “You woke up with a yell, are you okay? Your shoulder…”

“I'm fine,” he mumbles. Their calmness is baffling. How aren’t they at all concerned about Grian vanishing? He stumbles back over to the overhang. Placing a hand on the roof of the cave, he leans towards them, speaking in a hushed voice, “We need to find him, he could be hurt.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tango scoffs. Jimmy thwacks him on the shoulder, aiming an unimpressed look at the Blaze. Tango whines with an unsure shrug.

He sits back down on the sandy ground and busies himself with folding the supplies that lie strewn on the ground, “Breakfast?”

“I…Tango?!” Jimmy hisses, giving Scar a hesitant look.

Scar coughs again, one hand still gripping his shirt. He sways, unsteady on his feet. Jimmy reaches out and catches him before he has a chance to fall over and hurt himself, instead bringing him down to sit on the ground. Blood rushes in his ears as he grounds himself on the shaded ground. He moved far too fast.

“Grian,” Scar breathes out, barely audible as he hangs his head down. Blinking repeatedly, he rubs at his forehead, trying to get his vision to stop spinning.

“Tango, you were the last one on watch. I uhhh… You let me nap,” Jimmy grimaces awkwardly, “Did you see anything?”

“About what?” Tango teases, bitterness evident in his tone.

Jimmy's mouth snaps shut tightly in a frown, frustrated at his lack of cooperation, before he splutters, “Grian, Tango!”

“Oh, that guy? Yeah, he left about an hour or two ago,” Scar sits up straight. He absentmindedly rubs at where he had been grasping his chest as he looks at Tango, dumbfounded.

“...What did he say?”

Tango sits back, abandoning organising the supplies in favour of pulling out some dried meat from a small bag, “Nothing. I pretended to be asleep. I could tell he was waiting for me to be.”

There’s a lapse in conversation as everyone falls silent. Scar breathes in heavily, trying his hardest not to throw up as this rude awakening mixes poorly with the nausea he was already fighting off. At his side, Jimmy, who’s still holding onto Scar with one arm, stares back at Tango, mouth agape.

“Why didn't you stop him?” he practically yells.

“I don't know. Hey, I'm not his babysitter,” Tango looks up at them, “He went out of his own discretion. Jumped up into the sky and everything,” he swings his piece of dried meat casually in the air, as if re-telling a funny story.

“We need to find him.” 

“I don't think he wants to be found, bud, if I'm being honest.”

Scar shakes his head, his vision spinning slightly from the motion. Blindly, he feels around at his side until he finds Grian’s knife still tucked into his belt where he had put it. Pulling it out, he holds it up in a hopeless attempt at evidence that Grian’s coming back, “But …but he left his weapon.”

Tango just shrugs, not swayed by Scar’s argument.

Jimmy sighs at Scar’s side. He looks mournfully at Scar, concern written across his feathered features. He hands him his water pack once again, “You should drink, you look like you’re gonna faint.”

“He could have seen something… was protecting us and got taken…” 

“Nah. I was on watch, I would’ve seen… Honestly, this is good. I never trusted the guy,” Tango counters, tapping his ration against his lip as he talks. He hands Scar and Jimmy their own portions, Jimmy taking both pieces as Scar makes no attempt to move. “And hey… free weapon,” the Blaze shrugs, a small smirk spreading across his face.

Jimmy grabs Scar's hand, turning it over and placing the chunk of dry meat in his palm. 

“I don't believe… He wouldn't just… leave.” 

No one says anything. Neither Tango nor Jimmy make any effort to agree or disagree. The silence stings.

“What if… I mean, you guys have that weird sort of magical connection, curse thing,” Scar argues desperately. The other two just look uncomfortably at each other, “That means whoever put us here knows that stuff. What if they also have the ability to make someone do something they don’t want to, like mind control?”

“The likelihood of that is pretty low…”

“It just doesn't make sense, we talked… he never mentioned the idea of leaving us,” Scar continues.

Tango just shrugs in response, “People lie.”

That, out of everything Tango’s said, stops Scar in his tracks – jolting with a horrible realisation. The sickening irony of that statement.

Jimmy pushes at the piece of food in his hand and manually folds Scar's fingers around it, “Please eat and drink. We'll figure it out once you’re steady.” 

His hand brushes Scar's injured shoulder. It hurts. Somewhere in his mind he can feel grains of sand that aren’t even there irritating the sensitive skin.

“I suppose we don't have the gear to treat this, though,” Jimmy utters quietly, most likely not directed at Scar. “What happened? Did you scrape it on the overhang just now?” Jimmy turns to him. 

Scar doesn’t even bother attempting to figure it out. Instead, taking a swig of the water as an excuse to remain silent, before handing it back to Jimmy.

“It looks like it’s just a scratch, he'll be fine. We should leave, though. It's starting to get bright out,” Tango mumbles as he chews on the tough piece of meat.

Scar’s own piece of meat feels heavy in his palm. He can’t help but stare at it, as Jimmy and Tango begin talking amongst themselves about something unimportant to Scar.

It looks small in his hands. They have been rationing the meat after all, the food intended for one person being stretched to sustain four, now three, people. Scar’s stomach growls ravenously, despite the sour taste that floods his mouth as he looks at the lifeline.

Strength slowly seeps back into his limbs, but the food remains heavy in his hands, taunting him. He furrows his brows as he turns it over in his palm, before tearing it in half and slipping one half into his pocket while the other two aren’t looking, far too engrossed in one another.

He chews on the remaining meat, staring at a lone feather in the sand. It’s white and fluffy, with a soft brown colour on the tip, and it’s distinctly not one of Jimmy’s.

People lie.

No, there had to be a reason. He isn’t about to give in to the idea that their deal meant nothing.

His hand drifts to the gun at his hip, his fingers drifting over the cold metal. Grian had left the gun as a promise to Scar that he was coming back for it; that is what Scar is choosing to believe.

–

Sunlight streams down through breaches in the metal wreckages overhead, lighting the otherwise dingy passage with patches of golden light. The mangled frameworks of once-grand-ships meet one another in a strange landscape of knotted hulls – like the looming, rotting skeleton of a great space beast. Metal arches and fragmented hulls meld together to create a tunnel-like structure hidden from the junkyard above, allowing Etho and Joel to traverse the rough terrain in the far cooler shade while remaining largely hidden from those with a birdseye view.

“It’s like following a white rabbit,” Etho breaks the silence. He keeps an eye on the sky – only glancing to the ground occasionally to watch his footing on the uneven ground – catching glimpses of their prey as they pass under breaks in the ruins.

“...No, it's like following a giant bird,” Joel retorts, deadpan.

“You're not one for metaphors, huh?”

“What if I metaphor your face into… As in I mean… I throw a punch. But it’s a metaphor…” Joel gestures wildly, punching his palm in some kind of violent mime as if it made his so-called metaphor make any more sense. “That came out bad. Like the punch is a metaphor… You know… I mean like…” he trails off, losing hope in his words.

“Or just words in general.”

Joel’s head snaps towards Etho, appalled by his comment – even after his poor display,

“Hey, no fair, this sticky heat is melting my brain. I don't have long appendages like you to dispel it,” Joel kicks at a bolt, sending it skittering across the uneven ground, clanking loudly against the metal.

“Hmm, clearly.” 

They fall into an awkward silence. Only interrupted by the sound of their footsteps echoing off the metal and the gentle raining of disturbed sand.

Joel stretches, placing his hands behind his head.

“Do you think it's leading us to like… a test? Or an arena?”

“What, like we're going to have to fight, like gladiators?” Etho drags his eyes from where they’re locked onto the sky to look at Joel, an eyebrow quirked at the Glare.

“Seems a bit unfair to include an Avian,” Joel pouts.

“Hmm.”

Etho pauses, mulling over Joel's words. The theory would answer a few questions… but it raises far more.

“You've met an Avian before?”

“You could say that,” Joel grins, throwing Etho a cocky wink. He picks up his pace, walking ahead of Etho, refusing to elaborate even as Etho lets out a confused noise.

–

Tango and Jimmy chat loudly with one another. Laughing and gently shoving each other about as their voices ring out, bouncing off the canyon walls. Scar hasn’t been paying them much mind as they walk, keeping a few feet behind them in hopes they don’t remember that he’s there. In his solemn boredom he kicks at the ruddy sand, wincing as his braces let out an upsetting squeak at the movement. A squeak they had begun to develop throughout their journey across the sands, and an unfortunate sign of their decay. They won’t last forever in such conditions but they’re still doing their job so Scar shouldn’t complain too much.

“...If I was to make a cafe, my priority would definitely be efficiency and whatnot.”

They’ve been debating about a simple life. If Scar was in any other mood, he’d involve himself. Especially with their current subject being something that Scar is familiar with, having worked in food services himself. But he can’t quite bring himself to put on a friendly face, so he doesn’t interrupt them, instead just letting them fade into the background.

“Yeah, but what about the hospitality? Isn't that most of the fun with owning a small shop? You get to meet so many kinds of people,” Jimmy replies, brushing at the tassels on his trousers, “Like a saloon!” 

“Naaahhhhh,” Tango stretches out his words dramatically, the most cheery Scar has ever heard him, “the point is to make the food. If it was up to me, everyone would be served by robots.”

“Oh, but that's no fun! What would I be doing if I worked there?” Jimmy huffs.

“Hanging out with me! That's fun, right?”

Scar continues to quietly lag behind.

He tries his best not to feel bitter about how nonchalant and cheerful the other two are acting. One of them could be lost or hurt. He’s trying even harder not to think about the other reasons for why he’s gone, all of which involve Grian choosing to leave Scar behind. 

Scar barely knows the guy, but thinking about that makes him feel like even more of a stranger in his current company. He knows them even less. It all just culminates into just feeling lonely. And maybe that makes him feel a bit bitter that the others moved on already.

He looks up, watching as the sun slowly peeks over the top of the ravine, casting its walls in a golden orange glow. A colour that Scar adores. He watches sand billow and catch the light as the gentle wind lifts it off the top of the ravine, like golden waves. Further in the distance, a shape, painted over with the sun's golden light, emerges in the static sandy landscape. Its moving form stands out against the still backdrop as it races closer. Far faster than they’re walking.

Scar sucks in a breath. Tango and Jimmy turn to look at him.

“That's him!” 

The sunlit shape grows, blue tipped feathers emerging from the haze as they beat through the air. It's almost impressive to watch how quickly the form of Grian becomes recognisable.

Tango and Jimmy turn back around to face the Glare that Scar has pointed out. Not having time to do much other than gawk at the bird.

Then Jimmy’s scrambling backwards, grasping Tango. “Whoa, whoa, he’s coming in too fast-” he’s cut off as Grian swoops over their heads, a wall of air hitting them. It’s weirdly quiet, Scar thinks, as he watches Grian land haphazardly behind them. His feet barely catch the ground, slipping in the sand to keep him upright, a huge cloud of dust kicking up around him as he rights himself. Scurrying on his feet, Grian quickly turns and runs to catch up with the others.

Tango and Jimmy don’t move from where they stand as Scar starts jogging towards Grian.

A smile spreads across his face so wide it almost hurts as he watches his small friend stride up to him, his relief only halting slightly as he notices the worried look on Grian’s face. Scar’s eyes scan his friend quickly. His shoulders are shaking, and his wings remain held open behind him in a frazzled manner.

“S-Scar,” Grian wheezes. His breath comes in fast, deep gasps.

“Why are you panting?” is the only thing Scar can think to say.

“Oh…” the bird gulps, taking two deep breaths between each word, “uh… just flying.”

Scar takes in the sight of his friend. His feathers are all blown out and fluffy and with his fringe windswept out of his face, Scar is greeted with the sight of a small white star-like marking in the feathers that decorate his forehead that he hadn’t been able to see before. The sight feels all too perfect, despite the others sweaty and disheveled appearance. He’s okay.

A heavy stone lifts from where it had rested in his gut. It takes all of Scar’s will not to grab Grian by his shoulders and hoist him into the air.

“But you weren't out of breath last time you flew?” Scar questions with a cheery lilt to his voice, hovering a hand over the bird's shoulder.

“Oh, well…” Grian brushes a hand through his hair, a nervous look crossing his face. He forces a small smile onto his face before, too quickly, replying, “I came back really fast… I uh,” he straightens his posture, “wanted to get to shade.”

His eyes catch sight of Scar’s hand, he grabs onto it, holding Scar up, completely misinterpreting the gesture for a desire for support. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, a small part of Scar upset by the idea of being seen as weak. But he’s far from new to biting down feelings like that. Instead he lets the hurt be overcome with confusion.

Scar tilts his head, “Yeah I'm fine.” He, for once, is the one to pull out of the touch.

Grian doesn’t back away, instead holding his hand in front of Scar’s heart. “Your chest is alright?” he mutters quietly.

“Y-yeah,” Scar stammers, he'd almost completely forgotten about his rude awakening. Mostly because he was too preoccupied with… “how would you know that?”

“I… um,” Grian closes his open palm, his face turns red, and Scar can swear he hears him gulp.

Grian moves his hand an inch to the side and points, “I don't… I meant your shoulder.” Grian isn’t looking at him. 

“Yeah. It’s fine…” Scar replies, confused by Grian’s peculiar behaviour.

“Couldn't have just stayed missing then?” Tango interrupts them, approaching from where he and Jimmy had been standing.

Taking the chance to redirect the conversation, Grian’s expression changes, shifting to something mischievous, the feathers on his head pointing upwards as he regards Tango.

“And rid you of my presence? Never,” Grian grins back, snidely. “You didn't hurt him, did you?” he returns to scanning Scar over and over, almost like he was expecting to find some kind of injury.

“Should have thought of that before you ran,” Tango grumbles. “No, we didn't hurt him. He's likeable, unlike you.” 

They sneer at each other. Noses scrunched up ridiculously in a way that makes it hard for Scar to take either of their aggressiveness seriously.

“Where did you go?” Scar interposes, drawing Grian's gaze back to him. 

He stares up at Scar with a blank expression, the illusion only broken by his still-heavy-breaths. It’s abruptly replaced when a deep look of shame takes over his face. He’s quick to hide this new expression behind his hand, coughing awkwardly, before struggling and saying, “I scouted up ahead.”

Grian trails off as Scar hops in place, turning to Tango in particular as he points at the Glare.

“Oh, oh! See, I knew he was just checking the area!” He looks back at Grian, still bouncing, albeit only with his heels now, “They thought you abandoned us!”

Grian's almost constant frown flickers slightly, his eyebrows betraying his flat expression. He grimaces slightly.

“Likely story,” Tango grumbles, his good hand on his hip. 

Jimmy whacks him gently, leveling him with a look that can be clearly translated as saying ‘not now’. Tango returns his stare with a series of animated expressions, engaging Jimmy in a ping pong match of silent conversation as they compete on how high they can raise their eyebrows.

“What did you find?” Scar continues, ignoring them.

The Glare flexes his robotic fingers. He looks up at Scar hesitantly, like he’s debating whether or not to share with only Scar or not. Eventually, he turns around and leans back in a way that perfectly slots himself in right next to Scar. Scar can’t help but feel like he’s using him to maintain his composure. The bird folds his hands over his chest, brows frowning in a guarded way.

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, everyone waiting on a baited breath. 

“There are ruins… It looks like a crash site. Could be hundreds, maybe more, of ships,” he stares between the others, his gaze unfocused and his voice even.

“Ships? Maybe there's people,” Jimmy mumbles mostly to himself, but still loud enough for the others to hear.

Grian shakes his head, “They're old and I'm pretty sure abandoned, but I didn't really get a chance to see them too well. I didn't want to land in case I disrupted anything.”

“You think they could have supplies?” Jimmy asks, glancing towards Tango.

“Maybe… There's really only one way to find out,” Grian replies.

“Well, that's alright. Our plan was already to head there,” Tango huffs. 

They all move, ready to leave, but the Glare stays rooted in place. He holds himself still, the nervous flick of his tail betraying his emotions.

“What's wrong? You look constipated,” Tango frowns, noticing Grian’s hesitancy.

“Ah…” Grian bites back a shout, his mouth snapping shut. His nose twitches before he continues flatly, “If we're in a game, with traps, trials, and tribulation… It awfully feels like conveniently placed bait.”

“Nuh doy.”

“Well, what other choice do we really have,” Jimmy adds nervously.

“We don't, I just think we should be cautious. I don't like how easy it has been so far,” his ear feathers flatten as he gestures around anxiously to illustrate his point. 

“You're just saying things we already agree on,” Tango taps Jimmy's arm, pulling him forward as he turns to walk, “Let's just get there already, this is such a pointless conversation.” 

Scar glances at Grian, who remains stood still, his arms crossed. He takes a step, only to walk right into Scar’s outstretched hand,

Scar looks back to the others. Tango grumbles to himself with Jimmy following close behind, neither caring to look back as he watches them walk out of earshot.

He looks back down to Grian again, who almost jumps at the intensity of his stare. Judging by the tightening of his shoulders, the Glare doesn’t appreciate Scar holding him in place.

“What?” Grian sniffs, frowning impatiently. Scars hand remains in place, blocking his way.

“I just want to know if you’re okay?”

For a very brief moment, Scar catches a look of surprise. It floods Grian's deep eyes, only for him to blink and immediately replace it with annoyance.

He searches Scar's expression incredulously, before rolling his eyes and making a move to push past Scar. Not even bothering to indulge him.

Scar scrambles forward, “Hey, hey. Wait. I also have something for you!” He almost trips stepping in front of the bird, but he does his best to establish a healthy space between them in an attempt to minimise Grian’s discomfort as irritation radiates from him more and more.

The deep frown on his face lightens, his features betraying his excitement. It reminds Scar of something his cat would do, “Oh?” His voice pitches up slightly with intrigue.

Scar holds out the food he had saved from breakfast. The dried meat looks ridiculously small in the middle of Scar's palm.

“You must be hungry! Energy spent flying, right?” he stares at the Glare, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Grian’s long, sharp talons unwrap slowly from his chest. He hesitates, looking up at Scar.

“You saved that for me?” 

“Of course!” Scar nods, holding his hand out more. Grian carefully takes the meat. 

“…Thanks.” 

They begin to walk, Scar using their distance from the others as a chance to talk in private. 

“When did you leave? Why didn't you just wake me up?“

Grian chews on the meat, staring ahead, rather than at his companion. He seems, to Scar, to be taking the opportunity to mull his answer over while he eats.

“I was losing light… It's easier for me to see at night here. Also, you needed sleep,” he shrugs, taking another bite.

Scar doesn't believe him in the slightest. He watches Grian, his face devoid of any expression that might indicate that he's lying. It’s easy for him. He carries his deception with a kind of coldness that Scar recognizes in his higher ups or even the particularly shady insurance providers Scar has unfortunately become familiar with. But there’s something else, he’s avoiding Scar’s eyes, like he’s trying to put a barrier up between them both – it reeks of shame.

He isn't going to tell Scar the truth, and Scar decides to accept that. So instead, he smiles, pooling all the softness at the edges of his grin. He'll figure out all his secrets in time. 

“I'm glad you're back,” Scar says, he admits that is genuine.

They look at each other and Grian's tight shoulders begin to unwind. Scar’s giving him so much honest endearment it might drown him, he wants to break down the Glare’s walls.

Grian glances at Scar impassively, he licks at his teeth, his food now gone. He blinks before a smirk spreads across his face.

“You've literally only known me for a couple of days, you can't be that attached already,” his tone comes off with an amused lilt, but Scar clocks how he's only half joking in his voice.

Scar holds his hand to his chest, playing along in the drama, “Oh, but Grian… Our sand trading endeavor! We can't possibly jeopardise our business that easily.”

“Psshhhh, shut it,” the bird waves his talons at Scar, “No one actually believes that, you know?” He pokes a claw dangerously close to Scar's face, “You just have a stupid face that's hard to argue with.”

Scar beams, he flicks his braid over his ear theatrically, “Oh yeah? You think I'm pretty?”

Grian's mouth snaps closed in an audible click, a blank expression betrayed only by the red spreading across his face and the twitch of his nose. He recovers quickly, tapping his chin with a talon.

“Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't have flown back,” he opens his wings as if to take off dramatically. Scar whines sadly at the display. 

Then he shoves Scar jokingly, tucking his wings back behind his back, “I think you're annoying, actually.” 

“And handsome?” 

“Like a splinter.”

“Charming?”

“Maybe even a whole tree branch worth of splinters.”

–

Etho is crouched in the sand, rooting in a pile of rubble, looking around for abandoned light crystals. They're finicky and keep slipping between his fingers and deeper into crevices. He would have lost them if they didn't give off a vivid glow.

There’s a pulse of pain buzzing in his veins and pulling at his ribs, which subdues briefly before coming back. It’s like a switch flicking on and off. Etho sighs and rolls his eyes.

He leans back to see Joel a good distance away from him. He was standing on one foot, making a show as he stepped further away, resulting in their tie pulling and warning them of their distance. He keeps hopping back and forth in cartoonishly way.

Unfortunately, the distance wasn't far enough that Etho couldn’t make out his impish grin. 

In an almost childish response, Etho slowly stands up, taking his time, and he itches his ears and brushes at his trousers, ignoring the spikes of pain as his company pulls at their invisible tether like an impatient dog.

Etho catches up, adjusting his gun back into his hand, leaning it against his shoulder. 

“Was that really necessary?”

“You were taking too long,” Joel huffs.

“So what, putting us in discomfort is justified?” Etho glances at Joel, narrowing his eyes.

“That's real cheap coming for you, Mr. Knives in the heart morning alarm,” Joel spins on his heels, standing in front of Etho and jabbing a finger into his chest with an accusatory scowl.

“It's not that painful,” Etho rolls his eyes. He hadn’t done anything to Joel that he couldn’t also feel himself. He didn’t feel like testing his own limits too. Besides, he’s sure the Glare can handle far more than what he’s dealt with so far.

“Then why are you complaining? Hmmm?”

Etho swipes Joel’s hand away and pushes past him. Ignoring Joel’s squawk of offence as he continues walking.

“Because I'm actually doing stuff, you're just sleeping in when I do it.”

“Oh... interesting dust, is it?” Joel jogs to catch up, gesturing wildly in the direction the Avian had flown, “The bird went that way – with rapid speed, may I add.”

“We're in no rush,” Etho answers, paying him little mind.

“Plan on sprouting wings?” Joel jeers.

Etho shakes his head, ignoring the obvious sarcasm in that remark.

“They don't know they're being followed.” 

–

They finally reach what they have colloquially begun referring to as the ‘junk’. Literally walking into it as Scar barely avoids tripping over a piece of metal framing that has long been buried in sand, almost completely hidden. Rust and erosion from the sands removing any signature shine to warn him there was anything more than sand and rock ahead of him.

After that, more and more jagged shapes surround them, jutting out of the smooth sandy landscape. Most find themselves pushed up against rock walls or buried mostly in the ground after years upon years of sand storms and decay. None of the ruins are particularly identifiable to the four, but they’re definitely growing both in size and volume the further they travel.

It’s not until they make it to another split in the path that they come across something intact.

What looks like half of a ship is laid to rest in the sands, once spacefaring wings stretching out reaching for nothing.

They all come to a halt, curiosity leading them all to silently agree to rest under the shade of the wing. Tango and Jimmy practically fall onto each other as they lean heavily against each other as they sit down, both using the other for balance to accommodate for their functionless arms.

Grian doesn't sit, instead remaining standing. In fact, he doesn’t even look at the ship, choosing instead to stare out, down one of the passages.

Scar, however, is entranced by the ship. He runs his hand across the warm metal of the remaining ship. It looks to him that only the engines and tail of the ship have survived, no cockpit or cargo hold left over. It feels weirdly familiar to Scar – the style of the welding and the blue-grey colouration of the metal.

If he was to guess, It had probably been a smaller fighter ship, built far more for agility than durability. The kind of ship that would have spent most of its time nested inside the belly of a far bigger and more intimidating craft.

He notices decals painted on the side, covered in red sand that almost neutralises the colours underneath. Wiping off some of the grime with his, already stained, gloves; he reveals worn numbers and a blue patch that looks like it runs down the whole side of the ship.

“I know these ships,” he realises.

Scar steps back, taking in as much of the aircraft in front of him as he can, "They're an old class.” The others look at him inquisitively, asides from Grian, who continues staring out into open desert.

“Or not… These are very old.”

“You know about ships?” Jimmy questions.

Scar traces the painted numbers. It’s, in a weird way, nostalgic to him, “I… I knew an old family friend who had this book. These ships are long retired. Like, hundreds of years ago.” 

Tango leans around Jimmy, squinting, “…A vindicator ship, right? As if the blue isn't a dead giveaway,” he leans back, a look of slight disgust on his face. 

“Oh, um,” Scar falters, turning towards Grian. He completely forgot how he’s supposed to be hiding. Grian looks at him with an expression that, as always, is completely unreadable.

“Do you think this was a battlefield?” Jimmy asks, completely oblivious to Scar's hesitation. They all look around, investigating their surroundings like there could be some kind of big, obvious detail buried in the sands that could answer everything.

Strangely, it’s Grian who replies. He’s still standing apart from the others, half turned towards them, “Hmm, it's more likely the battlefield – if there even was one – would have been in space.”

There’s a lull in conversation. Largely from the shock that Grian decided to join in. Looking at the ground, the Glare crosses his arms, his tail swaying behind him. After a moment, he steps towards them and continues.

“It probably all got washed up here, so to speak. Pulled in by this planet's gravity and proximity.” He hums, “A Graveyard planet… um, as my friend, who’s a scraphunter, calls them," Grian talks, a restrained grin crossing his face, like he's almost embarrassed about enjoying the subject.

“So, it's all junk pulled from space and buried in the sand?”

“Yeah,” he confirms simply.

Jimmy pipes up, “Who do you think the battle was between?”

Scar doesn't say anything. He’s getting the creeping feeling that he might become very uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. He can’t help but think about how there’s probably a mirror to this ship and conversion going on at home in a museum, just sanitized, in more than one sense of the word.

“Scar said the ships are old, what if it was between the Lost Faction?” Scar almost jumps when Tango says his name. It takes Scar a couple more seconds to even process what he said. 

“What’s…” Scar instinctively starts to ask, before getting cut off by the feeling of cool metal wrapping around his wrist. Grian had gotten very close to him when he wasn't looking. He almost yells out of shock, but the Glare stares up and through him in a way that takes away all the words he had to say.

He shakes his head slowly, positioned behind him in a way where only Scar can see. 

“A lost mystery…” Tango says weirdly wistfully, oblivious to Grian dropping Scar's hand.

Jimmy shuffles in the sand, his demeanor suddenly anxious, “So this location is some kind of threat? Are they just going to leave us here? Bury us in the sand?”

Tango rubs his back, “Maybe it's a clue? Something we have to find?” He tries to provide Jimmy some comfort with a flimsy smile.

Grian snorts and snidely adds, “Or maybe it's just ruins. You're putting too much thought into it.”

The Blaze shoots around to look at him, staring daggers, “Really, who made you this unfun?” 

“A- I'm not …what? Are we supposed to be enjoying ourselves?” Grian barks at Tango, offended, “I'm actually so fun in different circumstances.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” Tango grumbles sarcastically. 

He opens his mouth, presumably to continue digging into Grian, but is cut off by Scar speaking, “You know, actually,” Scar crosses his arms, one hand tapping at his chin, “Old ships like this actually still used…”

Both Tango and Grian expressions light up with realisation, “Whole pearls!”

They both push their way towards the ship, Tango immediately making his way to a maintenance panel on the side, as Grian wavers slightly. Almost as if he’s realising he doesn’t know where to look, instead he waits for Tango to find what he’s looking for. He peers over Tango's shoulder, the Blaze not having a free hand to push him back, resorting instead to nudging him hard with his elbow, to no avail.

There's a click and then a squabble. Scar assumes that means they both found it.

Grian dives in, opening his wings deliberately in Tango's face. The Blaze falls backwards, knocked off balance and is caught by Scar and Jimmy, who had joined the two during the ruckus.

“Hey!” Tango yells. Grian pulls at something, giggling. 

They all look on expecting the Glare to pull out the precious item, flaunting it over them. But suddenly he falls very still. His feathers drooping and the enthusiasm draining out of his posture.

He turns around to face them. Sitting in the center of his palm is the distinct round shape of an ender pearl. The first thing Scar notices about the pearl is its uncharacteristically inky, dark center.

That's not what it's supposed to look like. He's only seen a few whole ender pearls before in his life. His closest friend being a scientist of sorts means he uses them a lot in his research. He had even let Scar mess with one before. 

They were so very distinctive and beautiful, like mini galaxies trapped in small stones. Filled with the ability to take a soul anywhere, a raw form of teleportation magic. Its fragments are used a lot in travel, and an intact one is very rare and would be incredibly helpful in their predicament.

But this one doesn't glimmer. In fact, it almost sucks in all the light around it, dimming the bright world around them. It was still intact, but the shape bears no colours, just void. 

They all stare at it.

“What's wrong with it?” Scar eventually asks.

“It's corrupted…” Grian answers, his voice distant.

Jimmy reaches out, but his hand is smacked away by Tango, “Don't touch it.” 

Scar, confused, asks, “What? Why?”

Tango frowns at the small thing, “You’d get void poisoning.” There’s a deep disappointment caking his voice, “It's useless now.”

“How come he can hold it,” Jimmy questions, before Tango nudges him and points to Grain's metallic limbs, “Oh.”

Grian, in fact, doesn't acknowledge them at all. He looks lost, glaring into the gem’s centre, almost like it’s hypnotizing him. His expression painful and confused.

“Grian? Are you alright?” Scar quietly urges.

The Glare snaps out of it, staring up at Scar in response, ”What? …Yeah.” He looks back down at the pearl and startles, almost like he'd forgotten he was even holding it.

It drops into the sand. Not breaking – barely making much of a noise at all. It’s a little pathetic how uneventful it is.

Grian pushes his hands into his pockets, snorting, “Oh well. Couldn't have been that easy.” 

Tango scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at Grian, “Yeah! And you were going to use it all up on yourself!”

“You snooze, you lose,” the Glare simply responds with a smirk. 

Scar looks at him, concerned, his posture drooping slightly after the whole ordeal. He looks drained. Grian holds himself up as best he can, clearly wanting to avoid whatever feelings the empty pearl had stirred in him.

“You pushed me!” Tango shouts.

Grian sticks his tongue out at him.  

–

Joel balances along the top of a half-buried shipwreck, a bored expression on his face. He declared a while ago that walking for so long across the sand was dull and that the sand in his shoes was ‘bloody irritating’, and resorted to clambering over just about every ship he could. Etho, however, decided to keep his feet firmly on the ground – even after Joel complained about him getting in the way of unlocking his ‘true trash climbing abilities’.

“Soo… Nether!” Joel announces from above Etho.

“What?”

“Are you from the Nether?”

“No, sorry,” Etho answers. The other has been trying to pry information about him for an hour now and he isn’t any closer to learning anything than he was at the start, “Guess again.”

Joel pauses, wracking his brain for a planet he hasn’t already named, “...Spawn?”

Etho laughs. That’s perhaps the worst option he’s come up with yet. He’d far sooner deal with the heat of the Nether than live in the Vindicator capital, “You're so far off.”

“WELL I DONT WANT TO ASSUME WRONG!” Joel barks, getting frustrated at his lack of success. His heavy footsteps reverberating across the degrading metal he’s been trusting with his weight.

“Then stop trying to guess.” 

Joel falls silent for a moment with a huff. Etho knows better than to hope he’s done, he’s probably just trying to think of anywhere else he could possibly come from. It’s a pointless endeavor, there’s no way that Etho will tell him even if he does guess right. Joel’s just about the last person he trusts with that information

“Are you from a hermit settlement then? What, like 1? Or 6?”

Etho shakes his head, “Nah.”

“There's no way you're actually an Ender,” Joel looks at Etho, an incredulous look spreading across his face. Etho takes it back, that’s the worst one Joel’s suggested. What’s even worse is that Etho can see on his face the moment it crosses from a joking suggestion, to a serious consideration, “No, actually, maybe? You've got that whole sickeningly mysterious deal going on.”

Etho can’t even begin to think of a response to that, so he remains silent. Instead choosing to stare at the man with what he hopes comes across as judgement. It doesn’t even make Joel pause before continuing rattling off every place he can think of.

“Oh, maybe Keres!” Joel says, breaking the silence Etho wishes had lasted longer.

“Nope.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

“Oh, spilling secrets to a Vindicator, I'm smarter than that,” Etho scoffs, an amused tone bleeding into his voice. 

“Then what's the point of me even guessing if you're just going to lie?”

Etho shrugs.

“Psshhh, it's not like you could be anyone important, anyway,” Joel snorts, seemingly amused by the idea. As offended at him underestimating him as Etho wants to feel, it’s far better than the alternative.

“You're probably right.”

“Hey, wait, what's that?” Joel trails off, stopping dead in his tracks, staring out towards the horizon. Etho turns to look at him, eyebrow raised at the other’s change in behaviour.

“Hmm?” Etho scans the desert ahead of them, trying to find anything aside from wrecks and sand. He’s greeted with nothing, but the harsh sun beating down on the land. Nothing moves aside from the occasional sandy cloud, picked up by the breeze.

“I thought I saw something orange,” Joel says, clambering down from his vantage point on the shipwreck, and returning to Etho’s side as he motions towards that same spot in the distance.

“The sand.”

Joel rolls his eyes, unamused by the Enderians unwillingness to work with him, “No. It was also blue.”

Etho, deciding to continue being unhelpful, turns his gaze to the sky, staring markedly at the cloudless blue above them. He’s rewarded with a strangled squawk and a punch to the shoulder, which, judging by the way Joel tries to subtly rub his own shoulder, he’d forgotten he’d also feel. Etho bites back a grin, even though it wouldn’t be seen behind his mask in the first place.

“Is there any way that thing could have noticed we're following it?” 

Etho hums in thought, “I don't think so, it's pretty far away. It'll take a while for us to catch up at the speed it left.”

“That barely answers my question,” Joel huffs.

Etho shrugs again.

“You like doing that, shrug guy,” Joel jeers as he wanders away from Etho to, once again, hop up onto the rusted form of a half buried wreck. Unlike last time, though, it doesn’t quite go how he’d planned. The second his feet land loudly on the hollow hull, what looks like a family of mice scurry out of a crack in the metal, distressed at their home being invaded. Joel flails, yelling as they run under his legs and disappear into the depths of the wreckages, barely avoiding slipping off the metal, onto the sand below, “AH, THOSE DAMN MICE!” 

Etho tries not to snort as he watches Joel quickly try to regain his composure and continue like nothing happened, “Is that where you’re from, shrug planet?”

–

They’ve been tracking further and further into the desert. The only relief that they’re heading in the right direction is the ruins slowly becoming so cluttered, that they’ve found themselves having to climb over or under most of it. Scar hadn’t realized how much he'd miss the plain sand. If it means he'll stop accidentally burning his bare arms against hot metal, he'll take it. 

Conversation has long since all but stopped between the four of them. They’re all too occupied with watching their steps and saving their breath. Besides, there isn’t much more to talk about, especially between Scar, who is actively hiding who he is, a guy who obviously has put up the most emotional walls, someone who has spent a considerable amount of time in a cave before coming here, and a cowboy. There isn’t much to say.

Despite the fact that everyone is quietly somewhere else in their minds. Scar can't explain it, but he feels a foreboding feeling seeping into his bones, and an awful feeling like something bad is going to happen. As if answering that though, Scar spots something.

There, held on one of the withered fragments of metal framing, lays a limp form of something... Scar sucks in a sharp breath. His stomach dips despite his mind scrambling for any other kind of evidence that what he is looking at isn't what he thinks it is. 

At first, it just looks like a forgotten jumpsuit and helmet, laid out to dry in the hot sun. The jagged shapes in the sleeves could believably be just metal wiring, ruin, balling up the fabric in a way that looks like…

"Is that… A person?" 

Scar almost gets angry at the idea of someone dispelling his illusion. He turns, hoping to find Jimmy looking somewhere else, but his warm hazel eyes look past Scar to the empty jumpsuit. Empty. 

"Oh shi-" Tango hisses from behind Scar. There's a pause in their steps, Scar assuming all four of them have spotted it now. 

Jimmy suddenly jerks back, his hand finding Tango's shoulders as he pulls them both backwards, fear taking over his expression. 

"Oh…Oh no. What happened here? We shouldn't stay,"  his eyes are still locked on the empty jumpsuit. He ducks his head, almost leaning it on Tango’s shoulder as he whispers, “Should we run!?"

Tango doesn't move, his hand quietly lays on top of Jimmy's and his mouth works for reassurement, but uneasiness takes his words away.

There’s only one that pointedly doesn’t look scared.

"I wouldn't be so worried, we're surrounded by ruins of ships, it was only a matter of time before we were to come across their pilots," Grian says. His face is hard to read as he walks ahead of the others, no fear, squints up and examining the empty jumpsuit.

"They're just bones, it's been a very long time since they weren't. If anything, we're lucky they aren't anything else," empty, but filled with bones. Scar looks away, looking instead at Grian as he talks. He can't look at them anymore. Those sharp shapes under the fiber aren't just ship ruins. They were people.

“That uniform…” 

Though Scar was no longer looking, he didn't need to see. The image of a sun stained, sewn on ‘V’ patch fresh in his mind. Just like the ship earlier, it doesn't take a genius to guess what colour it used to be. 

“Vindicator.” 

Scar flicked his line of sight off the distance. He didn't even realise Grian had moved from where he was. The Glare is looking straight at Scar, and weirdly, he almost thinks the look was pity directed at him. 

“At least they have the decency to go down with the ship,” Tango mutters from behind Scar. 

A hot, uncomfortable feeling grows up the back of Scar's neck and throat. All he can think to do is bite his tongue and look at the ground, stopping himself from saying anything. 

“Now that I think about it, we've only really seen one kind of ship,” Jimmy hums, considerably less worried than he was a moment ago.

Tango tuts from behind Scar, “Good riddance. The fewer Vindicators in the world, the better, I think.” It makes the hairs on the back of Scar’s neck stand. He could stare a hole into the sand with how intensely he was focusing on it.

“But don't you think it's odd? We haven't seen any other sign of any other factions?”

“Fighting an invisible fight?” Tango walks into Scar's peripheral, his demeanor so laid back, so unaffected after learning who those remains fought under. 

Scar has his head still down. No one was paying him any mind, none of them had any reason to. Asides from one. 

Scar can feel Grian watching him. Usually that feeling was something Scar took solace in. But this time it was like a burning fire, he didn't need to look towards him to feel its sharp warmth and Scar took no comfort in it this time. It felt like he was being monitored. Grian didn't want him to say the wrong thing despite how hurt Scar’s pride feels.

He doesn't like being governed, but he isn’t stupid, he knows why Grian is watching him. 

Still, a part of Scar's mind won’t quiet until he says something.

“Don’t you feel bad for them? The… pilots?” Scar says. He does not look at Tango, he’s scared that he'd be wearing an expression that might give himself away. 

That comment must have taken Tango by surprise, because he doesn't say anything for a considerable amount of time. 

“...I mean, sure. But they sort of signed up for it.” 

Scar looks at Tango, he holds his face as still as he could, “What if they didn't know?” 

“Oh, wait guys,” Grian loudly interrupts them. Jimmy even flinches from the sudden volume. 

They all look at the bird expectantly.

“Hold on,” Grian stands back, signalling for the others to move back, before he winds up to launch himself into the air, his wings catching him in an impressive swoop. 

Haphazardly, he lands on the metal frame. It creaks, but holds his weight. His long tail fanning out, balancing him, and he reaches gently to a small device strapped to the jumpsuit. 

“Oh! Does it work?” Tango calls up to the Glare, completely forgetting the one sided standoff with Scar. 

Grian leans back, blows the dust and sand off the screen, squinting, before deciding to hop down out of the sun. Tango shuffles up to him and the small old box of hope, held in his hand. A communicator.

Suddenly, a snapping noise echoes across the ravines. The frame shakes with the aftermath of Grian jumping off. They all watch as the helmet from the jumpsuit thumps onto the ground like an apple. 

It rolls in the sand and stops a step in front of Scar. Completely uneventful to the others, however, sickenly haunting to Scar. All he could do was fixate on the sad thing.

A helmet not very different from his own, if only a couple generations older. 

Of course the others didn't pay it any mind, too focused on the com. Despite that, Scar still senses Grian's burning. 

All Scar can feel is an overwhelming sense of dread. He tries to swallow it down hard, turning to the others and pretending he isn't close to throwing up.

“The com’s fried and looks like all the enderchests have been retrieved,” Grian mumbles, as Tango took the item from his grasp, not so politely. 

Jimmy looks over Tango's shoulder, “By who?"

“Probably salvagers. Most likely… Vindicators themselves,” Grian muses. Scar picking up on how he hesitated at the faction name. He could tell the Glare desperately doesn't want them to talk about it for Scar's sake. 

In defiance, Scar speaks, “...But ...Why wouldn't they retrieve the bodies as well,” he looks at Grian. 

The Glare holds that same worry in his brow for a moment, before brushing his claws through his hair and putting on a neutral frown, “Hmmm, too much effort? It probably would take a lot of resources to move them, much easier to just take what's valuable and leave.”

“Spent like flies,” Tango, bored of the conversation, drops the com. It hit the ground with a clatter. He walked ahead, with Jimmy close behind, neither of them gave the jumpsuit a second look. The journey needed to be travelled.

Scar turns back to the now headless jumpsuit, it isn't easier to look at. 

He feels Grian walk up next to him, his arm gently brushing Scar's, almost as if he was trying to comfort him. That realisation dampened the anger within him slightly. He doesn't want to be mad at Grian, he knows that was the irrational part of his mind when clearly Grian just wants him to be safe.

It still hurts. 

“Should I bury them?” Scar whispers to the Glare. 

Grian doesn't answer straight away. Scar could feel his tail loop subconsciously around Scar's leg, “... That's a sweet thought, but I don't think we have the time.”

There were actually far more reasons they couldn't, Scar knew. 

“I don't know how to feel,” Scar murmurs in a small pathetic voice.

“You're allowed to feel angry, just, maybe not at Tango,” Grian's claws worry over the fabric of Scar's glove. Scar does not ignore how Grian doesn't mention himself. 

He regards Scar, eyes so full of inky nothing that all Scar can look at is his own sad reflection in them, “There's a lot you don't know about, Scar, and I want you to come to your own conclusion at your own time,” Grian says far too tenderly.

“But you won't tell me now, because I'm not safe,” Scar says more flatly than he intends. 

“I don't think any of us are… at this point of time,” Grian looks around anxiously. A nervous mock of a smile on his face. 

Scar smiles back just as fraudulently, “For now we're just liars.”

“Yeah …for now.”

–

“You should really wear that strap properly,” Etho watches as Joel fiddles with the strap to his gun, holding the weapon in his hands, rather than attaching it securely to his body like Etho had initially instructed.

“Ugh. No, it's uncomfortable and it's hot and stop nagging me about it!” Joel barks, absently moving his fiddling to the gun itself, switching the safety off and on again, repeatedly.

Etho puts his hands up in a poor, half-serious attempt at calming him down, “I put it on that thing for a reason.”

“I KNOW,” he snaps, “I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a freaking Vindicator soldier. I've heard the whole spiel!”  he finishes by slinging the gun over his shoulder, holding onto the strap by only a couple fingers, in what he probably intended to be a ‘cool move’.

“We're good, I'm good. I don't need to wear it right now.”

Etho lets silence fall over them. Deciding that there’s probably better hills to die on with this man. 

After a moment more of walking quietly, he speaks up, “This place puts you on edge?”

Joel turns to Etho, eyebrows pinched in a confused frown. “What?”

“You know…” Etho begins, before immediately trailing off, unsure of how to word it. He doesn’t want to upset him by fumbling around the topic. 

“It's ruins from your faction.”

Joel doesn’t miss a beat, “So?”

“Well, doesn't that bother you?” Etho asks, taken aback by his apparent indifference.

“Not really, it's just my job,” Joel responds, like it's obvious.

“It's a pretty big deal of a profession, though.”

“Do you want me to burst into tears? People die, as long as they ain't me, I couldn't really care,” Joel shrugs – Etho chooses not to turn Joel’s earlier jokes back on him, far too caught off guard by the answer to mirror the Glare’s antics.

He supposes it makes sense, even being a soldier is just a job to some, but Etho finds it hard to look at a Vindicator and just think about someone doing as they’re told for a paycheck. He certainly finds it hard to imagine not even caring if those you work with die, but he supposes that’s probably the difference between what they’re paid to do.

“What do you know?” Joel grins, “You probably just work in an office or some shut in nerd thing, whatever…” 

–

Scar watches dust spill off the side of the old ship wing they all find themselves shading under, all of them sitting in an uncomfortably empty quiet. The sun is baking any meaningful conversation out of them. They are all hungry, grumbling in all senses.

Scar sits on a lump of metal, with one of his legs laying out In front of him, he fiddles with the screws on his leg brace, holding a scrap metal piece he tightens the brackets. 

He faces away from the others, towards the graveyard of ruins, the cold metal littering the warm landscape like pools of reflections compared to the matte stone and sand surrounding them. 

It's rather fitting, feeling like his whole concept of the world has fallen around him, while sat amongst fallen sky. A painful kind of irony dawns on him that he might be forgotten amongst these ruins. A skeleton that the Vindicators won't bother to bury. 

Uncomfortably gloomy thoughts that Scar has been desperately trying to push down with the lack of distraction around them. The others weren't in a talking mood so instead he opted to focus on ‘fixing’ his braces. 

There's a small scuttling that catches Scar’s attention, his lazy gaze drags to it, expecting it to just be something moving in the small breeze. 

Instead, he locks eyes with two beady ones. 

“Hm…” Scar stops his fiddling, freezes, completely not expecting the distinct familiarity of the tiny mouse creature staring at him. It scratches its nose, as if Scar's not losing his mind. 

“Just to check I'm not… you know, seeing things.” 

Scar chooses to not look away in case the mouse becomes a ghost when he looks back. He just hopes the others heard him.

“Do you guys see that small thing?”

There's a loud pause as all four of them turn to peer down at their new company. It grooms at its ear completely oblivious, or even completely aware, with how it relished their sight of four hungry beasts. 

Scar flickers a glance to his company and catches Grian glaring at Jimmy who conveniently sits closest to the creature. Almost mirroring the mouse, Grian's own ears twitch before he throws himself forward. 

Then chaos breaks loose.

Jimmy yells, being pushed over by a steady thump of Grian’s wings, he grabs at the sand scrambling to his feet, spluttering grains from his mouth between yells. They both grab at each other, pulling themselves forward off each other, and tripping over one another's tails in the process. The small creature dashing out into the sand, only to make the scramble more frantic and loud. 

“A mouse!”

 “FOOD!”

Tango watching Jimmy fall face into the sand, shakes out of his shock as he rubs at his nose and lunges to grab onto Grian's tail, and pull him away from Jimmy.

They all yell and scuffle in the sand, their prey taunting them by running loops around them, not even seeming concerned about being caught. 

“Stop with the pushing.”

Watching the hubbub, Scar finds himself sitting comfortably. He laughs, observing the others' scrap. He swears he watches Jimmy trip over his own tail more times than any of the others. Amused by Tango’s high pitched shrieks and Grian's squabbles, as they push each other's faces into the dirt.

Scar lets them chase the mouse in circles. Laughing so deeply he almost falls backwards off the elevation he's sat on.  

Blinking tears from his eyes, he watches Tango shove Grian to the side, Jimmy sprinting ahead on his long feet, ducking under a metal arch after the mouse. 

Grian grumbles, shaking sand from his hair as he pushes himself up and meets Scar's eyes. A grimace taken over by the most mischievous grin Scar has ever seen. 

“Oh, oh, oh,” Scar willingly pushes himself back off the platform this time, in fright as the bird runs in his direction. He shields his face, expecting to be pulled into the fight somehow. Instead, he peers through his fingers to see Grian sat, straddling him, his brow buried in concentration as he grabs for something at Scar’s waist. 

Only when Grian holds the shiny blue blade up with triumph from Scar's belt does he realise what the Glare’s intentions are. 

He hurriedly grabs Grian’s wrist, along with the bright blade, just as he's about to leg it to the others who find themselves badly trying to corner the small creature. 

Scar stammers a “Wait!” Grian tugs at Scar’s grip, but doesn't leave. 

“GUYS WAIT!” Scar yells over past him to the other two, scaring the mouse as it runs between Jimmy's legs. The tall man spinning and falling over for the hundredth time with an “oof”. 

“WE ALMOST HAD IT! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” Tango yells back, huffing next to Jimmy, who was also out of breath and brushing sand from the side of his face. 

“I think I might have a smarter idea than…. whatever you guys were doing,” Scar laughs and lets go of Grian. 

“Gun?” the latter replies with a smug half smile. 

Scar snorts, “No, I mean, the mouse had to survive off something.”

He watches the realization wash over the three in a comical manner.

“Ohhh.”

“Why would we even bother when the mouse is right here right now?” Jimmy tries, wiping the lost pride that is smudged all over his face. 

“You really think we could all snack off that small thing? I bet you could burp the same weight as it,” Scar lightly points out with a laugh.

Grian giggled at Jimmy, “You were planning to eat that thing? What a stupid idea.” 

Jimmy recoils in offence, quickly regaining himself and yelling back. “I don't know why you're making fun of me. You started the fight,” Jimmy notices the gun in Grian's grasp, “Since when did you get that?!?“

“I was going to make it fair, considering you made it two versus one.” 

Tango huffs, rubbing his knee, “I only joined in cause I kept having to experience second hand being shoved.”

“You were going to shoot us?!?!?” Jimmy instead focuses on.

Grian blinks slowly. “...I mean, it could have been for the mouse,” he swings the weapon around. 

“That would have turned the thing into dust!” Jimmy remarks.

“More importantly, why do you still have it?” Tango adds. 

“Ugh,” Grian rolls his eyes, and makes an exaggerated movement as he pushes the gun into Scar's chest. 

Scar catches it as Grian lets it go. He looks up at Tango who gives him a very pointed ‘don't let him get to it again’ look. 

“Hm, as I was saying, we should follow the mouse,” Scar continues from earlier, “It might lead us to a slightly more sustainable food source.”

Tango looks nervously at Jimmy.

“That feels like it might take a while.”

“Well,” Scar taps his chin in thought.

“We could always eat your friend here,” he says, nodding with the biggest grin and running his fingers over the gun's surface in a comically villainous way. 

He points it at Jimmy, who squabbles, “Me? Why me?” 

“You’re the tallest! More meat on the bones,” Scar shrugs, Grian nodding next to him like it's a completely understandable conclusion to come to. 

“...Right, so maybe let's avoid that.”

As if understanding the conversation, the mouse scuttles back from under the rubble, tauntingly digging at the dirt and cleaning itself in the sand.

After what feels like hours of following a small shimmering creature down small reviven passages, squeezing between husks of ships half buried in the wall, singing to them as sand rings the bartered surfaces, they finally come to fork in the path. Almost guarded by the spilling remains of a giant ship, the outer skin of the ship shining and standing tall above them at the top of the riven, with its insides spilling out in huge compartments barely being held by wires and cables.

It scuttles into a gap in an air lock door that’s connected to a corridor. Like a tube cut open, leading to larger units, completely reinforced, cables spilling out like roots. 

“How can we really be sure there's food, aside from Mr. Dirt butt here,” Tango huffs. Jimmy awkwardly mutters, “We are talking about the mouse, right?”

“Who knows, maybe the mouse is a secret game maker, leading us to a trap,” Grian jokes sarcastically.

Scar walks up to the torn open hall, the walls have lines along it of different colours.

Before the air lock there seemed to be a white sign with the same colour as the line’s text. It reads ‘hall 3, food production: dry storage, plant cultivation, frozen storage, kitchen, cafeteria’.

All the other three peer over his shoulder, each at a different height and squinting.

“There's your answer, Tango,” Grian chuckles.

Tango grumbles, “Aren't we lucky Vindicators labeled everything.” He kicks at the air lock.

It's mostly closed, one half of the door knocked out of its place, wedged in a way it couldn't be moved. Jimmy shuffles over and gives the door a hefty push, to no avail. Yeah, no, it wasn't going to move easily.

“Maybe I could...” 

The opening is narrow. Scar crouches down, leaning his head through, his shoulders are too broad even when he tries to wedge his arm in first. His leg braces slip against the metal floor as he tries to pull himself out, Jimmy helping him. “Nevermind,” Scar sighs.

“Hm,” both Scar and Jimmy looked to their shorter company.

The shorter two look back with the same gloomy expression, without even coordinating it. They both come to the same realization simultaneously. 

“Not it,” Grian holds a hand up.

Tango looks around and gestures to himself with offence, “I am not going in there.”

The Blaze walks up to Grian, holding his hand at his height, comparing it to the Glare, “Why don't you go in? You're shorter than me,” he pushes his hand over Grian's ear tuffs to demonstrate to the others. The Glare shoves him away and holds his ear tuffs away, his cheeks slightly red. 

He regains his composure, shaking his feathers and holding his wings out. “Can’t you see I got these big ol' wings,” he smiles.

“Yeah, but they fold, don't they? I have a broken arm,” Tango challenges, holding his own arm out, mirroring.

“In some situations that helps,” Grian mocks.

Tango squeaks angrily, “NOT THIS ONE!” 

He pushes Grian, leading them to squabble. Jimmy and Scar, sharing an exasperated look.

“Why don't you both go, probably safer,” Jimmy suggests with a shrug.

“With him?!?” Tango exclaims, as he has Grian's face in his hand at arm length, Grian half-heartedly swatting at him. 

“Yeah, I could break more bones if you need to get through any smaller gaps,“ he says, slightly muffled, before he pulls his head out of the grasp.

“Oh, you want to see broken bones,” Tango sneers at Grian when suddenly his stomach growls loudly. They all pause. 

“…Fine, only because I'm hungry and mad about it,” Tango surrenders, rubbing his stomach. 

With an eventual agreement, the rest let out a collective sigh. 

Neither of them move. 

Grian laughs to himself, nodding to Tango. A mischievous grin appearing, “Losers first.” 

“Yeah, that's why I'm waiting.”

“GUYS, PLEASE! Literal starvation is happening,” Jimmy grumbles, completely frustrated by the two's back and forthing. 

“Fine, fine,” Tango crawls through, closely followed by Grian, who only slightly struggles with his wings. 

Scar and Jimmy pop their heads through.  “Hm… Yell or something, if you're in trouble,” Scar tries with a wobbly smile. He's not completely sure how they could help from the outside, but the least they need is more stalling. 

Tango scoffs. “Oh, I'll definitely yell, don't you worry,” he looks pointedly at Grian, who pretends to ignore him. 

Upon entering the ship wreck, the heat halves, everything feels cold and dusty.

Grian taking a satisfied sigh at the low light.

Tango wasn't as at ease. He may be in a constant state of glowing, but that light only reached so far, less so now that he was exhausted and showing it. The dark gloomy tunnels could go on for years for all Tango knew. It certainly felt like they did. 

Grian's talons echoed through the halls, sounding like chain rattling against the metal floor. It was setting Tango's nerves on edge as the sound bounced back like they weren't alone.

“Alright then, light the way, Tango.” 

Tango doesn't turn to look at Grian, his gaze is fixed on parts he couldn't see, “You go first.”

“What? You don't trust me?” Grian didn't even try to hide the amusement in his voice.

Tango reluctantly looks at him to give him a grim expression he knows the Glare could see, “Yes, completely that.”

Grian snorts, “Psshhh, you already took my gun from me. What more do you want?” he waves his claws in front of Tango's face, “My nails filed?” 

The Blaze takes a step back. He doesn't say anything, holding his ground with a stern look.

Grian's shoulders sag, bored of the standoff, “Alright, let's just get this over with.”

The halls are as eventful as the desert outside of it – old and untouched for years. They follow the discoloured lines across the walls that lead them to the storage, stepping over gaps in the flooring and under particularly caved in hallways.

Until finally they reach their saviour: a sad looking door with so much grime it was hard to even read the ‘storage’ sign printed above it.

“Looks like this is it.”

Grian grabs at the door frame, pressing buttons and kicking at the panel.

“Ugh… More doorsss,” Tango wanders up to him, head back in annoyance.

After scratching at the sides and pushing against the frame, Grian huffs, standing back and crossing his arms, “It's locked.”

“Do these mice have thumbs?” The Blaze throws his arm out.

“And we don't?” Grian snorts. 

Tango simply makes a face.

The Glare laughs and rolls his eyes, before his attention is caught. 

“Oh, no. Here!” Grian crouches down to a metal panel that has been dented at the corner, enough space for a mouse to fit through. He runs his metal fingers against the surface with an uncomfortable ringing.

“…Can you shrink?” Tango watches the Glare hook his hand through the gap, feeling the other side. 

Grian responds, not looking at Tango, instead lowering his face to the floor, looking through, “Do I look like a Vex?” his voice echoes into the closed room, full of sarcasm.

Tango sucks in a breath, before pinching his forehead and grumbling, “Oh… oh, god dammit, why didn't we just ask Scar, he's a Vex, right? He could have just walked through all this stuff,” All the dust and creepy cramped spaces were for nothing.

“I don't think he can.”

Tango opens his eyes, the Glare off of the floor, staring at the wall. “What makes you say that?” he asks.

Grian frowns, shrugging, “I don't know… maybe he’d mention it, or he just gives off the vibes of not really knowing how to use magic.”

He shifts so he's sitting on the ground, knee pressed to his cheek as he maneuvers himself to pull at the bent metal plate. 

Tango pauses, “ So you have met him before these games then?” he asks, as the Glare pulls on the metal. He scrapes his claws obnoxiously over the surface.

“Plus I would think a vindicator ship, of all spacecrafts, would have precautions against Vex magic,” Grian continues, ignoring Tango's comment. He strains, adjusting his grip and sliding his hand further into the gap, both his feet planted against the wall, “AGH! I think I could.” 

Tango snorts as he watches the Glare struggle, the smooth metal providing not much traction, causing Grian to slip a couple times and thumb his head against the wall, or falling flat on his back, “I don't think you're getting through that.”

The Glare, too determined, picks himself back up. “Not with that attitude,” Grian replies, out of breath. 

He pauses briefly before taking in a deep breath and pulling at the metal.

Surprisingly, despite its sturdy resistance, Grian pulls at its supports. There's cracking, screeching and Tango swears he hears hissing. Only then realising the mechanics of Grian's limbs are the ones also making noise.

The Glare rests, having pulled it a considerable amount from the wall, no longer mouse sized, maybe a small dog wide. 

“Whoah,” Tango says without realising. 

The Glare flexes his fingers, the small brackets and pistons moving across his exposed prosthetics simultaneous. 

“I guess that's the perks of having arms made of metal worth several settlements.” Tango jokes. But the Glare ignores him, and Tango would have thought he simply didn't hear him, if it wasn't for the uncomfortable look that spread across Grian's face. His shoulders going tight, an awkward silence falling upon them as Grian prepares his footing to pull at the panel more.

Tango steps back with a sigh, bored. He looks at the door, it's not misshapen like all the other doors they've come across. Its frame unbent, the door sitting neatly within it. He pressed the button on the handle despite knowing it'll do nothing. Grian had vigorously pressed it upon seeing it first earlier.

It is old, made from rubber that was starting to flake away from age. Tango pulled at it, the small thing popping out into his hand. A glimmer catches Tango's attention, the space left behind the button is exposed wiring, uncovered gold, looking right back at Tango. 

He stands back and regards the door again. It is painfully simple, no locking. It wasn't like the air lock earlier, there was no point installing another expensive door to another, the only reason they couldn't open it was the ship’s lack of power.

“…You know, I don't think we need to go through there,” Tango presses his fingers to the inner workings. 

Grian didn't respond, in fact, when Tango looked at him, the Glare had his head into the wall as well as one foot, folded into himself like an awkward cat as he pulled himself through the small gap, “Yes! Head through!”

“Grian,” Tango tries, unheard.

A few feathers are caught on the frame, falling out and joining the dust and grime on the floor. Grian not caring, battling his way through with an unusual determination.

“HAH HAAA!” He declares loudly. 

Tango exasperatedly knocks on the wall, raising his volume. “Hey, bird brain, I can open the door!” 

“What?” 

“I said… You know what, nevermind,” Tango gives up, the other clearly set on his method. 

Tango watches him make it through, hearing a cough and shake of feathers on the other side of the wall. 

Putting the tips of his fingers to the gold wiring, Tango starts to pool the energy from within himself to the ends of his digits. He barely spent any when there’s a click, the door immediately opening with a swoosh.

Grian stands on the other side, looking cartoonishly shocked and confused with Tango's achievement. 

“Ah… wh-how?”

Tango grins wide. He wiggles his fingers, still glowing slightly at the ends, “Fizz, pop, BOOM!”

Grian's mouth stays agape, a couple feathers in his hair, wonky and messy, adding to his image of bewilderment. 

Tango laughs, “Just… a Blaze thing, these doors are super old… they don't have the most elaborate mechanism. I could short circuit it with my fingies.”

The Glare’s face morphs into a frown, brushing at his hair in frustration, “…Well, you could have said.”

Tango laughs loudly. “You were pretty set on pushing your face through a wall,” he smirks. 

Grian just stares at him, slightly red in the face and ears flicking absently. 

He awkwardly coughs into his hand, “Right, so… food.”

Stepping into the room, the first thing Tango notices is the smell: it was stale and pungent. The source coming from a pile of empty and chewed perspectives can. 

They both looked grimly at the sight. Most of the food had been knocked off the shelves and chewed up cardboard riddled all the corners. Sliverfish had definitely made the room a home. Tango even swore he could see them shift around at the corners of his eye, the light too dim, but the feeling of hundreds of little eyes on him didn't cease. 

“Dang, not the only ones hungry,” Tango breathes. 

The Glare shuffles ahead. He steps onto one the shelves, reaching for a large box. Whatever's in the box must be heavy, as he struggles to balance on and pull it off. 

There's a sway from the frame, before the Glare bails and falls backwards. Tango subconsciously reaches out to catch him, only to get a mouthful of feathers. He staggers back, catching a shelf on the other side of the room, his own good arm taking the brunt of the force. 

Tango groans, feeling bruised. The Glare is looking back at him, holding the box and completely fine from the fall. He has a confused look. 

“What happened to you?” 

Tango pulls himself up with a grumble. He spits out a feather and rubs at his face, “Oh, you know… an unexpected meal. You should really watch those things.” 

The Glare looks under his arm, at his wings, and shivers. 

“What's in the box, feathers?” Tango asks.

Grian places it on the floor and pulls at the tape, yellowed and barely tacky anymore. Inside laid out in neat rows are a fair amount of canned food, fruits, veggies and meats. 

“Jackpot,” Grian gleefully says.

“Can we trust these?” 

“Well, the box does say preservatives! And you've gotta trust the little guy on the package!” Grian holds a can up to Tango's face, a small cartoony Vex printed on the label, their thumbs are up, face winking. Tango frowns.

Imitating the image, Grian also winks at Tango. “Long lasting! Quality approved! Space mush!!” he said loudly in a dorky voice.

“That’s not reassuring...”

Grian giggles, satisfied with his reaction. He holds the can in his palm and squints at it, running his thumb pad over its surface.

“It looks like there's enchantments etched into the tin,” He chucks one to Tango, “If Vindicators are anything, they are resourceful… thankfully for us.” 

Tango lets out a sigh of relief. He slides down to the floor, resting his head back against the shelf. 

The air was stuffy inside the enclosed area, that realization only dawning on him now that he could convince himself he had been holding his breath this whole time. The ceiling looks blankly back at him, only loose wires and dented reinforced metal to stimulate his mind.

He stretches his arm out, unclenching his hand. When something sharp pokes Tango's hand, he looks down to see various utensils spread across the floor, all bunched up under the shelf. 

They probably got knocked off the shelves when the shipping crashed all those years ago. All new and unused, and there, standing out amongst the spoons and forks, was a knife, longer and wide. If Tango knew anything about cooking, he would have guessed it would have been used to cut veggies or meat, Tango's own reflection staring back at him in it.

He looks back up at his company. Grian is too preoccupied with sorting the cans into a bag from the shelf. His tail swaying behind him, not paying attention to the Blaze in the slightest. 

Tango slowly grabs the weapon and holds it behind his back, quietly moving to a stand. He can't help but frown to himself, a plan forming in his head. 

Grian swings the bag over his shoulder, standing and wobbling as he adjusts his balance.

“Well! We better feed the tall ones,” he turns, interrupted by Tango pointing the weapon at him. 

The Glare doesn't react much, just pushes his brows up before putting on the most unaffected grin, sharp teeth and dark eyes challenging the item.

“….What's this? Mugging me?” he says, unseriously. 

“I want you to tell me who you are,” Tango stammers, his one free hand readjusting his grip. 

Grian looks straight into Tango's eyes, his gaze flickering to the tremors in Tango's arm. “…Not scared of these claws anymore?” the Glare rings his metal digits together intentionally. 

Tango adjusts his footing. “What is your deal?” he keeps his voice stern. 

“Sand trading, apparently,” Grian says sarcastically.

Tango steps forward, and thankfully, Grian takes his own step backwards. He holds his hands up in response. The bag he was holding thumping to the ground, sound echoing through the halls.

“I don't know what you did to get a person like Scar to protect you so much. But I know it was a lie,” Tango hisses. 

Grian's grin faulters at Scar's mention. “A person like Scar? You know him well?” he sneers.

“Maybe not… But there's something you two aren't telling us,” it was obvious. Tango noticed how much Grian would cling to Scar. The Glare was clearly not a very trusting person, he wanted to leave Jimmy and himself dead in the sand. But for some reason, Scar convinced him otherwise. 

Scar was someone a person like Grian cared about. 

Anyone could see they were sharing a secret. 

Grian blinks, his nose twitches. “And you're going to …hurt me? Hold me prisoner?” he continues to smile sourly. It's like he can sense the uncertainty in Tango's resolve.

Tango huffs, moving more forward, feigning confidence, “Stop with your snide not-answers and witty comebacks!” 

Grian doesn't move, the shelf behind him is already pushing against his back, he just tilts his head back further, knife being an inch from his nose. 

“I've just come from one bad place to another, I can't afford to be taken advantage of, I don't trust you. I need to have control of what happens to me next, me and Jimmy,” Tango warns, grief in his voice as his glow flickers.

Grian's shoulders sag and weirdly he stops scowling and instead, gives Tango a sullen look.

“We have a lot more in common than you would want to believe.”

Tango almost laughs at that. “Then tell me! Stop lying and just tell me the truth,” he stabs forward, there is a clank as Grian's hands grab the edges of a shelf, desperately pushing himself out of the way of the knife. 

“And does the blade know the difference?” Grian tittered, eyeing the kitchen wear. 

“I will." 

They both lapse into a lull. Tango keeps his ground, eyeing every small movement Grian makes in his uncomfortable position. 

“What do you want me to say?” Grian defeatedly asks, his grasp slips on the shelf, adjusting his wings out of discomfort. 

Tango leans back, giving the Glare some room to breathe. He keeps his gaze on the other, squinting in thought. Before he glances down to Grian's arms that hook the metal frames. 

“…How did you get those robotics?”

When Tango looks back, almost spluttering at the haunting face the Glare is pulling. His mouth was thin and still, eyes looking right through Tango.

“No.”

“W-what?”

“Pick another question,” there was no amusement in Grian's voice.

Tango laughs nervously. “You can't just do that. I have this pointing at you,” he gestures to the weapon. 

Grian looks away, and Tango swears he sees his chin quiver. “…Please,” he says in an uncharacteristically small voice. 

“O-okay,” Tango falters, he looks around the room as if searching for another question, “Why did they put you in here?” 

Grian scoffs.

“Like I know,” humour pools back into his voice.

“You do,” Tango wasn't falling for that for a second. He knew after Grian refused to tell the group, the other day, that the Glare had his own idea, that he just wasn't sharing. 

“Ugh… alright,” Grian grumbles, he shifts his weight, basically sitting on the shelf behind him, “They were looking for me, you could say I was a wanted individual of theirs.” 

“You must be a pretty important person then?” 

“I wish I wasn't,” Grian says gravely.

Tango lets his arm drop, tired from holding it up, the blood flowing back into his veins. He notably doesn't let go of the blade, “Why did you run this morning?” 

“I don't like being trapped.”

“No one does,” Tango refutes. 

They both fall into a pause, neither daring to move, just soaking in the still air. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Grian breaks the silence, he almost mutters the words, as if unsure he even wants to ask.

“...Okay?” Tango replies, mildly confused.

Grain doesn't ask immediately. He was looking off to an unimportant corner of the room, chewing on his lip. In fact, he doesn't ask for so long, Tango almost impatiently snaps at him. The Blaze’s words halt as Grian's eyes finally land back on him. 

“Why didn't you run from them sooner?” 

Out of all the questions he could have asked, he didn't expect that to be one of them. “I…” Tango stammers.

“You said you worked for them for almost a year. Why did it take you so long to walk away?” Grian repeats with the same level flat look. His expression doesn't waver in the slightest.

“I didn't know they were Enders!” Tango utters defensively. 

“I'm not accusing you of anything, I just want to know,” Grain shakes his head.

Tango takes his own step back, only so he can lean his back against something for support. The question was so out of pocket, but it wasn't something he’d never thought about before. He collects himself, staring at the tin cans that have rolled out of the bag on the floor. He isn't even sure he has a concrete answer. 

Tango looks up, expecting, or maybe hoping, Grian looks bored by Tango's stalling. Instead, the Glare’s eyes are fixed on him, creepy in the very low lighting. 

“I… they were using me,” Tango swallows. 

He fidgets with the knife in his hand subconsciously, “Feeding my unhealthy habits. I got so engrossed I didn't even realise it.”

“You were having fun,” Grian says in a strangely understanding tone. 

Tango winches at his words, he doesn't like how they match the thoughts in his head. “It wasn't fun. I was making things to kill people!” he blurts out, he couldn't have been enjoying himself.

Grian doesn't respond. He, in fact, doesn't move; just stares at Tango with those deep judgey eyes. Mirrors of Tango's own fuzzy light ones.

Tango coughs out a forced laugh. “Is that how we're similar? You've killed people?” in a lapse he tries to turn it around on Grian. It feels bitter, pushing his own guilt onto him, maybe Grian just shouldn't have those eyes.

“You said you left before your creation could hurt anyone. You said you took the blueprints when you ran,” he doesn't fall for it. Once again Tango is faced with himself.

He looks down to the knife in his hand, it's clumsy and not meant for defence, yet it still could hurt, that's why Tango picked it up.

“That's not how guilt works, it was still close to being done. I may have not pulled the trigger, but I made the gun. I still feel that responsibility.”

Tango wasn't stupid, he knew it would be easy for them to find another overeager redstoner to finish his work. Taking the blueprints barely hindered anything, most of them had been physically made. 

He knew that he mostly ran with them for his own sanity, something to tell himself he did after all he could to stop it from continuing when he snapped out of it. But he was too smart to fully indulge himself into the delusion.

If only he ran sooner, he thinks about all the chances he had. If he wasn't so enveloped by his work, if he wasn't so excited by his game. 

“Did you know, Blazes don't need to sleep. We run on energy that can last us for days, all we need is fuel to burn... It's not healthy, to keep going till you're spent, a Blaze could die doing that!” 

“I never stopped working, and when I ran out and collapsed, I’d wake up, filled with healing potions and keep going.”

He looks at Grian, breaking to take a shaky breath.

“And the worst thing is, I didn't even notice what was happening. You always think, when you hear of stories, that you yourself couldn't possibly let it get that bad, that you'd have the self preservation, the foresight to be better.” 

“But I didn't notice… I was alone in that ice cave. None of my friends knew where I was or what I was doing, they couldn't have told me to stop...” 

He looks away, then back at the knife in his hands. He knows he'd never have used it, not on a person, even a person like Grian. Tango's never been the one to get his hands dirty, it's always more entertaining to make the mechanics to do it for him, he guesses that’s ironic now. He places it on the shelf behind him.

“I'm not a bad person,” Tango says in a pathetic small voice, to no one in particular, maybe himself. 

“I know,” the Glare at least has the decency to sound sympathetic. 

They both lean back heavily on their respective shelves either side of the narrow room. Tango's emotional guts laid out like the cans on the floor. Neither of them reach to pick them up.

“How did they capture you?” Grian speaks out into the empty air. 

“I don't remember,” Tango answers honestly, all that's left of those memories is panic and disorientating fuzz. “Do you?” he hands out the comment like it’s regular small talk. 

There's a pause.

“...” Grian's tail flicks, probably an indication of consideration, the only indication. In fact, Tango feels like he hasn't blinked since he asked the question. 

Tango doesn’t really expect an answer. He still waits patiently, even if he's 90% sure it's going to be vague.

“I was led by someone I thought I trusted into a trap,” Grian's gaze is fixed on the preserved food, a subtle scowl bunching up at his nose.

“A truth?” Tango asks.

Grian watches him and nods, “Yes.” 

Tango lets his shoulders drop, his elbow knocks against the knife on the shelf, looking at the pathetic thing, “…You weren't really scared of me hurting you, were you?” 

“Not really.”

Tango sighs, “Well, I thank you for at least making me feel like you were.”

Grian gives an unsure look, “You're welcome?” He groans, rolling his head back rubbing and his face in exhaustion, “This is literally why I wanted to avoid teaming with others.”

“People… politics, blaahhh,” he sticks his tongue out.

“Maybe you shouldn't have been walking around the desert with Mr. Charisma,” Tango suggests with a weak chuckle. 

Grian hums in agreement, his hand reaches for his shoulder, rubbing at the fabric of his clothing, “Hmm, maybe, but he has his charms.” 

Tango would be amiss if he didn't notice the faint fondness in his features. He felt an uncontrollable desire to challenge that.

“You know, he really cares for you. For some unexplainable reason, he lost his mind when you left, really believing you wouldn't just abandon him.”

Grian frowns, “I came back.”

“Psshhh…  like that ever was what you intended to do. I saw that grim look on your face when you left,” Tango scoffs. He pins the Glare in place, relishing in how he squirms, shame radiating off of him.

But that feeling flees, he's tired of being mad, the Glare had given him his ear with no judgement, it doesn't feel right. He still doesn't like the guy, but maybe something like pity makes him let the Glare go from his stare. 

“Maybe you wouldn't feel so much guilt if you didn't make stupid decisions.” 

“What are you, my therapist?“ Grian replies.

“No, but like you said, we're similar.” 

“Painfully so.”

That was it. Too alike, hating that reflection. Sat opposite inside the carcass of a ship, with two others waiting eagerly for their return.

“I still don't trust you,” Tango says, in case the other was getting any ideas.

Grian understands, “That's fine.”

There was nothing else to say.

Grian moves first, pushing himself off the shelf. “We should go,” he picks up the cans, pushing them back into his bag.

Tango just watches. He plans to head towards the door before Grian interrupts him. 

“Honestly, you should keep that… you never know,” he nods to the knife behind Tango. 

Tango brushes his fingers against its surface. “In case you need a hair cut?” he jokes. 

Grian stands up, with the bag over his shoulders, back to where they were a few minutes ago. “Something like that,” he replies with a weak smile. 

They leave, both through the door this time. Tango making a display to pat at the door frame, laughing at Grian's grumbling. 

–

They sat outside, backs against the wall in the shade, and waited for Grian and Tango. They both look outwards at the horizon, outwardly guarding the area, but inwardly daydreaming wistfully. 

It's peaceful for once, even if Scar keeps having to pull his mind out of dark places, instead counting how many silverfish mice he sees hiding in shadows.

“You mentioned yesterday that you were a baker?” Jimmy asks, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Scar catches up with what he said, thinking back and remembering the smell, “Oh, yeah. I used to work in a small shop near a spaceship dock.” 

“That sounds quaint and cosy!” Jimmy crosses his arms resting them against his knees. 

“It was nice…” It was also very cosy, Scar has many fond memories of the place, it was what he thought of when he thought of home, “My favourite part was watching the people. I mean, obviously I enjoyed the cooking too.”

Jimmy hums lightly, “I can imagine you would get all sorts of people passing through, right? Sounds just like my town.”

“Yeah. So many pilots, adventurers and captains of old spacecrafts. Sometimes I would just drift behind a booth pretending to clean tables so I could hear the stories.” 

He nods in recognition, urging Scar to continue.

“I used to imagine myself on my own adventures. I remember one day I promised myself that I'll see the stars, travel through them even! Just like all those pilots, be a hero,” he looks somberly out across the sands, fidgeting with his fingers. 

Jimmy beams next to him, clueless to Scar's sorrow, “And you achieved it! You said you were a Mayor! I don't even know what that means, but it's gotta mean something good, right?” Jimmy nudges him playfully with his elbow, “I bet you're itching to get back.”

“…Yeah,” Scar looks at Jimmy with a small bittersweet smile, “maybe I embellished a little about being a Mayor,” he said, half truths were easier to hide behind. 

“Hey, that's alright, same!” Jimmy laughs, “They call me Sheriff, but I'm more just the tallest guy in town that can reach all the top shelves.” 

“The best duster,” Scar jokes.

“Yup!”

Scar doesn't laugh, his smile is too much of a burden as it is. Jimmy’s enthusiasm unintentionally painfully reminding Scar of a version of himself that he didn't even realise he had lost.

He kicks his boots together, and some of the screws on the leg braces catch against each other. Something he is long past being concerned about. They were never good to begin with and it was a miracle they were still working. 

Jimmy's watching him. “Are those okay by the way?” he shoots a sad look down towards the things. 

Scar lays his feet out, examines them, cleaning dust off the brackets like it would make a difference, “Yeaaaahh. Well, no. But there's not much we can do with them in this place.” 

“You sure you don't want to take them off? Give yourself a rest,” Jimmy looks at him concerned.

“It's fine,” Scar staggers backwards into the wall to rest against, "In fact, it's safer for me to keep them on, in case we run into trouble. I can't risk being immobile until I get them on, which isn't a simple task.”

He closes his eyes and rocks his head side to side. 

“Plus… I've got a feeling that if I disable them, they might never start working again.”

“Ah,” is all Jimmy says in reply. Scar can tell he's uncertain what to say to him. A lot of people act like it with the subject. 

Jimmy shuffles awkwardly beside him. “Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?” he asks with so much sweetness in his voice. 

Scar opens one eye, smirking to him, “I'm so sure. Unless you have a secret ender chest.” 

“Oh. What's in there?”

“My GOODS!” Scar puts a hand to his chest, proud, “I have so much!!! I have my wheelchair, a super cool bow crutch I designed! A series of VERY important costume changes.”

“How cool!!”Jimmy smiles widely, gesturing to Scar's braces, “Did you also design these?” 

“Ah, no,” Scar tries not to sag so much visually, “…these are more like bad rentals that I can't seem to get rid of.” The Vindicators had given them to him so he could do his job better, or so they said. 

He looks Jimmy up and down, desperately wanting to change the subject, hating how his throat feels now at the thought of his faction. 

“What about you? You’re missing something? Maybe a very cool hat?” he points to Jimmy's messy, but stylish hair, imagining how he'd look with a cowboy hat on. 

Jimmy gasps, “How could you tell?”

“Well, a dignified man such as yourself has got to have a very cool hat to finish the picture,” Scar pulls a lopsided smile, holding his finger up in a frame shape.

Jimmy feature’s flood with recognition. He pays the top of his head like grabbing for said hat, “You're so right. It's been killing me that I lost it, I don't even know where it could be.”

Scar pushes his shoulders, “You'll just have to get an even newer, even cooler one when we're free!” He winks at Jimmy.

“Definitely!”

–

Etho and Joel lay at the top of a ravine, they've tracked down their bird to surprisingly more, new people. Four of them.

It was embarrassingly easy for them to find the bird once they were in hearing distance. The group of people weren't quiet, their shouts echoing through the valleys. 

“You'd don't think they're the people that put us here,” Joel asks, he peaks over Etho's shoulder, trying to steal a look through his scope. 

“Those guys?”

Etho watches one of them struggle to open a tin can, the others laughing, then in frustration throwing it across the sand, hitting metal scrap with a clank. They couldn't be more clueless to the fact that they were being watched, Etho fully considers standing up just to stretch his back, not really worried about being noticed.

With how they act, Etho has a pretty good guess that they're probably as clueless about what's going on as him and Joel.

“I doubt that,” he replies. 

Joel snorts. Shifting uncomfortably, he rises from the ground, sitting on his knees. No longer worried about being spotted.

“You'd think they'd be smart and look up. It's painfully too easy to spy on them,”

“I think smart is exactly not what they are.”

Joel smirks, “Sounds like someone I know.” 

Adjusting his hold on the gun, Etho ignores that comment. He instead studies the details of the group. They all look pretty disheveled, two of them even have their arms in what looks like slings. They're not defenseless though, he notes, spying a blade on one's belt. 

Joel, bored, pops his mouth, picking at his finger nails. “Should we jump down? Scare the hell outta them?” a wide grin growing across his face. 

“No…” Etho ignores Joel's grouching. “Let's see what they do. They might lead us somewhere,” he concludes.

The group is still eating, completely oblivious. Joel scoffed at them.

“Pffft, likelihood it'll be off a cliff.”

–

They all had their supper for the day, the food hung heavy in their guts, old beans and preserved fruit. They stay for a long time after, mostly waiting for the sun to no longer be at its highest point. Talk is instead replaced by eating, and then silently laying back, too full to even talk. 

They start to walk again, food digested and sun low. It would only be a couple of hours until the phantoms came out and they are hoping to find a ship wreck with enough shelter to protect them.

There is a nervous feeling swallowing them all. They have reached the landmark they were planning for, and it is as dead as where they started. No closer to anything, all they have is each other's company and small plans which are wishful thinking at best. 

Tango throws around the idea of fixing up a com to contact the outside world and Jimmy suggests the idea of making a home amongst the ruins, pointing out the frequency of dry bushes between the metal cadaver. Talking about how to collect rain or use roots, whilst Tango prods at the ground with a metal rod he has pulled out of the ground. 

They are all painfully optimistic about it all. Scar, for once, is hesitant. He has, in fact, not adopted that optimism, his mind far too preoccupied with cloudy thoughts. The Vindicators weren't going to look for him, that much was clear, almost spelled out to him by the ruins themselves. He still holds a small piece of hope that someone might start looking for him. But the universe is so big and he wouldn't even know if he left a trace when he was captured by whoever put him here. 

Maybe it is a little mellow dramatic that all he can think about is how much stuff he didn't get to do, how a lot of his dreams were hindered by his blindness to see he had stopped moving towards them a very long time ago.

He doesn’t have anything to think or say. It is all too confusing, betrayal and denial fighting vigorously behind his eyes, leaving dust and rubble to cloud his acknowledgement around him. 

He does feel a certain recognisable burning feeling though.

“Are you doing okay, buddy?” Grian has been following him like a shadow, maybe he's caught onto the fact Scar is battling his own conflicts inside his mind. Solace is not something Scar ever heard in his voice before, and by how Grian's voice is clipped, it is probably something Grian wasn't used to. 

Scar sighs and wills enough of himself to reply, “I don't know… I think I have enough reasons to feel weird.”

“…Yeah.”

Scar isn't even looking at him, just feeling the Glare buzz. Scar could practically hear him thinking next to him about what to say, that sound of his feathers ruffling like tree leaves. If Scar was in any other mood, he would have pointed it out and made the bird squirm. 

“For what it's worth, finding out that you've been working for a secretly evil corporation isn't as much of an exclusive experience in this weird group we've found ourselves in,” Grian chuckles halfheartedly. 

“I'm not… evil.”

Grian hums, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, that's part of the problem. You've got to separate yourself from your,” he catches on the wording, “…them.” He shuffles beside Scar, pushing his hands deep into his pockets, “That tends to give you a lot more clarity on the whole thing.” 

Scar notes his almost reminiscent wording. “You've also been in a similar situation?” he asks, watching the Glare carefully. He meets Scar’s look, face snapped with a completely innocent, flat expression. He doesn't even blink, that mask glued on tight.

“…Tango talked about it,” he doesn't bite and Scar isn't as disappointed as he probably should be. He looks towards Tango with Grian, who continues, “In fact, we had an uncomfortably vulnerable conversation about it.” 

Now that was surprising. Scar switches to him with a high eyebrow, “You and Tango talked?”

Grian smirks back, “I know, shocking, though it was sorta at knife point.”

“WHAT?!?” 

He swats at Scar dismissively. “Don't worry, I dealt with it, I'm a big grown up,” he stumbles uncertainly, “…bird thing.” The Glare laughs at his own description before shaking his head,

“Ehh… We're getting off track.” 

“What I'm saying is, doubt isn't a weakness.” 

Scar smiles, and moves his head to the side, “That sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Grian trails off, before something sparks in his eyes, recognition. “I learnt it from a very strange fella, actually. Kept trying to sell me sand.”

Scar’s smile grows, he feels the murkiness behind his eyes fizzle away, replaced with a warmth. “Did he have massive abs and glistening pecks?” he jokes while playing along. 

“Ah, I… I didn't notice,” Grian stammers, scratching at the feathers on his cheek.

They both start laughing, Tango and Jimmy spin around to look at them, confused. Turning back when the giggling teeters off.

Scar rubs at the cheeks on his face. They're sore from the sun and sand, but the pain from his smiling doesn't bother him.

There's a quiet pause. 

Grian fiddles with his hands, eyes everted, “I just wish it wasn't like this…” he considers Scar with a sympathetic look, “That you had more people to talk to about it. There isn't much company when you're actively hiding this part of yourself.”

“I have you.” 

Grian cringes. “...I suppose,” blinking sand out of his eyes.

“Though, I mostly just say hypocritical things and cause stinks,” he pushes his shoulders up and leans back to look at Scar with a grin.

“Don't forget, can't take any kind of compliment.”

“Yup, you know me too well." 

They lightly laugh, with not as much energy as earlier.

Scar looks towards Jimmy and Tango, who walk up ahead, in their own conversation. He thinks about his conversation with Jimmy and how they chatter between each other, talking about optimistic ideas of escaping the planet. How they have their own huge lives that they left and can go back to, “Is it really that bad to tell them?”

“Yes, it's very dangerous,” Grian leaves no room to argue, stiff shoulders and flat look. 

It makes Scar’s cheeks warm, in discomfort. He feels frustrated, maybe that's what it is. Staring ahead at the never ending horizon. He doesn't believe Grian, but he's had a lot of big revelations today and he isn't going to act on it. 

If anything, he's scared. Everything he has seen today would make him snappy and antagonize himself in the eyes of the others. Grian was probably right. Scar just felt embarrassed at suggesting that it could be any different. 

Weird, though, when he spares a glance to Grian he looks the same, squeamish and flustered. He pulls out an empty food can they have been carrying (the idea being if it ever rained they'd have something to catch it in), he turns it around in his hand, the enchantments on it have been broken once they opened it, the symbols cut it in half along the seal. His sharp talons pick at the label. 

Grian throws up the can into the air and catches it, his metal hands ringing against the tin. “Hey…” he twists his head to Scar, with a small smirk. 

“I dare you to throw this as high as you can into the sky,” he beacons Scar to hold his hand out and reaches over, placing the thing into Scar’s palm.

Scar looks at the item, “What? Why?”

Grian's smile spreads across his face. “I dare you,” he says, with a glint in his eyes, like he knows Scar can't refuse a dare. 

“I'll catch it.” 

“What?” Scar laughs, unsure what he's even implying. 

He's cut off when Grian strides backwards and he pulls his wings out. Scar, for a brief second, gets mesmerized over the large limbs. They are always tucked away neatly behind Grian's back, he doesn't get many chances to examine the colour and span of them. 

The Glare pushes himself off the ground, the large wings catching air rapidly as he pulls himself into the sky. Scar shields his face from the sand and dust. 

He watches Grian make a circle in the air, gaining height. 

Tango and Jimmy walk up to where Scar is standing, “...What is he doing?”

Scar shrugs, watches the bird take sweeps in the sky, waving his arms as he flies. Scar looks back down to the tin in his hand, the realization dawning on him, “Oh.” 

He pulls his arm back in preparation as he lobs the can straight up into the space above him. Maybe this is a bad idea, and the projectile heads straight back down from him with the same intensity. 

However, before it collides with him, sharp claws wrap around the metal cylinder in a flash, Grian’s yells of joy fading fast as he flies past.

“WOAH!” Jimmy hops in places. He almost loses balance from the movement combined with his head being craned backs, “Let me try! Let me try!”

Tango rolls his eyes, handing Jimmy a can from his own stash. 

And with considerably less finesse than Scar, he overhand throws it at an angle. The Glare darts in the air, catching it before it hits the ground dangerously close, huge clumps of dust billowing. 

“Oh, it's too easy for him,” Tango scoffs, he pulls out a next tin, playing with it in his grip, “let me even the field!”

The Glare hovers above them ready, Tango aims for the side, waiting for the bird to dip in preparation, only to fling the can right for the bird as he passes. It hits Grian at the side of his arm, the Glare spinning in the air, trying to grab at the tin before it leaves his reach and thumbs to the ground. 

“Look out, bird!” Tango shouts with a satisfied grin. 

“Hey, you can't just throw it at me,” Grian hangs in place, holding his hand to his mouth as he yells across the distance. 

Tango replies, his voice barely a yell, “I'm giving you a challenge.”

“Ngg, my hair!” Jimmy cries as the Glare swoops past, ruffling his head in flight, fleeing before Jimmy's wide swatting arms could hit him. 

Tango yells after Grian in Jimmy's defence. 

Scar has a thought, watching the Glare tease the other two, and retrieving back into the sky before they could reach him. 

He swings his hands up in the air as he watches the bird turn in the sky. Hopping in place and hoping he can convey the idea he has to Grian. The Glare in the sky hovers before spotting Scar and staring at him. 

Scar hardly gets a chance to see Grian’s face before metal arms lock onto him and pull him into the sky. 

The feeling of sudden weightlessness is filling his stomach with fuzzy giddiness. He watches the sand move fast under his feet.

He looks up to Grian, the bird is smiling and giggling to himself, that sound barely being heard against the air flowing through Scar's hair and Grian's feathers. Scar is also laughing, he feels adrenaline fizzle inside him, Grian's grip is uneasy as he keeps adjusting it. If anything, it adds to Scar’s fearful excitement fueling his laughter, metal claws hooking under his shoulders. They may be in the air, but weirdly, all Scar can think of is how this is the closest he's been to the Glare, his ear close enough to the Glare’s collar bone to faintly make out his fast heartbeat, or maybe that was Scar's.

Grian catches onto his gaze and for a brief moment he looks confused at Scar’s stares. “This is what you were gesturing for, right?” he says loudly over the wind, his voice slightly concerned.

Scar looks back to the ground. It's further away, Grian turning in the air to loop back,

“THIS IS AMAZING! YOU'RE AMAZING! AHAHA!” 

He doesn't see Grian's face in response, more hears a squeak. Scar smiles to himself.

The ground is getting worryingly close, Scar feels a subtle fatigue in his arms under the strain. “You can land with another person safely, right?“ he asks in the air.

“Only one way to find out.”

Grian slows himself in the air, it's hard for Scar to see the land they're heading towards, as he's facing the other way but he feels dust hitting his feet, the loss in speed pulling them closer to the ground. 

Scar braces himself to feel his feet hit the ground, but instead he feels Grian grab on his waist and shoulder. They turn in the air, the other protecting Scar from the fall, enveloping them in wings and rolling in the sand.

All things considered, their landing wasn't that bad. Both laugh as they tumble. 

Scar opens his eyes, all he can see is feathers. He feels giggles rock his head and hears air through lungs. Looking up, he realizes he's placed on Grian's chest, the latter's cloaking them both from the sun. Grian still has his hold on Scar, but he doesn't seem to notice, too preoccupied by his chuckling, his cheeks are red and he has sand in his hair. 

All Scar can do is take in the sight of him, he places his hand next to Grian's head, not wanting to pull at any of the feathers, and lifts himself up. His legs are still wobbly, even if he wanted to stand, Grian's wings and hands still hold Scar in place, maybe out of reflex from the fall. 

Scar laughs, the adrenaline leaving him slightly loopy, “We didn't die!” 

Grian kept giggling, until his eyes eventually opened, smiley creases slowly opening wide. 

In this low light Scar can see the browns and purples in his eyes fully, no sun or other illumination to drown out his eyes in the reflection. Just an ambient glow between his feathers painting them in a warm hue. 

The Glare goes silent, his grip drops, Scar leaning more forward on his arms above his head as result. He looks timidly down at Grian as the other stays frozen. His eyes are no longer marked by a smile, lost in thought.

“Urrh, G?” Scar anxiously tilts his head at him. 

Grian's wings open, he shuffles out from under Scar with an awkward laugh. They both sit opposite each other on their knees. Grian shakes the sand from between his feathers. 

“We lived!” Grian grabs Scar's shoulders and shakes them, smiling with so much enthusiasm that Scar can't help, but mirror him with a bright smile. 

“I've been wanting to ask you, for soooooo long! I just thought it might be a little rude,” Scar admits. 

“Pffft, trust me, I could sort of tell and you wouldn't be the first!” Grian gleefully laughs, knocking his head back with the motion.

“I've never really tried to pull someone into the air like that,” he looks back at Scar, thrilled, and shaking with energy, “…Gosh, that could have gone so wrong. You might be a horrible influence on me, Scar.” 

Scar winks, “It's a pleasure!”

“That was sick!!” They both turn to see Jimmy and Tango catch up with them, Jimmy hops in place, “I wish I could do that!! What!” 

Grian gives the man a weird look, but dispels it almost like he was choosing not to say something. He instead leans back, laying his wings out in the sand and stretching his legs. 

“Sorry guys, the taxi is closed!” 

Scar chuckles, shifting his feet to stand. The ground is weirdly smooth, he looks down to see an inconsistent surface under the sand that his boot had just revealed. 

He looks at the ground around them, it all bears the same, even curved. He taps the surface and feels a weird echoing noise from under him, moving makes whatever panel they’re resting on bend. It feels like they're leaning on an unstable surface. 

“Hm,” Scar starts, but gets interrupted by a gasp. 

“T-there's people,” Grian stutters, looking past Jimmy and Tango. The two turn around to see that, in fact, far down one of the forking paths, are other people. Two of them. 

They're too far away to see their features in any detail, but they hold items that concerningly bear the shapes of guns. And not only that, but the two figures have definitely spotted them, approaching with intent. 

“No, no, no,” Grian crawls backwards, his claws dig into the ground, leaving marks in the metal. 

That reminds Scar, he holds out his hands, “STOP! Don't come here!” he yells to Tango and Jimmy.

But it's too late, they’re both looking the other way and already taking a step towards Scar and Grian. 

The ground below them warps with the added weight, and they all look down, as the floor gives out. Next thing, all four of them are airborne, falling with the sand. 

–

Joel’s steady strides waver as he watches the group of people they're pursuing inexplicably disappear. “Where'd they go?!?” frustration fills his voice between breaths. 

“I think they fell,” Etho jogs ahead of Joel, holding the strap of his gun, stopping it from swinging as he runs. 

“Where!?”

Etho glances back at him with a shrug, “Down?”

“God’s sake, come on” Joel grumbles. He picks up his pace running ahead of Etho, “Well, at least they're cornered, I'm tired of running.” 

Etho keeps his eyes on where their bird and friends had fallen. From afar it was obvious to see the shape of a huge ship's remains, covered in sand and fallen stone. He briefly imagines what the ship might have looked like, large and intimidating. Etho has to admit it's a little satisfying to see such a thing in ruin. He’s so preoccupied by the site he fails to notice Joel coming to a fast halt, swigging his arms out for balance. 

“Wait, wait, it's a trap! ETHO!” He yells but it's too late, Etho’s long legs slip as he tries to stop, colliding into Joel. They both fall into the sand snagging the tripwire. 

In a very fast movement, the two of them are pulled upwards in a net that was buried in the sand. Joel thrashes, panicked and tangled up in the rope and Etho's limbs. 

They both hear a very distinct clatter, Etho looks to Joel who winces.

“Please don't tell me that was your gun.” 

Joel yells out, kicking. Etho tries, and fails, to shield himself from the onslaught. 

The Glare pauses to take heavy breaths, grumbling the whole time. 

“Hey, I still have mine. It's only a little bad,” Etho tries to ease, struggling to pull the thing from behind his neck in their limited space. 

He rolls over as much as he can, resting the barrel of the gun through the rope, looking around as they spin slowly. He gets no response, the other clearly not listening to him.

“AGH! AAHHHHH!” Joel goes back to struggling, trying to tear their binds. They swing more with the force.

“Stop squirming, I can't get a clear shot on someone if you keep wiggling,” Etho sighs.

The Glare moves more in retaliation, “I WANT OUT! GIVE ME THAT GUN!”

“You should have worn your strap properly, then you might not have dropped it,” Etho says slyly, holding his forearm up to protect himself from Joel's heavy boots.

“THAT’S REAL HELPFUL NOW!”

“Well, I did say it before,” he adds.

Joel, in fact, doesn't appreciate the advice, “NOT THE TIME, AGH!”

“Stop moving.” 

“WHAT ARE YOU EVEN AIMING AT?” He stops his flinging only to shoot glares at Etho.

Etho gives him an obvious look, “Preferably whoever laid the trap.”

Joel's mouth hangs open for a brief moment, before a boiling anger overcomes him, “SHOOT THE DAMN ROPE, YOU IDIOT!”

“Oh.”

Etho, slightly embarrassed, turns back over, he aims to where all the rope culminates where they hang, the barrel and inch from them. 

He flicks the trigger, instantly, the net splitting open. Both of them tumbling onto the ground, unfalteringly both face first.

Joel gets up first, shaking his head, and crawling across the floor to his dropped gun, “NGH!” 

His fingers touch the strap, but a heavy boot lands on the gun. Suspiciously out of nowhere as small sparks of blue and orange rain down, fizzling out on the sand.

Etho and Joel both look up. The figure standing over them is draped in an array of bright colours. Bright teal hair with luminescent orange streaked curls hangs over mismatched eyes that stare down at them. A tufted Blaze tail sways behind them, sporting the same teal and orange, and a selection of chunky golden bangles. One of their arms is a clawed, robotic prosthetic, painted a deep blue with stars dotted across the surface, the edges of its segments scratched and worn, revealing the golden metal underneath. Their appearance feels so whimsical that it’s shocking how intimidating they look.

They pick the gun off the floor before the shock wears off Joel. He shuffles back, bumping into another person neither him nor Etho had noticed, their focus elsewhere.

This figure is far more fitting of the scary presence they command. Their outfit consists half of armour with spiked shoulder pads, and half a dark, sleek space suit and a long blue cloak tied on their waist. Bright fiery red hair is decorated with small golden snake brooches buried amongst the waves. No, not brooches, they’re moving. They’re alive. Bright blue cracks decorate their stoney skin. Weirdly, Etho feels like he's seen their face before. 

Before Joel can act, they kick him to the ground, grabbing his arm and pulling it back in a hold. Joel yells, Etho feeling that uncomfortable feeling in his own arms. 

He raises his gun at them, but there's a click to his side. A gun, now pointing at him, caught in a broken triangle.

“WHO THE HELL!” Joel's feet kick uselessly at the dirt beneath him. 

Etho feels pressure on his back, anxiously looking at Joel on the ground, he glares at the one restraining him. 

They glare back, before their face warps into recognition, Etho now remembering why they look so familiar. 

“Etho…”

“Cleo.”

They adjust their footing, turning her head to the side. “Shouldn't you be running around Sanctuary or something?” she laughs.

“You're from Sanctuary?”Joel yells loudly in surprise, despite his position, pinned with his face in the dirt.

Cleo leans down, whispering loudly near Joel's ear. “Oh, he's more than from Sanctuary, mate.”

Joel splutters, “What does that mean?”

She laughs, twisting his arm more.

The pain pulses through Etho’s own arm in tandem, but he doesn't cry out like Joel. Instead, it motivates him to hold his gun back up, pointing it at Cleo who just smirks at him.

“Let him go!” he threatens. 

The other person, still directing their gun at Etho, walks to Cleo's side, leaning towards them as they say, “Oh! I think they might also be paired.”

“Would make sense…” Cleo eyes them both.

Etho shakes his head quickly saying, “No, we're not…” he stutters, realising his mistake. “I mean… I don't know what you mean?” he tries instead.

Joel sighs, hitting his head softly against the ground and saying under his voice, “For god’s sake.”

“Pffft, you were never a good liar,” Cleo laughs.

Etho moves his shoulders, feeling Joel's strain in them. “What do you want with us?” he jerks his gun towards them in an attempt to look threatening. 

“We want to win the game, nothing personal,” the other shrugs. 

Joel cranes his head from the floor, “What game?”

Cleo and their company look at each other, then back to them. 

“You don't know? You didn't get the memo?” 

Cleo pushes her shoulder up, and adds “Better for us, I suppose, we got the upper hand.” 

“I still have a gun,” Etho doesn't lower his hold. 

The one with the gun changes their aim, instead pressing it to the side of Joel's head, the latter squirming in frustration, “Yeah, but what are you going to do… Can you shoot faster than I can?”

“And I have a pretty good idea that we can get two birds with one stone,” Cleo finishes. 

They all hold each other's gaze in a stalemate, none of them daring to move; aside from Joel, who continues to try to break free, to no avail. 

“What about another idea?” Etho reasons. 

Cleo looks unconvinced already, “What?” 

“We could leave this place, run?”

There's a pause, Cleo's companion snorting, “With what?”

With uncannily perfect timing, above them there's an ear-splitting noise. They all look up to watch something break through the atmosphere, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake as it loudly descends from the sky. 

“…How about that?”

–

KEEP READING ON AO3

[aakeysmash]

college!sukuna’s first tattoo

college!sukuna’s masterlist

college!sukuna’s first ever tattoo was actually the first ever resemblance of a flower yuuji drew when he was 3.

yuuji was a babbling snotty kid, but he shut up when his exuberant energy was quieted with manual activities. back in the day sukuna had just turned sixteen, and he couldn’t afford to put him in daycare. well, most days he couldn’t even afford a decent place to stay at, so he had to be creative. the kid had a thing for dragging the coloured pencils the library supplied on whatever piece of paper his big brother managed to put right in front of his face while doing his high school homework. sukuna had to keep an eye out for an eventual choking-on-pencils problem, but he could do it. everything was better than his former home. he’d do it for yuuji. he’d always do it for yuuji.

one day, the kid just handed him the drawing with his chubby fingers, simply saying, “‘kuna, f’ you.”

the drawing was a little ugly, done with a bright yellow on a stark white sheet, so it was barely visible. sukuna sighed, rubbing his temple.

“what’s this, brat?” he asked, squinting, trying to make out the lines. his little brother peered up at him, big brown eyes wide open, coloured pencil still held tightly between his clammy palms.

“flowy. f’ you.”

sukuna tattooed it himself on his pec that night, right as he got into the rented shabby room, making all the lines squiggly because he'd never held a tattoo gun before in his life. he managed to buy one the week prior, because he came to know a lot of people were good with a half assed tattoo if they had to pay less, and he thought he could make easy money with it.

he sat himself near the broken mirror nailed on the entry door, the soft buzzing of the machine not stirring yuuji from his deep slumber between the makeshift bed’s sheets, put together with the only two covers sukuna managed to find in the room.

there were times when he pressed a little too much and winced, but he never made a sound. he tried to not make noises by holding his breath, just like he did when he realized yuuji drew the little ugly flower with him in mind. not mom, not dad, not a friend, not a little animal passing by which he scurried after. him. and it was the first time he ever drew something besides random scribbles. and he did it for sukuna.

as soon as he had the money, made by the same tattoo gun he used on himself, sukuna immediately went to a professional to cover the tattoo. it wasn’t because he was ashamed of it, quite the opposite, actually: he just wanted to keep it private. yuuji still doesn’t know about the whole thing.

even if you can’t see the flower now, he can still feel the bumps left from tattooing it to this day. he mindlessly traces over it when washing himself up after a particularly hard day at training. he touches it from on top of his football gear when he scores on the field, watching his little brother cheer from the bleachers. his gaze lingers on the spot every time he passes by a mirror.

oh, and the original drawing? still tucked in his wallet.

[mokku-latte]

A Slice of Cake

Jinx x fem! Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

There was a sudden tranquility coursing through you when you visited Jinx, her rampage has left an impression on you that can no longer be ignored. Unfortunately, life in Piltover wasn't exactly what you pictured, and you decided it was time for a change of scenery. But why did it leave a gnawing in Jinx's stomach when you came back to her with a 'clearer' head than ever.

You'd fix it. Maybe with a slice or two. After all, you promised.

Trigger warning: Suicidal Thoughts, Implied Suicide, Hurt/No Comfort

Author’s Note: First time posting on here, or posting a fic really. Sorry in advance for any errors!

You can also read it on AO3!!

___

"Stupid. Dumb. Machine-!" She pushed the makeshift bomb away as it clicked from her error. It rolled off the ledge falling past the depths of the abandoned fissure before exploding in purples and blues. Jinx slumped back in her chair, grunting and clutching her braids. She breathed heavily through the strands of hair. Nothing was working, nothing was cooperating. Her voice came out mocking, child-like even.

"What? No witty, come back Mylo? Claggor?" Jinx grumbled, rolling her eyes. They've been quiet. Too quiet after his death. It made her uneasy. She got up, grabbing pow-pow off to the side.

"Then again you two usually shut up, in courtesy of my guests, ain't that right, toots?" Jinx's voice was like venom when she heard footsteps echo throughout her hideout. The barrel of her minigun slowly came to life rotating as you stepped through the foyer.

You.

Age as always, was a bitch. It changes you, making strangers out of those faces you long forgotten. You were you, no mistaking that. The way you carried, yourself, your mannerisms, your walk. You stop just a few feet of her, mouth opening to talk. The memories battered and slammed against Jinx's head, her eyes twitching in hurt and anger. It all proves too much for her when she presses down on the trigger, not even giving you a chance as the smoke of her bullets caught her vision masking you in its entirety.

Jinx keeled over, chest heaving. She wouldn't cry, she wouldn't give you the satisfaction, not when you left her, not when you stayed away, and surely when she got to see your face after so long. Her eyes looked up once the smoke cleared. A snarl coming from her lips.

"You don't just get to walk in here, y'know? Already heard of your little escapade at firelight's base. M' sure catching up with boy savior was just peachy," You stood there, eyes looking down at the bullet holes that stopped just at your feet and trailing up the wall beside you. Her sudden outburst had you turning back to her.

"News flash toots! You were the one who promised 'I'll never stray from you Powder!' and- and- 'Let's build a better life in Zaun' HAH-" Jinx prattled with a mocking tone, walking around in a circle.

"Ya' sure did get that better life, huh? What's it like up there in the fresh air and prissy prim buildings, Piltie?" She sneered at you, gun teasing your abdomen. Betcha' wondered if she'd miss this time?

You expected this. How could you not? Vi told you, Ekko told you, yet none of it seemed to matter. Powder- No Jinx. A wanted criminal. A danger to those around her, to those who like to get in close, people like you. Her damage was irreparable, the fruits of her labor were clear. The bombing of all those enforcers, the council chair incident, the sudden death of a Chembaron NO one seemed to know the cause of death of? It screamed her name. To say it lightly, things were not okay. It was impressive, really.

"...You looked like you've seen better days," Was all you said, eyes taking in her face, her blue bell braids, her attire, her... pink eyes. You could see the dark color of her veins, poke prominently on the skin of her face. An effect of shimmer, no doubt. Nonetheless, you would fix it.

Jinx faltered when You held up a box in front of her.

"S' not much. I don't expect you to forgive me, but Vi said I should bring something," You opened it to reveal a small little cake. You two once stole some during your little Piltover raids as kids, sweet vanilla. Plain and simple. Yet she wouldn't have it any other way.

The cake. That simple, small cake sitting in the box. It's so familiar, so…you. It's the cake you used to steal from that little bakery in Piltover, the one with the old man who always chased them out, yelling about thieving Zaunites. You'd both run and laugh and stuff your faces with those sweet, simple cakes until the both of you were sick. It was a different life, a different world. Before everything went wrong. Before she went wrong.

But the cake...it's a line in the sand. A gesture of peace in a world that's nothing but war you weren't sure you'd come back from. She knows she should be suspicious. She knows she should be angry. But all she can feel is a strange, aching emptiness. A void that used to be filled with laughter and stolen moments and the comforting presence of a friend who understood her in a way no one else ever did.

She takes a shaky breath, and her grip on pow-pow loosens just a little. She doesn't lower the weapon, but she doesn't point it at you anymore, either. She's not sure what to do with her hands, so she lets them weapon dangle awkwardly at her sides.

"You...you brought me cake," she says slowly, her voice small and hoarse. It's not a question, but it's not quite a statement either. She's trying to process, to make sense of something kind in a world that's only ever been cruel. Jinx let out quick breathes. Mistrust and wavering vulnerability clear behind them as she looked at you. You didn't look afraid as much as people should be in this situation, but no... It's not like you were afraid, just tired.

"You knew," she whispers, her voice trembling. "You knew what you were getting into. You knew...what I've become."

She takes a step forward, her movements jerky and unpredictable. She's like a cornered animal, ready to strike or flee at any moment. Her free hand curls into a tight fist at her side, her nails digging into her palm hard enough to draw blood.

"So why? Why come back? Why now?" Her voice rises, edged with a frantic desperation. "Is this some kind of joke? Some twisted game? Are you here to gloat? To see how far I've fallen?"

You blinked at her slowly, before sighing. Jinx stammered when you pushed pass her, sitting the box atop the workbench. Jinx's eyes widen as You turn your back on her, as if she's not holding a weapon that could blow you both to smithereens. As if she's not a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment.

"I'm...simply here to right a wrong," You murmured, taking one of the tools Jinx had, blowing on it, and rubbing at it with your sleeve. It'll have to do. She watches, dumbfounded while you casually took one of her tools and started cutting into the cake.

"Right a wrong," she repeats, her voice hollow. "Is that what you call it?"

Her laugh is brittle, devoid of any real humor. "And what exactly is the wrong you're trying to right, huh? Leaving me? Abandoning me like everyone else?"

She takes a step closer, her movements slow and deliberate. "Or maybe...maybe you're here to fix me." Her voice drips with sarcasm, but there's a hint of something else beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or fear.

"Is that it? Cut a cake, POOF- and everything will be like it used to be? Like I'm still her?"

"Fix you?" Your head raised making her freeze up. You weren't looking at her, your voice pondering as you tilted your head. Jinx could almost smell the familiar scent of lavender, that natural scent you always had on her. You once fell into a tub of suds, when you all cut through this one Pilties house to escape enforcers. The smell stuck with you ever since, weirdly enough. You liked it, one of the few things you could control about yourself.

"I think that time has long passed, damage is damage really..." The tool went back to cutting.

"Me being here is just a means to an end, a talk that was loooonnng overdue," you said, sticking out your tongue while you concentrated, lifting a piece of cake and resting it on a space of its unfurled cardboard.

"That's all this is to you? Just a little chat?"

She gestures wildly with pow-pow, the weapon wavering in the air between them. "Well, let me tell you something. We've got nothing to talk about. Nothing!" Jinx marched around. She wanted to make her intentions clear.

"Coming here, acting like nothing happened, like I didn't sit here for years waiting for you, hoping you'd come back. Hoping you'd be different. Hoping you wouldn't leave me like everyone else."

She's yelling now, her words slurring together as they tumble out in a torrent of emotion. "But you did. You left me. And now you're here, cutting a fucking cake like it's all going to be okay. Like I'm not a monster. Like I'm not..."

She trails off, her voice suddenly small and broken. "Like I'm not alone."

She falls silent, her chest heaving with the effort of her outburst. She's shaking, her hands trembling around the grip of pow-pow. And for a moment, just a moment, she looks like the little girl she used to be. Lost, scared, and desperately clinging to the hope that someone, anyone, might stay.

You sucked on your thumb, licking the frosting off. Turning, you sat atop the work bench, waving the tool lazily.

"Jinx," You tested the tongue on her name and she only scoffed. No longer Powder. Powder apparently fell down a well.

"Would Silco have taken me in, too? When I was bleeding out on the floor, watching with hazy eyes as you ran into his arms after Vi left the scene of the explosion," Jinx shuddered at your question, eye jumping slightly at the thought.

"I mean...I knew he tried to kill us all as kids at first because we were witnesses and all that with Vander being our guardian, but he took you. Grew close to you, from what I was told," You said softly, hands moving the tool like an airplane.

"I don't resent you anymore for putting your trust in him. I used to be angry about it. For siding with the man who killed Vander, but I'm tired of being so...reactive," Your head hung lazily.

"Silco..." Jinx starts, her voice rough and unsteady. "He...he saved me. When Vi left, when everyone left...he was the only one who didn't abandon me."

She looks away, her gaze distant and haunted. "He took me in, gave me a place to belong. A purpose. He...he became my family."

But even as she says the words, there's a brittleness to them. A fragile, desperate edge that betrays the insecurity beneath the bravado.

"And yeah, maybe he...maybe he did some bad things. Maybe he hurt people. But he never hurt me. He never left me."

"And I ask again..." You finally looked her.

"Would he have taken me too?" Would you have ever had a chance? Being here with Jinx instead of becoming a rescue in Piltover. Had he noticed the other girl bleeding out from the rubble, would he have been as merciful? Silco was unpredictable, who knows?

Jinx's shoulders tense at your question, her fingers tightening around pow-pow until her knuckles turn white. She doesn't want to answer. She doesn't want to think about it. But the words force their way out, trembling and raw.

"I...I don't know," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. "I don't know if he would have...if he would have taken you too."

She swallows hard, her throat constricting painfully. "He...he might have. He might have taken you in, given you a new life. A chance to be a part of something bigger, something more than...than what Piltover offered."

A Lie.

That's what that was. There was an opportunity to shape and to mold. And that man took it when he had her. His ambition got him killed, his love for her, the parallels between him and Vi were too great. His indulgence in the transition between Powder and Jinx was an oddity, something that left behind confusion, and more pain than good. And you saw it all, the anguish it caused, the addicts on the streets of Zaun, the people it affected.

"But it's too late now, isn't it? It's too late to go back. Too late to change what's already been done."

Jinx turns away, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "So what's the point of talking about it? What's the point of anything?"

She laughs then, a harsh, bitter sound that echoes in the stillness of the workshop. "Maybe I'm just a monster after all. Maybe I deserve to be alone. Maybe..." You looked at her, sucking in your bottom lip.

"Come have a slice of cake," You said gently, gesturing her over with the flick of the tool.

Jinx stares at you, her expression unreadable. The pain and anger and confusion swirling inside her like a hurricane, threatening to tear her apart. But beneath it all, there's a small, fragile spark of hope. A desperate, yearning desire to believe that maybe, just maybe, you really were here. That this was real. That maybe this isn't some cruel trick or twisted game her mind conjured.

She takes a hesitant step forward, her movements slow and uncertain. "I...I don't know if I should," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "I don't know if I can trust this. If I can trust you."

But even as she says the words, she finds herself taking another step, and then another. Until she's standing in front of you, so close she can see the flecks of gold in her friend's skins. The history of Piltover, and its effects of it on you, how much you changed. So close she can smell the familiar scent of lavender once more, a reminder of happier times.

"Why?" she asks, her voice raw and broken. "Why are you really here?"

"...I was friends with Powder. It's a check-up of sorts and it's a first finally seeing 'Jinx', you know?" You only tilted her head at her. Jinx watched as You cut her a slice, dropping the piece next to your half-eaten slice.

"I guess, I'm still figuring out first impressions," You added.

She looks up at you, her eyes searching her friend's face for any sign of deceit. But there's nothing there. Just the same warm, familiar eyes she remembers from their childhood. The same gentle smile that always seemed to understand her, even when she couldn't understand herself.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reaches out and picks up the slice of cake. She brings it to her mouth, taking a tentative bite. The sweetness explodes on her tongue, and for a moment, she's transported back to those simpler times. Back to the days when they would raid the Piltie houses together, stuffing their faces with stolen treats and laughing until their sides ached.

She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. "It's good," she mumbles, her voice rough and unsteady. "Really good."

"Glad, you like it," You spoke softly, taking out a small cannister, playing with the top. A moment of silence went over them, reveling in the cake and the tranquility of it all. But even times like these have an abrupt stop.

Jinx takes another bite, savoring the flavor, letting it fill the empty spaces inside her. For a moment, she allows herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things can be different. That maybe you really do still care, that you haven't come here just to rub salt in old wounds.

But then the moment passes, and the doubts come rushing back. The memories of all the pain and betrayal, all the times she was left alone and forgotten. She puts the cake down, her appetite suddenly gone.

"So what now?" she asks, her voice flat and tired. "What happens after the cake? Do we go back to the way things were, with you in Piltover and me here in the lanes? Or do we try to start over, pretend like nothing ever happened?"

She looks at you, her eyes hard and challenging. "Because I don't know if I can do that. I don't know if I can just...forget. Forget everything that's happened, everything I've done. Everything."

"Me, going back to Piltover?" You snorted, a small smile making it to her face. Your eyes looked forward, looking around Jinx's hideout.

"No, no...I have other plans," You crossed your legs, picking off a piece of her cake and pressing it into your mouth, finishing the rest for her.

Jinx's eyes narrow at your words, a flicker of suspicion crossing her face. Other plans? What could that possibly mean? She looks around her hideout, suddenly seeing it through your eyes. The mess of weapons and wires, the stacks of crates and barrels, the general air of chaos and destruction. It's not exactly the kind of place you have a friend over for a casual visit.

"What kind of plans?" she asks, her voice guarded and wary. "You're not...you're not here to take me back to Piltover, are you? To turn me in to the enforcers?"

"I wouldn't hold a cake to you even if I tried," You said a pun, licking icing off your lips, holding up your arms and flexing. Nothing. Piltover really had softened you up. You and 'Powder' were the weakest of the bunch when they were little in comparison to Vi, Claggor, and Mylo.

"You know when I entered Zaun again after all these years, a guy held a knife to my throat. I almost forgot how easy it is to just get robbed in this place. Can't say I missed it," You sighed.

"Nonetheless, the guy was confused when I gave him everything, I just asked him to spare the cake at least, figured everything I gave him was more than enough,"

Jinx looks you up and down, taking in the plain, utilitarian outfit. The lack of anything valuable or flashy. And suddenly, the pieces start to fall into place.

"You...you came here with nothing," she says slowly, realization dawning in her eyes. "You came here with no weapons, no money, no way to protect yourself. You're completely defenseless."

She shakes her head, a mix of incredulity and frustration crossing her face. "What were you thinking, toots? Coming back to Zaun like this, after all this time? Don't you know how dangerous it is? Don't you know what happens to people who walk around without protection?"

She takes a step closer, her gaze intense and searching. "Is this some kind of joke to you? Some kind of game? Because if it is, it's not funny. It's not funny at all."

Her voice rises, edged with a note of desperation. "You could have been killed. You could have been hurt, or worse. And for what? To come see me? To bring me a stupid cake?"

"Please...Tell me. Tell me why you're here. Tell me what you want from me."

You looked at her. Powder. Funny, she must've been clawing her way up that well for years. Right...you came here with nothing. Sitting all carelessly, eating cake and minding yourself as though you weren't just robbed or- Jinx paused, her hands freezing in place from her little rant as she slowly looked at You. Your face seemed content.

It was eerie.

"I don't need anything," You smiled, patting your hands clean.

"I'm just finally giving myself the time to actually hash things out, with Vi, Ekko, and now-"

"Me," Jinx finished.

It was a list. A bucket list.

Jinx swallowed, head slowly shaking. She's seen this before. Felt this before. No person just wakes up suddenly deciding to go around, catching up, talking, giving away their possessions. You were talking but your voice was muffled out.

"Stop," she whispers, her voice hoarse and trembling. "Please, just stop."

You quieted. The tool in your hand suddenly felt more heavier when Jinx gave you that painful stare.

"Jinx?" You tilted your head at her.

"You...you're not here to say hello, are you?" she asks, her voice barely audible. She huffed, with a broken chuckle.

You falter when Jinx approached you, a small smile etched on your face but it seemed anything but happy.

"Was it that obvious?" You said lightheartedly. You yelped when Jinx slammed her hands against the table on either side of you, wedging herself between your legs. The cake battered tool felt to the ground with a echoing thud. Your breathing quickened seeing Jinx hover over you, not touching you just...hovering. Her head was held low, face just shy of your chest.

"...I'm sorry," Was all you could muster, not making any sudden moves. Your eyes looked anywhere else. It was uncomforting. You felt as though one glance at Jinx would make this plan all go crumbling down.

Jinx's breath is hot and ragged against your chest, her body trembling with a mix of rage and desperation. She can feel your heartbeat beneath her palms, the steady rhythm a stark contrast to the chaos raging inside her own.

"Don't," she whispers, her voice a hoarse, pleading rasp. "Don't you dare apologize. Not now. Not like this."

Jinx felt like she was being punched senseless. How could you come in here, wedge her way back in without even trying, AND offer her a damn slice of cake with a smile as if you were going to disappear without a trace after?

How cruel.

It' was heartless and it makes her want to scream, to lash out, to do anything to make the pain stop.

But she doesn't. Instead, she just stands there, frozen in place, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. She wants to say something, to beg you to stay, to promise her that everything will be okay. But the words won't come. They stick in her throat, thick and heavy and impossible to swallow.

So, she just stares at you, her eyes wide and haunted, her face a mask of despair. She watches as her friend's smile fades, replaced by a look of quiet resignation. And she knows, with a sickening certainty, that this would be messy.

"Please," she whispers, her voice a hoarse, broken plea not exactly sure what she was even pleading for.

You lean back on your arms, sucking in a breath. Your legs slowly wrap their way around Jinx's waist as though to give her something that told her you were grounded, that you were still interested in sharing words.

"Sometimes I think of how easy it would've been if I bled out after that explosion. Then, I wouldn't be feeling such bothersome things," You smiled.

"Being rescued and spending my life in Piltover, it was like a slap in the face. My brain simply thinking about how all it took was a near death experience to make a change happen, I spent my entire life drowning in this fact. Wondering why it took seeing a child on their death bed, for anyone from topside to finally act. Would it not just be better if all of Zaun dropped dead then?" You popped open the cannister in your hand, taking a long swig of the contents.

She looks at you, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern.

"What are you saying?" she asks, her voice trembling slightly. "What does this have to do with me? With us?"

You grabbed her face gently, wiping at Jinx's watery eyes and pressing your forehead against hers. Such pretty eyes, even with their blue gone. Her presence never faded.

A shame really, but a change of plans was called for. You wouldn't have it any. Other. Way.

Jinx sputtered when you nuzzled into her; gasping before you pressed your lips against hers. Jinx blinked back tears feeling a liquid slip past her lips, swallowing unconsciously. You...You really were something. Jinx coughed, catching her breath when you pulled away. Her eyes only held confusion, eyes darting between the cake, you, the canister-

The canister.

Jinx let out a whimper going to snatch it up. Empty.

You looked at her, a soft sigh leaving your lips at her defeated expression.

"I like you, a lot. Pow-...Jinx, I wasn't sure if any of that would change seeing you now but..." You had a smile on your face.

"Cake never tasted the same after separating from you, from everyone, from Zaun. I grew sick of it. But I can stomach cake for you though, anything for you," She slowly shook her head at you, voice catching in her throat.

"Piltover life may have not suited me. I don't think Zaun can either after I went over so many possibilities when I made this decision. Vi, Ekko, You. Should I stay? Should I go far away?" Jinx shuddered when you hugged her, body slumping against hers. So warm, you missed this, more than ever as you happily spoke.

"My mind has never been so clear," Tears rolled down Jinx's face at your words, arms holding you tightly.

You weren't moving anymore.

A scenario in which you plan a double suicide, to rid Zaun and Piltover of the incidents caused by Jinx and relinquish yourself of the trauma you've endured. It ultimately backfires when you notice that girl you love still has a chance.

[wheatbreadfuckyeah]

Flirting with death [Viktor x Reader]

Summary: In a chaotic lab, Viktor’s sharp words and irritation mask a reluctant respect for your brilliance. Amid playful tension and unspoken bonds, Viktor values your presence even when you had just point a loaded gun to his face.

Sigh sighh sighhhhh— hope u like it!

——‐——◇——‐——◇——‐——◇——‐——◇——‐——◇——‐——◇——‐——

The lab was dimly lit, its usual atmosphere of sterile precision clouded by a curling haze of smoke that seemed to blur the lines between order and chaos. The rhythmic hum of machines filled the air, punctuated by the crackle of open flames and the volatile hiss of chemicals bubbling in makeshift glass contraptions. Tonight wasn’t about calculated progress or meticulous breakthroughs. It was one of those nights where discipline surrendered to the thrill of reckless, unbridled creation.

You slouched in your chair, exuding an air of devil-may-care rebellion, the faint glow of your cigarette casting flickering shadows across your face. Smoke curled from your lips like ghostly ribbons, dissipating into the stale air. Scattered before you lay your tools of choice: experimental compounds, volatile tinctures, and haphazard notes scrawled in a frenzy. “For society,” you murmured between puffs, your voice dripping with mockery, barely concealing the grin tugging at your lips. A wheezy laugh escaped you, your shoulders shaking as you revel in the memory of your latest antic.

“And then... oh, you should’ve seen her face!” You doubled over, the chair creaking beneath you as your laughter echoed off the metallic walls.

Across the room, Viktor’s golden gaze flicked toward you, his work momentarily forgotten. He sat stiffly at his workstation, tools in hand, precision etched into every line of his posture. But your laughter, grating, relentless, and manic, broke through his focus like a hammer shattering glass. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to weigh the merits of ignoring you versus addressing you. With a heavy sigh, he set down his tools with almost exaggerated care, the quiet clink of metal punctuating the tension. He straightened slowly, leaning heavily on his cane as he turned to face you, his expression carved from stone.

“Do you find something amusing,” he began, his voice low and measured, though his words carried a serrated edge, “or have you simply decided to abandon what’s left of your sanity?”

“Oh, Viktor,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from your eye, “if you’d been there, you’d have died! I said—”

“I think,” he interrupted, his tone cutting through your words like a scalpel, “you’re doing enough of that on your own.” His cane tapped softly against the floor as he stepped toward you, each movement deliberate, his irritation barely contained. “Whatever concoction you’ve ingested this time is clearly interfering with—”

Without warning, you spun your chair around, the wheels screeching against the floor. The motion was theatrical, almost comical in its abruptness. Then, with a flourish, you produced a pistol, the barrel levelling at Viktor’s face in one smooth motion. The laughter died instantly, the air between you crackling with tension. Viktor stopped mid-stride, his eyes narrowing as his gaze locked on the weapon. There was no fear, no hesitation. Only a sharp, unyielding intensity that could have sliced through steel.

“You’re testing my patience,” he said quietly, his voice as cold and steady as ice. His eyes flicked to the gun, then back to you.

"You won’t shoot."

“Oh, am I?” you teased, your grin widening into something equal parts dangerous and playful. “Come closer and find out, sweetheart.”

Viktor’s expression didn’t waver. He took another step forward, unflinching as the muzzle pressed lightly against his forehead. The room seemed to hold its breath. Then, with an infuriating calm, Viktor raised a hand and pushed the barrel aside, the cold scrape of metal against his temple doing little to faze him.

“Are you quite finished?” His tone was flat, his exasperation simmering just beneath the surface.

You exhaled, the gun lowering as a smirk curled across your lips. Leaning back lazily in your chair, you took another drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke directly into his face. Viktor’s nostrils flared, and for a brief moment, his eyes closed, as if summoning every ounce of restraint to keep himself from throttling you.

“Relax,” you purred, rising unsteadily to your feet. You swayed slightly, but the swagger in your step was undeniable as you sauntered closer to him. “You should try living a little, Viktor. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

“I live just fine,” he shot back, his voice cool and clipped, “which is precisely why I’d prefer you didn’t endanger mine every other day.”

You laughed, ignoring his protest as you reached out, your fingers curling beneath his chin. Tilting his face toward yours, you studied him, your gaze sharp and deliberate. “You know,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, “you’re even prettier when you’re annoyed.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes; exasperation, perhaps, or the faintest trace of reluctant amusement. But then, with a sharp motion, he brushed your hand away, his expression caught between irritation and resignation. “And I,” he replied dryly, “apparently enjoy flirting with death to tolerate you.”

Your grin widened as you leaned closer, your breath warm against his cheek. “Truth be told,” you whispered, the words a velvet challenge. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

He scoffed, turning away from you. “Miss the noise? The smoke? The endless catastrophes?” His sarcasm was as sharp as ever. “Yes. Terribly.”

Your laughter erupted again, full-bodied and rich as Viktor returned to his workbench, muttering under his breath. “It’s a miracle,” he said to no one in particular, “that I’ve survived working with you this long.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, stumbling forward to lean against the edge of his desk. “You love this. You love me. Admit it.”

Viktor didn’t look up, his hands deftly manoeuvring the delicate tools before him. “If you’re done waving guns around and inhaling poison,” he said evenly, “sit down. Or better yet, go to bed. I’ll clean up your mess—”

Before he could finish, you shifted, accidentally knocking a delicate glass tube off the desk. It shattered on the floor, the sound slicing through the air. Viktor froze, his head turning slowly to fix you with a withering glare.

You shrugged with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

“Again,” he finished bitterly, the word dripping with resigned disdain.

As you backed away, triumphant, you caught the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of Viktor’s mouth, a fleeting, almost imperceptible sign of something softer beneath his usual layers of irritation and sharp retorts. It wasn’t care, not in the traditional sense, but respect. A grudging acknowledgement of your brilliance and a grudging tolerance that spoke volumes. Viktor would never admit it, but he respected you. And maybe, just maybe, he cared enough not to let you go.

[veephoenix]

zutto — chapter twenty-four | wc: 3.8k  | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Bad Omens start their summer festival shows and things don't go quite as planned.

Reading time: 15mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: swearing, implied anxiety, implied physical abuse, burnout, lia falls sick

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

Things didn’t quite go as planned.

Noah and Lia had spent the past couple of months trying to move in together, but reality had other plans. Every apartment they checked was either in the wrong location, overpriced, or snatched up before they could even apply. When they finally found the right one, Bad Omens was scheduled to perform at several festivals in different states across the country over a span of just two weeks. 

So the timing was a bit of a mess.

Lia had already ended her lease, but the new apartment was still mostly empty, missing essentials like a fridge, dishwasher, and a washing machine. The living room and bedroom furniture they’d chosen hadn’t been delivered yet either and wouldn’t arrive until the end of the month. So for now, they were staying at Noah’s house, along with Jesse, who was also struggling to find a place of his own. They were all practically living out of boxes. Noah’s room at the house had become a makeshift storage unit. Stacks of labeled cardboard, open duffel bags, tape guns, markers. Lia’s things were scattered between the two apartments and the tour trailer, making her feel like she existed in three places at once.

And now, standing in the dusty merch booth of a sunbaked festival ground, surrounded by more boxes, Lia was about to lose it and start screaming. 

It was early morning. No crowds yet, just staff and vendors and a band running soundcheck on the main stage. 

Lia was holding a t-shirt in her hands. She was looking at it with eyes wide open, and she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. 

“What the hell…?”

Steven looked up from the inventory sheet, alerted by the tone in Lia’s voice. 

“What’s up?”

She held the shirt out toward him, turning it so he could see. And he saw the problem.

The design—Lia’s design—was cracked. The ink was uneven, and parts of it looked like they hadn’t cured properly. 

When she ran her thumb over the print, flakes of ink came off. The whole thing looked like it had been printed two years ago and left out in the sun.

Steven’s eyebrows shot up in slow motion. “Shit. That… doesn’t look good.”

“Doesn’t look good?” she repeated, incredulous. She dropped the shirt onto the merch table and yanked another one from the box, then another. “Oh, my God.” 

They were all the same. All fucked up. From size S to XXL. 

“They’re all like this.” She kept flipping through shirts, eyes scanning every one like she might find a decent batch buried somewhere in the pile. “These can’t go on sale, Steven. We’ve got hundreds of shirts that look like they were printed by a high school screen-printing class.” She held one up again. The ink was already lifting at the edges. “The print is literally peeling off. It’s tacky to the touch, like it didn’t even dry. We can’t sell this.”

Steven exhaled through his nose. “There must’ve been an issue in production. Ink didn’t cure right, maybe they were packed too fast—”

“They’ve never messed up before.” Lia’s voice was low but tight. “We’ve been working with them for years.Did you not check the order when it came in?” she snapped, grabbing another t-shirt, inspecting it, and tossing it aside in frustration.

“I did a spot check,” he said defensively. “The samples they sent were fine.”

“And the actual order?” she pressed, voice rising. “You didn’t open any of the boxes when they arrived?”

“I mean... they were shrink-wrapped. Everything looked clean. I figured it was fine.”

“You figured it was fine?” Lia echoed, staring at him. “Are you serious?”

Steven shifted uncomfortably. 

“We literally talked about this, Steven! You were in charge of this while I was managing the exhibition!” 

“I didn’t think they’d send us garbage. We’ve trusted them since… forever!”

“Well, they sent us garbage this time. And now we’re stuck with hundreds of t-shirts we can’t sell!”

She turned away, fingers digging into her temples. Her heart was pounding. Between the stress of managing her first exhibition, the chaos of moving, the lack of sleep, and now this mess, it was all getting too much.

Steven shrugged helplessly behind her. “The joggers and hoodies are good. The flags are clean. Everything else is perfect. Maybe we just push those and offer some discounts?”

Lia turned back to him slowly, face a mask of disbelief. “Push joggers. At a July festival. When it’s 95 degrees by noon.” Her voice was steady, but the sarcasm sliced clean. 

He blinked, feeling the frustration creeping up his neck now too. One of his hands dropped from the clipboard.

“Look, Lia. You told me to sign off if everything matched the PO. I did. And I don’t mean offense, but you were off at the gallery instead of here, sorting all of this out, which has always been your job. You could’ve picked a different time for the exhibit.”

She stared at him for a beat, her expression going blank, but her eyes flared with something dangerous. Anger.

She didn’t say a word. Instead, she turned away from him, pulled out her phone, and walked briskly toward the back of the tent.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the printing company!”

Her hands shook as she scrolled and found the number she was looking for. She hit the call button and pressed the phone to her ear, jaw tight, breathing shallow. Her pulse roared in her ears louder than the generators. She was sure she was getting a headache. A bad one.

Lia paced behind the tent, away from the tables and boxes. The first few rings gave her just enough time to draw in a breath and force her voice into something steady.

“Hey. Yeah, it’s Lia, from Bad Omens.”

A pause.

“No, everything’s not okay. We just opened the boxes from the latest run. All the t-shirts are misprinted. The ink’s cracked, flaking, some of them didn’t even cure properly.”

She exhaled through her nose, pressing her fingers into her temple and listening to the woman talking to her on the other side of the line. Lia started to shake her head.

“They were folded before the ink dried. It’s like they came straight off the press and into the box.”

Another pause.

“We have four festival dates in a row starting today. These were our main stock. And now every single one of them is unusable. I need a full reprint and I need them overnighted. I need them in hand in the next twenty-four hours.”

She stopped pacing, listening.

“What do you mean, we cover the shipping cost?” She let out a cold, raspy laugh. “Are you messing with me? No. No way. This was your mistake.”

Her voice stayed level, but there was a sharpness cutting through now.

“They’re completely unsellable. You know how important merch is for the band. You’ve never delivered something like this before. I didn’t change the file, the specs were the same. If the curing unit failed or someone packed them wet, that’s your responsibility.”

She went quiet, jaw tense, letting them speak.

“No, don’t transfer me to someone else. I want to talk to Marcus, the manager. Now.”

Another pause. She blinked slowly, trying to keep her tone cool, but her fingers were twitching by her side.

“He’s busy? Are you kidding me?”

A long silence. She swallowed.

“Fine. Tell him I need a call back in the next hour. We’re on a four-show festival run with no shirts to sell because your production line screwed the entire thing up. I want—I need this fixed before tomorrow or we lose serious merch revenue, and I’m not eating those costs.”

She didn’t wait for the full reply before tapping to end the call.

For a second, she just stood there, staring at the cracked pavement behind the trailer with a ragged breathing. With one hand, she pushed away a few loose strands of hair that had escaped from her bun.        

“Lia.”

She turned, and she found Folio, Matt, and Noah at the merch booth. Noah was heading toward her with concern in his eyes. Steven lingered in the same spot he’d been, arms crossed, clearly still raw from their exchange and the mess they had in their hands. 

“The shirts,” Noah said. “Steven said the whole run’s fucked?”

Lia nodded once, jaw tight.

“They are.”

She remained still, her phone in her hand, like she was waiting for it to ring again. When it didn’t, she exhaled shakily and ran a hand over her face.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Noah moved past Steven and looked into the boxes, carefully picking up one of the ruined shirts to inspect it. Lia’s beautiful design was distorted, the ink cracked along every fold like old peeling paint.

“What did they say?” he asked without looking at her.

“Nothing.” Lia crossed her arms. “Marcus has to call me back. I told them I need a full reprint, overnighted for tomorrow.”

Noah set the shirt down, managing his own annoyance internally.

“And?” 

They said it’s possible, but…” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “They want us to pay for it.”

Noah blinked. Next to him, Folio interjected, “What?”

“Yep.” Her voice was clipped. “Shipping cost is on us, even though it’s their screw-up.”

For a moment, they all stayed silent. Lia looked up at Noah, as if he had the power to fix everything.

“Shit,” he cursed, nibbling at his lip and looking around. He put his hands on his hips. “Okay, then we just don’t sell t-shirts tonight,” Noah decided in an attempt to stay calm. “It’s not ideal, but it’s not the end of the world, either.”

“It feels like the end of the world,” she snapped before catching herself.

Noah’s brow furrowed as he looked at her more closely. She looked pale under the lighting filtering through the tent, her arms held too tight around herself. There was a stiff halo surrounding her. 

“Lia,” he said, staring intensely at her, “it’s okay. These things happen.”

“No, they don’t,” she retorted, sharp enough that even she flinched. She ran a hand through her hair, forgetting it was tied up in a bun, and her nails caught in the strands.  “They don’t happen. Not with me. I always make sure this never happens. Just one time—one time—I’m not there to double-check everything, and it all goes to shit.”

Noah was startled by her reaction. Worry for her quickly replaced the problem at hand.

“Nothing has gone to shit. It’s just a bunch of t-shirts,” he gestured toward them with his arm “And you’re doing enough. You’ve been working nonstop for months. Between getting the new drop ready and prepping your show, us moving out… you haven’t stopped for a second. You need to give yourself some credit. And some space to breathe.”      

“We can sell them half price or something,” Matt offered, from nearby. “I mean, they’re not destroyed. Fans will understand. Some might even like that they’re misprinted, like, weird collector’s items or something.”

Lia nearly scoffed, but didn’t say anything. All she could think was that she had failed. She had failed the band, the fans, and herself. Her mind raced through everything she should’ve done differently, the dominoes that had fallen the second she’d taken her eyes off one piece of the puzzle.

Noah could see the storm of thoughts shifting behind her brown eyes.

“Lia,” Noah stepped forward and reached for her hand.

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t meet his eyes either.

He could see it all in her: the flickering panic, her thoughts spiraling. Her body was upright, but her wires were crossing, misfiring, and he could tell she didn’t even realize how close she was to burning out.

Quietly, he said, “Let us handle it for a minute.”

“I am handling it,” she said, too fast, too sharp. She rubbed her forehead again, harder this time, like she could scrub the pressure out of her skull. 

The air around her bristled, and Noah started tracing circles with his thumb on her skin.

“You can’t control everything, Lia.” He made a pause. “You’ve been juggling, like, five different lives,” he continued. “The gallery, the merch, the new place… Honestly, I don’t know how you haven’t lost it yet.”

“I’m fine,” she said, a little too flatly.

“You’re clearly not,” he said. “You’re tired, I’m tired, and we’re trying to keep a thousand things moving. But I’m not asking you to be perfect. No one is. And this?” He looked back at the piled boxes of useless t-shirts. “This is just a minor mistake.”

She looked away, sighing. “I just want things to be done right. And the one time I delegate, this happens.”

“Okay, but blaming yourself—”

“Or someone else,” Steven cut in, shooting a pointed look and making a face at Lia. 

She was about to snap at him, but got stopped by Noah’s hand pointed to him, warning him silently to keep his mouth shut.

“Blaming yourself doesn’t fix it,” he said to Lia.

“I know that.”

“Then stop acting like it’s all on you.”

She bristled. “I’m not—”

“You kind of are.”

She huffed through her nose. She wasn’t angry, just… strained. She looked over her shoulder to the far distance, where she could her the chattering and laughter of the fans gathering at the gates. 

“This is fucked up. I need to walk, or scream, or—I don’t know.”

She pulled away from Noah’s hand, making him frown and open his hands in confusion. That was not the reaction he’d expected. Lia stepped away from the tent. 

“Seriously, Lia?”

She walked away, not bothering to reply to him. 

“Lia!”

She didn’t look back.

And he didn’t follow. 

He stood there, running a hand through his hair. 

Lia walked briskly away from the merch tent and the noise.

The din of crew voices and buzzing speakers faded behind her as she rounded a corner past the last row of pop-up stands. Her feet carried her down an empty gravel path that curved around the back of the venue, where the tour trucks were parked in a line.

She stopped abruptly when she understood what was happening. She could feel that slow, creeping weight rising from her stomach to her chest. Tight. Familiar. She rested a hand against the metal siding of a truck trailer to steady herself. 

Breathe, Lia.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, measuredly through her nose, then exhaled. Her hand pressed harder into the cool steel of the truck. It’s fine. You’re fine. It’ll pass. She knew it. She knew this was just her head messing up with her uselessly. But her body hadn’t caught up yet, and her mind was doing backflips trying to stay in control.

After a moment, she let herself sink back against the wall of the trailer, her spine hitting the hot surface with a soft thud. She looked up at the sky, squinting into the bright blue. No clouds. Just heavy, disorienting sunlight.

She lowered herself into a crouch, elbows on her knees, fingers pressing into her temples like they could somehow stop her thoughts from spiraling.

A few quiet seconds passed. A couple of minutes of talking to herself, fighting against the other voice inside her head. 

“Hey, you okay?”

At the voice, Lia blinked and looked up. 

A girl stood a few feet away, cautious, concerned. She was probably about Lia’s age, maybe younger. A crew lanyard hung from her neck, the same festival pass Lia had on hers clipped to it. She wore a white ribbed tank top tucked into high-waisted jeans, scuffed Converse, and had shoulder-length hair that framed her soft, gentle features.

Lia realized she’d been staring, a bit dazed, out of focus.

“What?”

“Do you need help?” the girl asked gently.

“No,” Lia said quickly, shaking her head. She rose stiffly to her feet, grimacing as her knees cracked. “No. I’m okay. Just needed a minute.”

The girl smiled sympathetically. “This heat is getting brutal.”

“Yeah,” Lia muttered, brushing back a loose strand of hair that stuck to her temple.

“I can get you a bottle of water if you want. There’s a stash just around the back,” she said, pointing. 

“That’s sweet of you,” Lia said genuinely. “But no, I’m okay. Really.”

“You sure? I can call someone. Or at least walk you back—”

Before she could finish, Lia suddenly sneezed.

What the hell is wrong with me today?

“Oopsie! Bless you.”

“Thanks,” Lia replied, back of her hand to her nose and mouth, half-laughing, a little embarrassed. She sniffled, rubbing her wrist under her nose. “Might be the dust back here getting to me.”

The girl nodded but didn’t move right away. “Alright… well, just don’t stay out too long under this sun. You look kind of pale.”

“I’m fine,” Lia said again, a bit bothered now. “Just a lot of work...”

“Sure.” The girl gave a polite smile and turned to walk back somewhat reluctant, as if she felt bad for not being able to provide Lia with whatever help she needed. 

However, it was when she was walking away, that the preoccupation transferred to Lia as she noticed a flash of purplish skin at the back of the girl’s bare left arm. Bruises, discolored in a way that didn’t look like the result of bumping into something. More like the shape of fingers… 

Lia could recognize marks those too well. 

Her stomach tightened, as if she weren’t having enough on her plate that morning. 

She stood there for a moment longer, too many things flashing in her head, until she realized there wasn’t anything that could remove that heaviness from her chest.

She exhaled and pushed off the truck.

The back of Noah’s hand pressed against Lia’s forehead.

It was just past 11 p.m., the hotel room dim and quiet, the air conditioning switched off after Lia had started sneezing uncontrollably minutes earlier. 

As the day had gone by, Lia had worsened. She’d eventually accepted that they could not sell t-shirts that night, and after talking to Marcus from the printing company, he assured her that they’d do a reprint including 100 extra pieces free of charge to make up for the mistake, and he’d have them delivered at the next festival stop in twenty-four hours. 

After ending the phone call and letting Matt do whatever he wanted with the ruined t-shirts, Lia’s worry began to ease, though she still felt disappointed in herself. Her mind was calmer, but her health was deteriorating. As the hours passed, she felt increasingly exhausted, dizzy, with an intermittent headache and constant sneezing. 

They were staying the night at a hotel in the city, but they would be on the road the next morning to drive to the next state, where the following festival awaited the day after. 

Noah cursed silently, because given Lia’s condition, she should be home resting, not on the move. 

Lia was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, wearing one of Noah’s oversized t-shirts she sometimes used to sleep, and Noah stood in front of her, freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, wearing a black tee and merch shorts. He looked every bit the tired frontman: tall, tattooed, and slightly worn down from the day’s chaos. But right now, his furrowed brows were full of concern.

“Light fever,” he muttered, pulling his hand away.

Lia’s shoulders dropped, and an exasperated sigh escaped her lips as she flopped backward onto the mattress. 

“Not fair,” she groaned, the words muffled as she pulled the blankets up to her chin and buried half her face in the pillow.

“Your body is literally telling you that,” Noah said. “It’s asking for a break.”

“I can’t take a break. I have work to do.”

He knelt one knee onto the edge of the mattress. “Yeah, and—”

“And I want to work,” she cut in stubbornly.

“I know,” he said patiently. “I know you do. And I get that we’re stuck on the road for another week and a half. But once we’re back in L.A., you’re taking a break. A real one. No laptop, no sketchbook, no packing boxes, no spreadsheets. Just rest. Sleep. Sunshine. Good food.”

Lia let out a low groan. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, voice quiet. “I’m just tired. I’ll sleep it off.”

“You’ve been tired for weeks. This didn’t come out of nowhere.”

Lia didn’t answer, just turned her face deeper into the pillow, a bit too soft for her liking. “Can you get in bed?”

Noah sighed but didn’t argue. He checked his phone, turned on sleep mode, and tossed it onto the nightstand. He removed his shorts, and as he slipped under the covers beside her, she was already curled up like a baby.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call room service? Get you something warm to drink?” he asked.

She shook her head weakly. “I can’t even think of drinking anything hot right now. I just want to sleep.”

Noah watched her for a second, her face pale, eyes heavy, hair fanning in soft waves across the pillow. He brushed a strand from her cheek.

“I keep thinking maybe I shouldn’t have brought up the idea of moving together now,” he murmured. “I thought the timing was right. I didn’t stop to consider it would all collide like this.”

“No. No.” Her eyes opened. Her hand reached out from under the sheets and wrapped around his wrist. “I want us to move. I want that. As soon as we’re back. Nothing’s going to stop us from doing it.”

“Your health could,” he said, quiet but serious. “And I’m not playing with that, Lia.”

“Just give me two days,” she whispered. “I’ll be back to myself by the time we make it to Columbus.”

Noah looked at her, unimpressed. “If you’re not, I’m cancelling the rest of the shows.”

Her head snapped up, then, as if someone had just poured a bucket of cold water over her.

“You’re joking,” the words came out measured from her mouth. “You better be joking, Noah Sebastian. I am not letting you do that.”

He raised his eyebrows in that signature way that said watch me.

She glared at him, offended and half-asleep. 

“You want me to recover? Don’t say stuff like that. That’ll just make me feel worse.”

He rolled his eyes and lay back, folding one arm under his head as he settled in beside her.

“Besides,” she mumbled against the pillow, drifting, “you can’t win that battle anyway. You couldn’t cancel the Japan tour even when you tried. I’m stubborn. There’s nothing you can do about it…”

He turned his head to watch her. She was already slipping into sleep, voice fading into the covers, breathing slow.

Yeah, she was a stubborn one. She’d been that way since she was six years old, against all odds. 

Noah laughed quietly, more breath than sound, shaking his head.

He leaned over, kissed her warm forehead, and gently smoothed her hair back before resting his hand on the back of her head.

“I know,” he whispered. “Believe me. I know.”

— previous chapter | chapter twenty-five

✨ Author's note: I wrote the next chapter months ago, so you can expect another update in the next couple of days after i've adjusted it and done some editing :)

Taglist: 

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @digitaldesiresx | @bluestdai | @lacy1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae | @todressabladeupinred | @tf-is-aesthetic | @pastelsswirlvangogh

[prettyflyforawhitelie]

I wanted to request something for Husk, if that's alright! Their rooms are next to each other, and Husk just so happens to hear her cry. Reader is not being loud, she just couldn't hold back a particularly strong sob and he heard her. He keeps listening and now that he is paying close attention, he can hear soft sobbing. He goes to check in on her and she apologizes for waking him up, but is too shy to admit she was crying right away. I would love to see some fluff/comfort! Thank you <3

This is adorable! I love love love writing fluff. Thanks for the request! This turned out a bit angstier than I planned, but I think it balances out nicely with the fluff. If you want one that's just purely fluff, please message me and I will be happy to rewrite/write another! I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Husk x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Weapons, Drink Spiking, Alcohol

Word Count: 1809

“This Night has Opened my Eyes” - Husk x Reader

Today had been a long day. And that’s the understatement of the year. This was the day that you and the other residents of the hotel had been planning on for months… the war against the angels. You had prepped weapons, defense, and plans all of yesterday, but nothing could have stopped the inevitable bloodshed that accompanied war. Angels were cruel, fierce beings that didn't care about the lives of sinners so long as they increased their “kill count.” They hunt sinners for sport, and nothing, not even the princess of Hell, was going to stand in their way. 

This was evident when Adam and the angels mercilessly broke through the forcefield that Alastor had cast around the hotel. Fuck. That was you and your friends’ only shot at winning this battle. As you scan your environment to assess how many angels are coming at you, you also assess the casualties among your newly found “battalion”. So many of Rosie’s cannibals were surrounding you, dead. The sight was awful. Families, all with hopes and dreams, lay crushed beneath your feet. You look around for any signs of life from your friends, seeing Angel wielding 6 machine guns and… was that Sir Pentious and Cherri kissing? Never mind that, you had one person and one person only on your mind… your boyfriend Husk. Last night, you were expressing how worried you are about the possibility that one (or both) of you may not make it out of this war alive. He assured you that he could hold his own, particularly worried about you. You trusted your fighting abilities, but if something happened to Husk and you weren’t there to help him, you don't think you would ever be able to forgive yourself.

You find yourself facing your worst nightmare after fighting off two particularly feisty exterminators. You turn a corner of the horribly wrecked hotel to continue your search for Husk, only to be met with your boyfriend’s injured body laying on the ground, struggling to crawl to shelter. 

“HUSK!” you shout, running to him and helping him up. 

When your hands moved to his back to guide him to shelter, you noticed that something was missing. His - his wings. They were brutally ripped off of his back, leaving only grotesque stubs where they used to be. 

“Oh- Oh my Satan, we need to get you the fuck out of here. Why didn't you call for me? For anyone?!”

“I- I didn't want anyone-” he struggles to finish his sentence, fading in and out of consciousness. “I didn't want anyone to get hurt”

You managed to essentially drag him just out of sight of the exterminators, behind a particularly dull-looking building. You used any loose pieces of clothing that you could spare to put together a makeshift-bandage, only half-stopping the blood that was seeping from his back. 

“I’m sorry… you’ll be okay. Please be okay. I’ll make you okay.” you say as he winces from the pain. 

And for the first time in your life, you prayed.

To whom, it was unknown. I doubt the prayers of the damned are granted, but you needed more than anything for this to just be a bad dream. 

************************************************************************

As you wake up, your body is drenched in a cold sweat and tears are streaming down your face. You realize that this was all some fucked up dream, but the fact that it could become a reality very soon terrified you. You simply couldn’t stop the tears from running down your face, small sobs escaping from your lips. 

You reach your side table for your phone, only to see that it’s 3:42 AM. Damn, you really hoped you weren’t being too loud right now. Stifling tears, you notice several missed texts from Angel:

_____________________________________________________________

[12:00 AM]

💬Angel: I saw what he put in there, i dont think its deadly… might give you a wild trip tho. but i gave the guy a good beat down on ur behalf lmaooo ;) Left u in ur room to sleep it off, didnt want any idiots to seeya like that

[12:34 AM]

💬Angel: bitch whyd you lock ur door :(

[1:00 AM]

💬Angel: Y/N are you up yet?????

💬Angel: shitshitshitshit

💬Angel: Pls text me when you get up!!!!

____________________________________________________________

Reading these texts suddenly flooded you with memories of the night before (or, really, a couple hours ago.)

You and Angel Dust had decided that, fuck it, if the extermination was coming in a few days, you might as well party like there’s no tomorrow. Heading to the nearest club, you guzzled beelzejuice like it was the last thing in Hell and maybeee fucked around and flirted with a couple guys. As one of the guys you were talking to brought you a drink while Angel was on the dance floor, you downed it and started dancing with him. It wasn’t until your vision started fading that you realized that this asshole spiked your drink. Luckily, Angel was able to spot the signs from across the way and immediately scooped you up and brought you back to the hotel, screaming at the guy as you left. According to his text, I guess Angel went back to the club and fucked the guy up a bit, which made you feel a bit better. Sometimes experiences like these remind you that, yeah, you’re still in Hell. 

Remembering this only made you cry more. The tears flowed for a multitude of reasons: you were so angry that someone had the balls to spike your drink - to spike ANYONE’S drink! You were also so mad at yourself for allowing some rando to buy you a drink without you looking. You were also so grateful that Angel had such a watchful eye and cared for you so much. You guessed that the hallucinogen the man spiked you with was the cause of your terrifyingly hyper-realistic dream. 

You then remember what time it is, realizing that you had let a particularly loud sob escape your mouth. Shit. You really hoped that nobody woke up because of your crying. That would be embarrassing… to say the least. This thought was interrupted by a knock on the door. Damnit. 

“Who is it?” you ask.

“It’s me,” Husk replies. 

Husk had heard your quiet sobs from the next room over and was listening by your door. As he heard that the cries weren’t dissipating, he decided to check on you. You quickly tried to hide any evidence that you were crying, wiping your tears on your sleeve and trying to eliminate any signs of redness on your face.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“Can I come in?” Husk replies.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” you say, waiting for him to enter.

“Hello?” you ask.

“It’s locked.” he replies.

You remember Angel’s text with a small laugh and get up to open your door, taking one more precaution to wipe your face before doing so. You open the door to see Husk’s tired yet worried face.

“You ok?” you ask him.

“I think I should be asking you that.” he says while entering your room, leaving you standing at the doorway. 

“Uh, I mean, yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I heard you crying from my room.” he says, looking at you worriedly.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, it’s, like, 4AM.” you reply, trying to seem nonchalant and like he was the one interrupting your sleep.

“Okay, I may be tired, but I’m not dumb.” he says, matter-of-factly. 

“I wasn’t crying! I was probably just snoring or something.” You take his hand into yours. “But, I appreciate you checking up on me. Okaygoodnightseeyouinthemorningbyeeeeee!” you say while trying to lead him to the door.

“Sure.” he says, clearly calling your bluff. “You do know you can always talk to me, right? That’s what I’m here for, hon.” he says, genuinely looking into your eyes while holding both of your hands. His pure care for you overpowers any urge to hide your emotions from him, and you exhale.

“Fine. I was crying.” you confess.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I guess.” you lead him back to sit on your bed. 

“I- I went out with Angel last night. I think, if i can remember, some guy spiked my drink with what I assume is a hallucinogen.” You could see Husk becoming visibly angry. “Anyways, Angel got me out of there before anything bad could happen. I guess I came back up here and passed out, but I had a horrible dream.”

“You better have a description of the guy so I can beat his ass to a bloody pulp-”

���No. It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

“The nightmare… it was-”

“That’s what this is all about? It couldn’t have been that bad-” he asks.

“No, you don't get it. It was extermination day… the angels were ruthless. I looked around and I… I couldn't find you anywhere. I fought angels and searched relentlessly for you, only to find you left for dead with your-” you shift in your seat, the mere thought of the nightmare making you upset. “-With your wings torn off. I tried saving you, but I just knew… I just knew you wouldn't make it.” 

As you stare into the distance, clearly bothered, Husk realizes just how much this scared you. When he first heard that all of this commotion was about a nightmare, he was surprised. You weren’t exactly one to get too emotional at the slightest of things, so this was new for you. But Husk realized why this was different. This nightmare was a very, very real possibility and a decently rational fear. There really was no telling what would happen come extermination day.

“How about this,” he says, placing one of his hands on your shoulder.

“Tonight, we forget about all of this. Extermination, angels, all of it. I’ll sleep in here and we can cuddle, you can talk to me or just fall asleep. We can sleep in as late as you want and just be here, in this room, right now. Just in this moment, you and I. How does that sound?” He asks.

This tenderness from Husk, though he is your boyfriend, was refreshing. He truly knew how to calm you down when you needed it most. 

Nodding your head, you both get under the warm covers of your bed. You rest your head on Husk’s chest, savoring the slow movements of his breaths. As he moves his hand to stroke your hair, you slowly start to fall into a deep and peaceful slumber. As you both basked in each other’s warmth, Husk’s soothing purring made its way into your ears, the music of your dreams. No amount of money in Hell could get you to gamble away the pure jackpot you held in your arms on this night.

[moretasksfor-sluts]

Hi mommy, I have a little confession, the other day (maybe a few months) I was feeling so horny and really wanted to pound my ass hard. I had a day to myself and decided to do something about it, but I know my stamina in my wrist isn't great. So I decided to makeshift a fucking machine, I grabbed our massage gun and essential taped my dildo to the flat head. Now since it's a massage gun it's not going to do long thrusts but, it has a lowest speed of 1000 pulses per minute. I was worried it would hurt so I warmed up a bit first. But once I mounted it omg I was quivering within a minute.

Now I keep looking at the massage gun and trying to work out when I can do it again

Omg hot, sounds like you're gonna be using it more in the future ✨

I've seen people using a massage gun to fuck others, very hard sometimes, and would love to try it out one day 💕

[deusvervewrites]

Izuku Phantom:

"Freckles!"

Izuku couldn't help but smile fondly at Mei's nickname for him. Even if she knew his name, nine times out of ten he was 'freckles' to her. It wasn't that she was being mean, just absentminded.

"Hi Mei." It amazing that such a simple sentence would have had him stuttering just a few months ago. Another thing that he owed Mei, he supposed.

"Come quick!" She shouted as he grabbed him by the arm and practically dragged him further into her makeshift lab. "I have made a breakthrough for your exam baby!"

Izuku blinked at that. "Weren't we just going to have a bo staff with electric pronds st the end?" They had discussed it extensively after all, although it was mostly him trying to prevent Mei from giving him a bazooka. What sort of breakthrough did a stick with two tasers need?

"Pssh, I finished that baby four days ago!" Mei said as she waved him off. "Keep up Freckles!"

Izuku supposed that it made sense. "Wait... Did you sleep in-between those four days Mei?"

"IRRELEVANT!"

Any further discussion was cut off as the two teenagers stopped in front of particularly messy desk. Even with the numerous burn marks and weird green stains, what caught Izuku's attention the most was the strange device strapped to the middle of the table.

From what he could tell, it resembled a chemistry beaker, if a particularly large one. Only this one was filled with a nasty, glowing green liquid. What was stranger however was the oval device on top of the beaker, outfitted with various pipes and valves, from which the green liquid continued to drip into the beaker.

"Behold! Baby number #76, Ectoplasm!" Mei shouted, pride and awe evident in her voice.

It was a shame that the only thing that Izuku could respond with was a meekly "Eh, what?"

Fortunately, Mei took his confusion simply as a reason to keep going. "Speechless, aren't you? Well, don't you worry, for this baby will blow all your worries away! I know that you didn't want the bazooka, but having ranged options is a MUST! What would you do if the villain is out of reach, huh? Throw your stick at him? NO! You need a gun! But weirdly, we aren't allowed to bring ammo into UA, which is dumb because they allow so many dangerous quirks in, but that's besides the point! Thankfully, yours truly has found the perfect solution! A gun that needs no ammo, for it is powered by pure energy! And thus comes in this new form of energy that I discovered, ECTOPLASM!"

Izuku just stood there dumbfounded. He honestly didn't know how to respond. His best friend went and discovered a whole new form of energy just to help him pass the entrance exams. He could already feel his tears threatening to spill everywhere, but he was too overwhelmed to care.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but when he gathered himself Mei was still mumbling about how she discovered ectoplasm (a habit that she picked from him). He was about to thank her, maybe hug and cry on her as well, when he caught a flashing light in his peripheral vision.

No, it was not a light. It was a spark.

A spark coming from the machine that Mei built.

The machine that was gathering strange, previously unknown energy and turning it into liquid.

A machine built by Mei, who had a track record of accidentally blowing up her 'babies'.

Izuku's body moved on its own.

The explosion came a second after Izuku had cradled Mei's head into his chest, his own body shielding her from the worst. The force of the blast came next, glass and something boiling tearing through his school uniform and finding fresh skin underneath.

As white, hot pain seared itself into every nerve on his back, Izuku Midoriya was thankful that at least his friend wouldn't bear the worst of it.

This is why we teach lab safety

[according2thelore]

YESSSSSS ADAM CONTENT!!!!! ✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️

QUEENS YOU ARE FEEDING USSSSSS!!!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌

Me bringing ABO into the mix:

- Little pup Adam going extremely clingy/has separation anxiety towards Omega Dean because of the sudden environment/ lifestyle change with John (who is barely there as a Father/Alpha), so little Adam imprint on Dean as his new "Mommy" even though he knows his actual Mom is in Heaven.😭😭😭

- Newly presented Alpha Pre-teen Sam being SO annoyed at this walking, breathing remainder of John's hypocrisy always toddling towards Sam and trying to get his attention (when Dean isn't there) because Sam is the closest thing to a stable/constant pack Alpha and Adam just wants to be accepted by himmmmmmmmm. 😭😭😭😭😭

- Adam constantly trying to snuggle up in Dean's nest (on the rare occasions that Dean takes a break from taking suppressions) because it reminds him of his Mom and even though Deans scent is no where close, it makes him feel save 😭😭😭😭😭

- Dean feeling both pride and resentment when John praises Dean for taking care of Adam like a "good Omega" and "Mary would have been so proud"

- Sam and Dean having fights about "baby sitting" Adam because "What do you mean you can't study here?! Sam, I already told you I had a date tonight!" And Sam throwing back "I'd never agreed to that Dean! I have my own plans, and you can't just expect me to bail on my study group just to babysit Adam!" And the argument escalates until they hear quite sniffles and see Adam all red eyed and puffy cheecks.

- Bobby giving John an earful about bringing another pup on this insane revenue fueled journey, like what are two underage teenage boys going to do with a kid if John punches the ticket in a hunt?

- "Urgh, Adam I'm trying to read, can't you play outside or something?" Sam mumbles, eyes not lifting from the book his supposed to read during the summer. Dean pokes his Dean from Bobby's kitchen (John is away on a hunt with Bobby). "Sam, knock it off. It’s too hot for this, I’m almost done making lunch, and we just saw Adam touching a car door that probably predates penicillin this morning. Do I really need to remind you why Bobby keeps a stash of tetanus shots in the fridge ?".

They hear giggling from the sofa with a makeshift blanket ford, Adam says, "Yeah Sammy, it's too hot outside! And Sully wants to build Legos later!", Dean snorts and glances at Sam before disappearing into the kitchen and Sam asks "Who's Sully?"

Sorry for going off on a rant here, I just really love that Adam post!!!!!

hi, anon!!!!

EEEEEE thank you so much!!!!! i LOVE the adam-grows-up-with-them AU, and i LOVE talking about it!!!!!!

gasp PLEASE bring the omegaverse into it, lol, i clearly have a LOT to say about it!!!!!!!

let's fucking DISCUSS RAHHHHHHH!!!!

FUCK i love baby adam imprinting on omega!dean like a little duckling. the world is so much bigger than adam could even process, and a big, gruff alpha that smells like abandoned birthday parties and like the mean men standing outside at the gas station takes him away from his toys and friends and house.

there are two boys that feels like grown-ups to a six-year-old adam, one seventeen and the other thirteen, both smelling like each other and not like the angry man a whole lot. the thirteen-year-old doesn't talk to adam much, seems to be mad at him, but adam doesn't know why.

the older boy, dean, kneels on the ground and gives adam a tin of green plastic soldiers, makes little machine gun noises with his mouth that make adam giggle.

he smells like playgrounds and sunshine, and adam finds that he wants to be around this omega...a lot. he wakes up crying his first night, seeing blood all over the floor and his hands and crying for a mommy that won't ever come to get him. dean gets up from his shared bed with sammy and crawls into adam's bed, pulling the little pup to his chest and cooing softly at him.

he talks with adam quietly, nuzzling in his hair gently, and stays with him all night. the second night, adam tugs gently on dean's shirt hem and asks him if he could sleep in his bed again.

they quickly become a bit inseparable, much to sam's chagrin. when dean goes to school in the next town, adam has a meltdown that lasts hours, until john goes to pull dean out of fourth-period math. adam keeps apologizing, shaking so hard that his teeth chatter. dean just soothes a hand over his hair, letting the pup scent him, looking up at his dad with big, confused eyes.

dean smells safe. nothing else in the entire world feels safe. adam's bed doesn't smell like home, anymore, it smells like cigarettes and bleach. but dean, dean smells like home.

adam draws pictures for dean with crayons dean swipes for him, and dean has a folded envelope in his duffle with all of adam's drawings. adam remembers his mommy being really excited and happy when he gave her his drawings, and he wants dean to be happy with him, so, so bad. dean always oohs and ahhs over adam's firetrucks and drawings of their sad, little pack.

one night, after dean helps him take his bath, he says, thank you mama, and then gasps, horrified, and cries all night. he knows dean's not his mommy. he doesn't want dean to be his mommy, he knows his mommy is in heaven, but...dean's warm. and nice. and listens to adam talk about bugs for hours. dean just soothes the pup, chest so tight that it aches, and tells him that it's alright.

~~~

sam presents as an alpha, and is a bit furious that this only makes adam more annoying. he was already pretty furious that this walking-talking proof of their dad's bastard-hood lives with them full-time.

for one, he takes up all of dean's time. he toddles after dean like dean hung the sun, and dean--fuck him--tolerates it. whenever sam wants to do something, dean tells him that dad won't be there to watch adam, so they can't leave. the kid's six, okay? he can fucking deal. sam was left alone when he was six. dean was left alone with sam when he was six, and he turned out okay.

for another thing, he won't leave sam alone. even before sam presented, adam would slide little pictures across the motel dining room table at him, of buildings and animals and clouds. dean snarls at sam to say 'thank you,' but sam's not going to fucking do that.

but now that sam's actually presented, and dean leaves to help on a hunt or bend some college girl over, adam is attached to his side like a limpet. he asks sam a million questions, maneuvers himself onto sam's lap when they sit on the couch, hauls himself into the dining room chair across from sam and solemnly doodles while sam does his homework. they both work in silence, and even that irks sam, as he watches as adam has to use both hands to pick up his glass of hard-earned milk.

it all changes, though, one night. dean's out hustling, after john left them for a couple weeks with not enough money to stretch between. sam's doing his homework at the table, and adam pulls gently on sam's shirt sleeve. sam's about to tell him to go away, when adam changes his entire fucking world in a second.

"alpha," adam asks, and sam's breath gets punched out of him. adam looks up at him with big, blue eyes. sam coughs. adam's asking him. alpha.

adam doesn't say another word, waits to be addressed like they're an actual fucking pack and not four broken boys stapled together in something that looks vaguely human.

"yeah?" sam croaks. alpha. dad's never been a pack alpha. he'd have to be around to do that. sam realizes, with a lurch, that this kid sees dean as the pack omega. which makes sam...the pack alpha. sam's probably the closest thing to a pack alpha that this twerp has ever had--an omega mom, a deadbeat alpha dad, an omega older brother.

"can i have a popsicle?"

adam still just blinks up at him. waiting.

with their last few dollars, dean had brought home a pack of popsicles that were sloshy liquid in their plastic little tubes, wrapped in orange netting. it was getting hotter every day, and dean had shrugged when sam criticized his choice in nutrition.

"did you eat all your dinner?" sam asks, mouth dry. he's still absolutely baffled, but with an acuity that is almost blinding, he resolves to be a better example of an alpha than his dad ever was.

adam nods, seriously, little feet padding around the table so he can tilt his empty mac-and-cheese bowl forward for sam's inspection. orange smears are the only things left.

"then yes." sam says, standing and crossing over to the freezer. at the last second, he looks down and asks adam, who is standing at his hip with big, excited eyes, "what colour?"

"green," adam blurts, quick. he squirms. sam, in spite of himself, snorts. he roots around for a green one, and cuts the top off with a bowie knife left on the nightstand.

"thank you, alpha," adam says, little mouth wrapping around the plastic sleeve of the popsicle. he slides a piece of purple construction paper across the kitchen table when they've both sat back down, shyly.

sam takes it. turns it around. it's a stick figure standing tall, at least two sizes bigger than the other stick figure at his feet. there's a big black blob in the corner of the drawing, the big figure between it and the smaller stick figure.

"it's you," adam says, "keeping the bad guys away."

sam thanks him. he excuses himself to the bathroom, and he sits on the cool tile for a long time, too confused and overwhelmed to even cry.

the next week, when adam asks sam with a small voice if he did an okay job shucking corn for their dinner, sam ruffles his hair for the first time, and adam is still smiling when he goes to bed hours later.

~~~

dean hates going into heat. if it were up to him, he'd be on supps until he died.

dad hits the fucking bricks as soon as dean starts his heat, and has starting pulling sam out with him by the hair, since he presented. sam snarls and fights--and one time, bites--john, but he never lets him stay, anymore.

they, and dean's not sure who "they" are, only that they're fucking bastards, say that an omega can be on supps for six months, then has to take a month off. dean's not sure why, don't ask him. something about bone fragility or hypertension or calcium in his heart, who fucking cares.

what it means for dean is that he's now alone for a week, sweating bullets and writhing in bed by himself, with dad and sam staying a few doors down.

it's lonely. it's hollow.

before sam presented, he was allowed to stay with dean and make sure he ate, and crawl into dean's nest, letting dean scent his little pup-smell, cold fingers pressed to dean's overheated forehead.

it was the only sane thing in dean's entire world for a week.

but now, unbelievably, he has adam.

speak of the devil, dean's nose twitches. adam smells like lemons and baby powder--pure pup, all the way through--and dean can feel the bed dip.

he's between waves right now, but knows soon he's going to be inconsolable again, body begging for a knot that he's never going to get.

his nest is a fucking mess. dean's eyes burn. no wonder no alpha could ever want him. it's mostly sam's clothes, his smelly socks and second-hand flannels and a jean jacket he managed to sneak out of a goodwill. dean's useless. can't even build a proper nest. can't keep his pups safe and warm in here, no way. adam's going to freeze to death in his stupid, ugly nest, and dean is going to die unloved and grieving. dean sniffles. fucking hormones.

adam wiggles over the edge of the nest, and makes a little noise.

dean opens his arms, and adam collapses into his arms, question answered. dean rubs his head against adam's hair, and dean's a stupid omega because he's the one that's going to have to wash his sweat off of his pup's hair, now. stupid, useless, alone omega.

"don't be sad," adam whispers, tiny little pup fingers on dean's cheeks.

"'m not sad," dean sobs, "dumb pup."

adam reaches up and pinches dean's nose closed. and holds it. and holds it. and holds it.

dean snorts, dissolving into exhausted laughter as he has to open his mouth to breathe.

"you're a little twerp, anybody tell you that?" dean sighs, and adam presses himself up into dean's arms, rubbing his head all over dean's terrible, stupid nest. when he comes back to dean, he smells like pack, like he and sam.

adam's eyes droop, mouth pulling up in an exhausted, far-away smile.

"you're gonna have to get out in a second, bud." dean tells him, the squirming, serpentine pull under his skin making him nauseous. adam's eyes snap open, and he looks, for a second, very scared.

"can i come back?" he asks. dean snorts, and bumps adam's forehead with his chin.

"you can always come back." he says, honestly, and adam's fist curls into dean's sweat-soaked shirt, eyes drooping closed. dean lets him sleep, then gently nudges him awake and away when the next wave of his heat hits.

the first thing dean feels when he's sane again, is the dip of the bed as adam crawls over the edge of his nest, and makes a small, questioning noise.

dean lets his arms drop open.

~~~

dean doesn't know how to feel when dad tells him he reminds him of his momma.

you're such a good omega, john says. like that's all dean is. maybe it is. maybe that's all dean'll ever be.

on one hand, it satisfies something deep inside him when dad looks at dean bouncing adam up and down on his knee, adam screaming and giggling, and tells him that his momma would have been proud.

he wants his momma to be proud. he wants to be an omega that his momma would be happy to have raised.

but on the other hand...it makes dean want to shove adam off his lap. the pup doesn't deserve it. he didn't too a damn thing except be born, but dean doesn't want to be an omega. he doesn't want to be a...a coddled thing. a domestic thing. a perfect, shiny little thing. because he's not.

he's too big to be a pretty omega, too angry to be a nice omega, too mean to be a good omega.

he's a hunter. he's damn good at his job.

you're a good omega, dad says, patting dean on the head as he moves towards the door. it's supposed to be a thank you, dean thinks, for staying behind with adam, but...his stomach is all wrung tight.

i'm not. he wants to scream. i'm not a good omega. i'm not your omega.

he feels condescended to. overlooked. he feels...plastic, maybe. wrong. john looks at him and doesn't see an equal. or maybe he does, and maybe that makes it worse.

adam can always tell--damn him--and tries to scent dean. dean always pushes him away, goes outside for some air, sam always comes after him.

they sit in silence. dean's an omega. maybe that's all he'll ever be.

~~~

"it's just for tonight!" dean yells, "what's your damn problem?"

"my problem is that i told you i have plans!" sam shoves dean, hard. "i told you a week ago that i was going out with friends!"

"what friends?" dean barks a cruel laugh. "they're not your friends. they're temporary, sam!"

"yeah like that skirt you're chasing?" sam spits.

"fuck off."

"no, dean! i don't see why i have to give up on my plans so you can bend dinergirl over. she's 'temporary,'" sam mocks.

sam smells like firewood, like whiskey, like dad. he smells angry. dean knows he doesn't smell much better, the rotten-egg smell of his anger making his own nose wrinkle.

"i've got to get out of this goddamn cabin." dean snarls, tearing at his hair. "i've played fucking nursemaid since deluth and i need to get out of here. i'm sick of it."

they've been fighting all week, it feels like. dad's fucked off to who-knows-where, a phone call the only thing connecting him to his three sons, four states away.

they're in the kitchen of a cabin, lit only by the microwave light, dean pacing on dusty tile, sam with his arms crossed and dean in his socks.

dean wants to scream. he thinks he might.

he's exhausted. he's fucking exhausted. he wants, nonsensically, to go home. he's staring his home in the eyes as he screams. he's sure his home is asleep a few rooms over, in the cabin dad managed to rent out for the month. his home is four states away, hunting monsters. his home is buried six feet under, more ash than woman. his home is dead. his home doesn't want him back. his home is gone.

his home is yelling at him, and dean wants to punch him square across his stupid jaw.

"you don't think i'm sick of it?" sam retorts. "i never agreed to bail on my plans to babysit, dean!"

dean rounds on him, gets in sam's face, sam's set jaw, dean's shaking fists, a chest so hollow it feels like it'll crack open.

"i never agreed to bail on my fucking life to babysit, but here we are!" it's louder than dean means, a bellow, and he loves it. it fills up his chest in the way nothing else will. he opens his mouth to scream again, but--

a gasp, a sniffle, a sob. sam and dean freeze, and adam shoves past their waists as he barrels out the front door, tearstreaked face and wide eyes and mouth open on a sob.

dean catches a flash of blond hair and firetruck pajamas.

the fight leaves him immediately, dean slouching as the screen door screeches, bangs, tiny feet on a wooden deck, on crunching leaves as he pounds down the steps.

"fuck." dean says, right as sam says, "shit."

they share a look, guilty and exhausted and strung-out. sam pulls out his phone, using the antenna to scratch at his eyebrow as he closes his eyes tightly.

they move quick, dean crossing over to the front door to shove his feet into the boots he left there earlier that afternoon.

"i'll cancel." sam says, "you go after him."

"nah, man," dean sighs, taking a quick break from lacing his boots to rub a hand down his face. "it's...it's whatever. bring some popcorn back."

sam's going to the movies, or something, right? dean forgot. he fumbles with the laces, and has to do them again.

"it's study group." dean can hear the laugh in sam's voice.

"then bring back a fucking calculator."

sam does laugh, then, but his voice still has a little bite when he says, "you're an idiot."

"well you're a..." dean stands, his feet aching in his boots. he scratches at the back of his head, looking at his alpha little brother, all bravado and authority and self-righteousness. "seriously, man, head on out. i'll call stacey later and cancel."

sam crosses the room but doesn't touch dean, just lets dean get a whiff of him, close enough to scent but dean doesn't dare. he shoves his feet into his beat-up converse, and dean almost reaches a hand out to stop him--they can't afford new ones if these crap out--but doesn't trust himself yet.

sam snags dean's abandoned hoodie hanging off of one of the dining chairs, and pulls it over his head.

when his face emerges from the pooling fabric, his hair is messy, and he smells more like dean, like pack, like home.

he shoves his fists into the front pocket, and shoulders the screen door open.

"shuddup." sammy grumbles, and they trudge out into the dark woods, trailing after their lost pup, sniffling in the darkness.

~~~

adam's feet dangle off of bobby's porch, swinging and banging against the old latticework underneath his porch. it's hot and stifling outside, and adam can already tell that he's going to have a sunburn when he goes back inside, the tops of his exposed knees a shiny, pink colour.

he's watching sam and dean throw knives in the dust lot behind uncle bobby's house, trying to hit a board already so full of score-marks that he can barely make out the painted-on target.

his pack omega left him a tin of toy soldiers to play with, and adam arranges them on the bottom rung of the porch railing, sun-lazy.

"they're fighitng about us, y'know." alpha's voice. adam sits up a little straighter. he thinks they've forgotten about him, since he's not facing them head-on. he's facing the tool shed instead of the dustlot, but he can hear them well.

he can pick their voices out in a crowd of people.

inside the house, he can hear dad yelling, screaming. uncle bobby yells back. the house smells like a car on fire. gasoline and melting plastic and danger.

"huh?" thunk. dean's voice, distracted.

"dad. and uncle bobby." sam says. thunk. something inside the house crashes to the floor.

"yeah, well. you really suck at this. i'd fight dad about it, too." dean says. thunk. adam moves three soldiers away from the rest.

"jerk. no, they're fighting about us and adam."

thunk. a clang, and adam looks up. sam and dean aren't looking at each other, eyes trained on the target. one of the knives must have hit another off the board.

"bitch." dean says, but after a long pause, his voice is quieter, defeated. "yeah. i know."

adam shifts closer, bringing his three soliders with him. one has a machine gun, the other a radio, the third a medic kit.

--you dumb motherfucker-- uncle bobby's voice, distant.

"uncle bobby's gotta point, dean." sam says. he winds up, throws the knife, it hits the ring outside of the centermost. "what the hell are we gonna do if dad..."

dean steps up, throws, misses. the knife spirals, hits the dirt with barely a noise at all.

"we're not gonna do anything, 'cause that's never gonna happen." dean throws again, barely hits the board, gets mostly white paint in the top right corner. "dad's the best hunter. ever."

"he's not immortal. you remember des moines?"

dean moves to collect the knives, and sam joins him. they count them, and split them in half. ten for dean, ten for sam.

"i don't know what you want me to say, sam." dean says, finally. he squares up to the board.

"we can't raise him." sam says, and dean's shot goes entirely wide, landing a few inches deep in a rusted car door a few feet left of the target with a deafening clang.

--is that what you want, john?--

dean whirls on sam, eyes blazing, and adam--even this far away--recoils.

"we ain't giving him up if that's what you fuckin' mean." dean spits. a hot breeze wafts his scent over to adam. protective. possessive. furious. "i can't believe you'd even suggest that. he's ours, sam."

sam takes a step back, then a step forward, bumping into dean's chest, a palm on his sternum, over the necklace dean's worn as long as adam's been alive.

"fuck you. i'd never say that. but..." sam flips a knife in his palm, throws it, point down into the dirt. "i don't know. wouldn't he be safer in a real home? wouldn't we all be safer in a real home?"

adam, slowly, separates the medic from the other two soldiers.

dean's face twists, and he stalks a few paces away. he hefts a knife in his hands, and throws it at the board. it hits.

--my boys, Bobby. They're my boys to--

"we gotta real home." dean says. he doesn't look at sam, voice and body tense. "you'd rather live in a picket fence? if dad died, you want me to give you up to the system, go to school, live with another two-point-five kids and a dog? is that what you're sayin'?"

thunk. closer to bullseye. dean picks up another knife. throws it. thunk. closer still.

"no," sam says, fiercely. "no. i'd never leave you. you know that."

--just kids. Children that'll--

"do i?" thunk. the ring away from dead center. "i'm seventeen, sammy. they wouldn't put me in the system, they'd give me a slap on the ass and twenty bucks and i'd never see you or adam again. i'm an unmated omega. they'd never let me keep either of you."

thunk. bullseye. dean's outta knives. he steps away from the target, still not taking his eyes away from the target. his hands are shaking. there's a triangle of sweat soaking through his shirt between his shoulder blades.

adam moves the solider with the machine gun away. the three face away from each other, now. alone.

alpha stalks up to dean, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him to face him, getting close. in his face. he's almost tall enough that they're eye-to-eye.

"i'm not gonna let that happen. no matter what, you hear me?" sam's voice is firm, uncompromising, loud. "i'd rather..."

sam trails into silence. dean doesn't look like he's breathing. his head dips, and for a second, adam thinks they're kissing, like in the movies, but he can hear his pack omega's voice a second later.

"you'd rather what?" he says, lowly.

a screech so loud that adam jumps, all three soldiers falling off the porch and scattering into the dirt.

boots on the porch, shaking the floor. dad must've run out the front door, away from the three of them in the dust lot.

"--gonna kill those boys, john, you hear me?" uncle bobby yells, closer than ever before. when adam turns back around, sam is throwing knives at the target, and dean is approaching adam on the porch, palms wiping off on his torn jeans.

when he sees adam look up, dean smiles. adam, hesitantly, smiles back.

~~~

EEP i'm not even going to touch the last few paragraphs with sully--it's literally PERFECT!!!! GRAHHH adam's little giggles and sam's confusion and dean's fondness...i'm punching a wall...

thank you SO SO SO much for sending this in, anon! and thank you so much for being patient!! <333 it's been a hectic month, but i am in love with this. omegaverse adam i'm gonna SCREAMMMM

i hope you enjoyed, and that your day is lovely, anon! <3

-lizzy

[adam AU masterlist]

[whimsimille]

VENDETTA

Jeong Jin Man x Fem!reader

Summary:

“Look at Babylon’s little princess! Got tired of being Dad’s loyal dog, huh? Decided to avenge your boyfriend instead of wagging your tail? What a dumb choice!"

There are hounds behind your eyes and between your molars. They nip your heels and bark in your ears. They're loud. Years ago, you wished someone would take this part of you out to the backyard and, like a sick dog, put it out of its misery. Years ago, you would pull them away and beg them to be quiet for once.

But now? Now you just watch them run wild and feral. They bite Bale as you lean down to whisper in his ear, and you let them. You do not put leashes on, and you do not open the cages.

“You don’t know me, Bale.”

”Oh, I don't?” he mocked, his lips curling into a sneer as he shifted his weight, trying to ease the pressure from where you had kicked him earlier. Blood trickled down from a cut on his forehead, mixing with the sweat on his face.

“No, because do you know what I became after Babylon, asshole?" You whisper as your left hand, free from the weight of the gun, grabs a fistful of his hair, forcing him to look directly into your eyes. "I'm the dog that tasted its owner's blood and learned that it was sweeter than any bone."

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

Chapter 1: Genesis

“She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.”

—Stephen King

It's hard to explain what it felt like to breathe when you saw him wrapped in the cold sheets of the morgue, his lifeless form lying on the stainless steel gurney under the fluorescent lights. Your eyes fall on the tag attached to his toe—the final indignity in a life cut short. Jeong Jin-Man, the label reads, followed by a string of numbers that mean nothing to you. 

He was more than just a name and a number. 

It's like your body betrays you. That's the only way you know how to say it. Your body doesn't know that it's supposed to move and run away from this hospital before the necropsy crew enters the room again, that the rest of you—the stuff inside—is locked away in someplace you can never return to. Your body doesn't know you don't want to stay there, in this cold environment that smells like formaldehyde and antiseptic, where nothing has changed along with the dead corpses all around you.

So it just keeps growing, changing, carrying you ahead—more machine than anything—but inside you are torn apart by the disparity of it all as you lift one trembling finger and trace Jin-Man’s nose, the tiny notch on top from that time you punched his face after a mission failed. 

But just as soon as you touch him, just as soon as you notice he won’t scrunch his nose and push your hand away because he always claimed it smelled like gunpowder, just as soon as you notice that he won’t look up at you through drowsy eyelashes before he pulls you by your waist, letting your body drape over his like a makeshift blanket, just as soon as you notice that he won’t use those big calloused hands—hands that were so skilled at maneuvering firearms—to wrap around your throat until your ears ring and your eyes get watery because it feels good to feel something other than panic attacks and anger, you step away.

You think about the time you spent together, the clandestine meetings in seedy motels, the whispered conversations about safe houses and escape routes, the constant fear of betrayal. 

But there will be no more whispered promises, no more shared secrets. That was what finally made you realize that the guy was dead. He wasn't ill; he wasn't sleeping. He wasn't going to get up in the morning anymore, or eat too many porky bellies from the street vendors, or worry about amino and bombs. He was dead, completely dead. He wasn't going to go out with his brother in the spring to collect bottles uncovered by the departing snow. He wasn't going to get into fights on the playground. He wasn't going to kill men in the name of Babylon. He was everything like wasn't, can't, don't, shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't. He was one big not. Jeong Jin-Man was dead.

That night, 13 years ago, you awoke with that fuzzy sensation in the back of your skull—the feeling you hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since you had last had a drink anyway. Your mouth felt like it had been wrapped in cotton, your tongue like sandpaper.

You dared a glance at the old clock above the fireplace mantel, the one that was commonly out of commission. It had numbers painted in black, elegant cursive with golden trim that had a knack for accumulating dust on its glinting edges. 

4:06.

“Where are you going at this hour, dude? Just lay with me for a little while. The training won’t start until 5:45,” you mumbled as you woke up to the sound of him buckling his belt. Jin-Man was always an early riser, but this was unusual. Bale was gone now, and the twins and Seung-Ho were missing. Everything was perfect; why was he waking up at this hour?

“I need to speak with Yong-Han. Just go back to sleep, doll.”

Your only reply was moaning into your pillow, still groggy from sleep. Gently, Jin-Man reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face, his movements light and tender. A part of him wished he could stay in bed all morning, wrapped in the maroon covers, by your side, warm and cozy. You knew that.

Even so, you let out another groan and rolled over. Your hair was messy, features highlighted in the ethereal light of the night sky. You met Jin-Man’s steady gaze, a soft smile gracing your lips. Your brown eyes opened, clearing away their cloudiness as you fully came. “Speak with Dad, why?” you said, voice husky as it always was in the morning.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” Jin-Man replied, musing. “But, yeah, confidential things about the explosion,” he added, looking away as if the words themselves were too heavy to bear.

You held back your sigh. For God’s sake, you had just wanted to have a quiet, uneventful shift after the chaos that was last night. Still, you bit your tongue and said nothing. Picking fights probably wasn’t the best idea when Jin-Man was already on edge. So you just hummed and stretched out your entire body, letting your feet wiggle beneath the covers instead. You soaked up the moonlight like a cat basking in the sun. Your gaze fell back on him. “Do you have to?”

“Yes,” he said, already rising and clambering out of your shared bed. He had to get ready and get to the old man’s office. Things to do, people to meet, secrets to keep.

You groaned yet again and fell backwards into the pillows, rather dramatic. If it weren’t for your handiness around guns, you might have missed your call to the theater.

“I’m sorry, doll. I’ll see you later.”

The room was filled with the lingering scent of Marlboro Reds, a habit he had kicked months ago, but the smell had woven itself into the very fabric of your shared space. His movements were quick, efficient, almost mechanical as he slipped on his black shirt, a standard-issue piece that had seen better days. You watched him intently, memorizing every detail—the way his dark hair fell into his eyes as he bowed down to put on his socks, knowing you’d have to beg him to let you trim it again or risk losing more of your beloved black hair ties, the slight stubble on his chin that made him look ruggedly handsome, the way his hands fumbled slightly with the zipper of his jacket. 

Jesus, you absorbed him like a parched earth soaking up the first rain after a drought. But, perhaps, being flooded by him was all worth it, if you got to feel that relief, even if just for a moment.

“Don't forget to take your meds,” you reminded him softly. That bottle of Zoloft sat untouched in his leather bag, right next to the spare magazine for his Glock.

“I won't,” he assured you, but you knew better. It was a lie you both told each other to make the mornings easier. “I’ve got the bottle in my bag. I’ll take them with my coffee.”

"Liar…" you sing songed, rolling your eyes. "You always forget and end up chugging an energy drink instead."

“Shut up and go back to sleep," he teased, giving you tickles in the sensitive spot just in the middle of your feet, making you squirm and giggle despite yourself.

As your laughter started to die down and you began to slap his hands away, he paused, his eyes roaming over your naked form. The covers had slipped. He admired the scars on your right hip from that knife fight in Busan, the moles that looked like constellations on the valley of your breasts, and the freckles that appeared when the light hit you just right, like a painter’s masterpiece. He traced the scar on your shoulder from that time you took a bullet for him in Hongdae.

“You’re beautiful. Even when you’re being a pain in the ass.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

He laughed softly, the sound like music in the quiet room. “I’ll miss you, you know that?”

“Then don’t go.” 

Jeong didn’t answer. Duty called, and Jin-Man was nothing if not dedicated. You just didn't know which position of priority you occupied in his life. Maybe the 20th?

He moved back to the bed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. His lips were chapped, tasting faintly like the mint ChapStick he always used. You wrapped your arms around him like a koala, pulling him closer. 

“You always taste like mint,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Better than cigarettes, right?” he teased, his hands caressing your cheekbones while nuzzling the soft curve of your neck with his sharp nose.

“Much better,” you agreed as your legs wrapped around his waist, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. “I hated those Marlboro Reds. Always told you my brand was better.”

He rolled over, slipping onto your waist, straddling your hips and pinning you down on the bed. "Stop trying to start a fight. You're impossible," he chuckled, breaking another kiss reluctantly. "I really have to go. Yong-Han is expecting me, and you know how he gets when I'm late."

"Fine," you sighed, releasing him. "But you better come back in one piece. And don’t forget to bring my favorite coffee from that little shop near the base.”

"Always," he replied with a wink, giving your nose a playful tweak before finally straightening up and heading towards the door. "And don’t worry, I’ll bring back an extra donut for you. Mrs. Park will probably insist on it anyway."

"You say that every time, but you always end up eating it on the way back.”

He turned around at the door, one hand on the knob, and gave you a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. "I can’t help it if they smell better fresh. Now go back to sleep before I change my mind and keep you up all night."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget. And for the love of God, take your meds, Jin-Man," you muttered, turning over in bed and pulling the covers up. 

He nodded, leaning his head against the doorway as he watched your back. "Yes, ma'am. Zoloft first, then coffee."

"Good," you said, your voice muffled by the pillow. "Now get out of here before I change my mind and chain you to the bed."

Jin-Man chuckled and stepped out into the hallway, his footsteps echoing softly as he made his way to the kitchen. You could still hear him moving around, the sound of cabinets opening and closing as he grabbed his travel mug and filled it with the last dregs of coffee from the pot you had brewed the night before. Masochist. In his opinion, he always expressed that the rainwater in the city’s numerous potholes probably tasted better than your coffee. Yet, here he was, probably shaking the bottle for one more drop.

You turned over in bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and closed your eyes. The room was silent now; the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You tried to will yourself back to sleep, but the emptiness beside you made it impossible.

You sighed again, burying your face in the pillow. You would wait for him, just like you always did, and when he came back, you would wrap your arms around him and hold on tight, hoping that one day he wouldn't have to leave.

But until that day came, you would endure. Because loving Jeong Jin-Man meant accepting the goodbyes, no matter how much they hurt.

And that should be enough for you to get your shit together and clutch your lab coat even more to stop yourself from clenching your teeth until your bruxism gets worse as you fight the urge to cry and kiss him. He abandoned you. He left you in Babylon, built a family in the countryside with his niece and never once contacted you. Not a single email, a text, or even a postcard from the village market. He had moved on, leaving you to rot in the shadows of your shared past. Well, until the hospital called, at least.

“Miss Y/N, we found your phone number in Mr. Jeong Jin-Man’s past records at Seoul Presbyterian Hospital. You were always listed as one of the primary emergency contacts. It appears you were the one he trusted the most to be informed if anything ever happened to him.” Said the voice on the other end. It was a woman, perhaps in her late forties. Her voice was clinical, detached—like she had made hundreds of these calls before and would make hundreds more.

Silence.

“Miss Y/N? Are you there?” Her voice carried a hint of impatience now, as if she were checking her watch, waiting for you to respond so she could move on to the next call.

Silence.

Radio silence. Silence of the waves crashing against the dock. Silence of restless sleep haunted by dreams that feel all too real. Silence of eating breakfast alone in the dingy kitchen that still smells faintly of burnt toast and instant coffee. 

Just silence, because after that night he said he was just going to take a break, your Jin-Man was gone. Because you tore out the love he stitched in the codes of your encrypted messages and smudged the writing on the walls of an abandoned warehouse as soon as he kissed you a fake “I’ll see you soon, doll” and never came back. Those codes no longer serve a purpose. The world doesn’t need to know the empty promises he built in a life he abandoned you in for greener grass and an honest life. But watch your rage come undone as you look at him one more time before putting him back on his fucking shelf. Maybe in the autopsy, doctors would declare he had venom on his tongue from all the lies he had spun.

Still, suicide? It didn’t fit him. Not at all. 

Burn everything tied to the decade of memories he left you here to turn gray with as you pass by thousands upon thousands of doctors and empty grieving families. This love was useless, so degrading. Burn it all. Open the windows to send smoke signals to the world. Send your condolences and announce your formal goodbye. Let this rage set fire and engulf every corner of the hideout resting on top of the hill. The mercenary in you has shrunk, as has your dossier.  Look at all this abandoned data the world won't decrypt from turning to ash as you go down the hallway.

Jin-Man was a man you bore no love for. His demise was warranted, perhaps even long overdue. Still, there's a remnant inside you—maybe the part that still clings to familiar pains and old grudges—that can't seem to fully sever ties with him. His persistent stubbornness made his sudden death unexpected. It felt too staged, too clean-cut.

Investigate? No. Of course not.

But here you stood, drawn to Jeong Ji-An who was locked in battle with an ancient vending machine that bore the ghost logo of an extinct company. She was waging a war to tease out one more pack of Marlboro cigarettes from its cold grasp. The irony of a hospital vending machine dispensing life-threatening products wasn’t lost on you. Perhaps it was their last-ditch attempt at salvaging their struggling oncology department or just proof positive of how much this place was going to ruin unnoticed.

“Stupid machine. Stupid cigarettes. Stupid everything!” Jeong Ji-An grunted, her frustration making her face twist and turn into a snarl as she slammed her hand against the machine again, this time harder than the last. "Useless pile of metal!" She hurled out the insult as if in a tug-of-war game—the veins on her neck popping with each heave to shove crumpled notes into its slot—reminding you of an exasperated puppeteer and his uncooperative marionette.

The aggressive clashing and grating of metal ricocheted off the cream-colored walls of the small room, morphing into an ear-splitting symphony that made a few people wince.

A nurse across from you glanced over, raising an eyebrow at the commotion, before returning to his paperwork with a shake of his head. A few patients sat in chairs nearby, flipping through old magazines or staring blankly into space. They didn't seem to mind; they were used to this kind of chaos, you guessed. 

The vending machine let out a final "Error" beep and spit out a crumpled bill before falling silent once more. 

Ji-An cursed under her breath and slumped against it, sucking in a deep breath as she tried to calm herself down. You almost scoffed at the sight of it. Like Uncle, like niece. Maybe hate is like a gene; as long as you teach it, it will be passed down.

Still, she wasn’t crying, not at all. She was just angry and you desired to meet her under other circumstances where she wasn’t a bundle of nerves, grief, and anger. Circumstances that involved leaving Dad and Babylon behind. Circumstances where Jeong Jin-Man had taken you with him—circumstances where you lived together in a pastel-hued cabin tucked away amidst verdant forests, enclosed within a pristine white picket fence—an Eden pregnant with fruit-laden apple and peach trees backed up those fanciful mental paintings. 

A porch with a wicker chair and a small table, where you could place a vase filled with wildflowers you picked together on walks through the forest. Inside, there would be a kitchen that always smelled of freshly baked bread and coffee. The countertops would be cluttered with jars of homemade jam. The fridge would be covered in magnets from places you had visited together—Paris, Tokyo, New York. In these circumstances, Jin-Man would tease you about your green thumb, but he would secretly love the fresh basil in his pasta. On weekends, you would work together in the garden, your hands dirty with soil, the sun warming your skin. You would laugh as you chased each other with the garden hose, spraying water and creating rainbows in the sunlight.

You always kind of wished you had met as kids, back when you were missing your front teeth and he was stealing from small markets. Maybe you would have shared a lollipop, or he would have pushed you on a swing at the playground. You could have built forts out of blankets and chairs in the living room, pretending to be explorers or knights on a quest. 

Parts of you were still girlish and soft and your heart was unguarded. You wish he had met you then. You think he could’ve stayed.

Too bad you'll never be that girl again, huh?

“Anger doesn’t suit you, darling,” you said as you approached her. There’s no need to hide anyway. Snatching the ID from a doctor and her clothes had been surprisingly easy—a well-timed distraction with a spilled cup of coffee and a conveniently unlocked locker. So, yeah, no need to hide. You just need Ji-An’s key and pretend you’re innocent. “It's like an overgrown coat. There’s no threat and you’re not a dog. Don’t bare your teeth.” You leaned against the machine, feeling the cold metal against your left side and the chill creeping into your bones. You tilted your head to look up at her. Damn the Jeong’s and their genetics.

Ji-An froze when she heard your voice from behind her. She turned slowly, glaring at you with those same intense eyes as Jin-Man’s, yet they were filled with anguish rather than curiosity, like when he looked at you as you used knives in missions. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, ready for a fight or ready to break down in tears—you couldn't tell which. But what you did know was that you were right; anger didn't suit her. It made her look fragile and vulnerable, despite the tough exterior she tried to maintain. 

She looked exactly like him. The same sharp jawline, the same piercing eyes. A small pendant dangled from her neck, catching the dim light of the hallway. It read "Ji-An" in delicate, cursive letters. You noticed the brand of her training jacket—Nike, worn and slightly frayed at the cuffs, hinting at long hours of use. Her black leggings were adorned with the logo of a cheap athletic brand, and her sneakers were scuffed and dirty, evidence of countless miles run.

Visibly shaking now, she took a deep breath and slowly let it out before speaking through gritted teeth. "What did you just say?" she whispered. And this time, as clear as the words of a parrot or a redskin whose tongue had been cut off, the phrase was unmistakable: "Who the fuck are you?"

You smiled gently, feigning innocence. "Just a concerned doctor, trying to help," you replied smoothly. "I couldn't help but notice your struggle with this little guy here."

She scoffed. “Concerned doctor, huh? What kind of doctor goes around giving unsolicited advice to strangers?” A single tear slid down her cheek before she wiped it away roughly, revealing reddened skin beneath where she had been scratching herself earlier. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, small crescents of dried blood visible at the edges.

“The kind that cares,” you said, offering her a warm smile. “And the kind that knows a thing or two about stubborn machines.” You reached out and gave the vending machine a firm tap on the side, the metal groaning in protest. This close, you could see the slight tremor in her hands and the growing redness around her eyes. “Sometimes, all it takes is a gentle touch. Can I?”

Ji-An hesitated, her eyes flicking between you and the vending machine. Finally, she let out a frustrated sigh and stepped aside, allowing you to approach the devil in metal and gears. As you moved closer, you could feel her eyes boring into your back, every muscle in her body tense with barely contained anger.

You kneeled down, pretending to inspect the machine. "They really should replace them. My brother works in maintenance; maybe I can put in a good word. Still, I can manage it for now.”

Ji-An narrowed her eyes at you, skepticism etched on her face. "Your brother, huh? And you just happen to know how to fix vending machines too?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

You gave a nonchalant shrug. "What can I say? It's a family thing." Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out your ID, sliding it into the coin slot as if it were a makeshift tool. As you did, you noticed a small panel on the side of the machine that was slightly loose. With a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching too closely, you subtly pried it open with the edge of the card.

Inside, the machine's inner workings were a tangle of wires and gears, some of which looked worn and outdated. You carefully maneuvered your fingers, adjusting a misaligned lever and reconnecting a loose wire. The machine let out a soft whirr as it came back to life, the lights flickering slightly before stabilizing. You could hear the faint hum of the compressor kicking in and the clinking sound of coins inside the hopper.

"These old models always have issues with the coin mechanism," you said, half to yourself and half to Ji-An. "A couple of the gears tend to get misaligned. That's probably why it wasn't taking your money."

"Yeah, well, it's been one of those days," Ji-An muttered, folding her arms across her chest. She shifted from foot to foot and her eyes darted around the hallway, as if expecting someone to appear and drag her away from this frustrating situation.

"I know the feeling. Sometimes it seems like the universe just wants to mess with us.”

With a few more movements, you managed to dislodge the stuck pack of cigarettes. It finally dropped down, landing with a dull thud on the ground. Ironically, it rolled slightly before stopping at Ji-An's feet. 

“Fuck! Finally!”

She bent over to pick it up, slamming it against the machine in triumph before turning towards you. Her expressive eyes flashed with anger and something else—recognition? Grudging acceptance? It was hard to tell with all the emotions swirling around like a hurricane inside that small space behind them.

As she bent down, you saw your chance. Her training jacket pocket was slightly open, revealing the edge of a keyring. With drilled ease, you slipped your fingers into the pocket and retrieved the keys, all while keeping your expression neutral and your movements casual.

Ji-An straightened up, clutching the pack of cigarettes tightly in her hand. "Thanks.”

"No problem. Just doing my job." You stood up and dusted off your hands, slipping the keys into your own pocket discreetly. "I hope you find some peace, Ji-An."

She looked taken aback for a moment, her eyes widening in surprise. "How do you know my name?" 

You gave her a knowing look, tapping the name pendant around her neck lightly. "It's right there," you said with a small chuckle. "Take care, okay?" 

Ji-An's eyes followed your finger, her expression softening ever so slightly. "Yeah, thanks. You too, I guess."

As you walked away, the keys safely in your possession, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. But you pushed it aside. You had what you needed. 

“By the way," Ji-An called out, making you pause. "Do you work here often? I don't remember seeing you before."

You turned back, giving her a casual smile. "I'm new here. Just transferred from another hospital. Maybe that's why."

She nodded slowly, still clutching the pack of Marlboro Reds. "Well, thanks again. I appreciate it."

"Anytime," you replied, turning on your heel and heading down the hallway. The keys jingled softly in your pocket. The game was on.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

okay so you killed him now what is the opposite of killing miller?

(this is a prompt)

Hi Zita, it's been 84 years. I wrote something for this finally. There's puns and genuine feelings and baby facts in here, learned firsthand.

-

Miller's been in the same room for the last 6 hours. That was the last time he left to pop down the hall to get water and snacks for his charges. Before that he was back in the room fiddling with the light settings, helping adjust the hospital bed, and reminding nurses and patients of the most recent pain ratings, meds and dosages, and questions. So many questions. Mostly from Roland.

S-IVs don't need as much sleep as normal people, which is a blessing and a curse. It's what got him into this situation.

All hands on deck means all hands on deck when the Infinity picks up a distress signal and responds to a colony-ship abandoned by its AI.

Roland makes sure to express his opinions straight into Jared's ear, but he switches gears when triage happens. They work in tandem with little bickering as the Infinity's numbers swell with their new pick up.

It's a lot of civilian types, entire families with many generations all milling about and a cloud of anxiety over them. Miller can feel the weight of their stares and the burning curiosity Roland exudes as he leans on Miller's Mjolnir to look closer at so many new people.

Children weren't something he'd seen up close before.

He ends up forgoing the helmet given how jumpy they are around him. The results are night and day: he goes from a faceless tool of the UNSC to Jared Miller, awkward guy and newly designated Au Pair.

Cmdr. Palmer would be laughing at him if there was a single motherly bone in her body allowing her within 500 yards of the makeshift maternity ward in this corner of the infirmary.

Miller had also forgone the helmet due to the amount of questions he'd been receiving from all sides. Between the kids, the civilian parents glaring at him, and Roland's unfettered access to his eyes and ears, he wanted a breather from the HUD and proximity alarms as brave tweens and toddlers approached him.

The previous 12 hours had been a deluge of:

"Have you killed any aliens?"

"Spartan Miller, ask that nurse about the new mottling on the baby's skin. It's probably just newborn rash, but you should ask."

"Why are you so tall? Did they give you more bones?"

"Miller, ask to hold the baby, I want to use the armor's sensors to check oxygen levels."

"Do you know Master Chief?"

"Spartan Miller, are you ignoring me?"

"Mister Spartan, can you get us some extra blankets?"

"Can I hold your gun?"

It's 2300 when the extended family of the newborn shuffle off to parts unseen to get some rest and give the new parents space when it happens. The brave faces tire and the frazzled nerves shine through. Technically, Miller is off the clock. He should go recover in his own quarters. He should leave.

He does.

The assemblage bay is a hive of activity. A well oiled machine taking apart its smaller machines and putting them away for future use. Miller feels more human in his ready gear with a shower and a meal in him.

He wanders back into the infirmary and smiles awkwardly at the faces lighting up to see him.

The baby's just been fed and needs swaddling. Mom hasn't slept in close to 48 hours, and her wife is struggling to keep her eyes open from the awful makeshift bench. Cots were elsewhere and this is what they had to work with.

Mom just needs to lay down without worrying about the baby for a half hour till the next nurse comes. Wife just needs to sit down. Miller takes first watch and swaddling duty. He'd seen it done a dozen times over the last day and then some. Make a triangle with the cloth, tuck the arms gently so they don't scratch the face, move the cloth left over and under, the bottom up and over a shoulder and right over left. Secure and warm in hands big enough to dwarf the less than eight pound bundle. Hat affixed to a dark head of hair to retain heat. Tiny features squinch up and relax at the change in pressure and temperature.

Facts from the last day and a half pour over Miller's mind. Support the head and neck. Check for blue around the mouth in case of oxygenation issues. Newborns lose 10% of their weight the first few days. You have to train them to eat, they're used to getting food automatically. The diapers won't be pretty but black tar and brickdust are normal for the first few days.

He stands and sways. Dinosaurs of all colors look back at him from the swaddle. Wife succumbs to sleep with her head pillowed on a jacket and a spare blanket over her. Mom holds a pillow and curls up, too warm in a newborn temperature room. She dozes as Miller sways, squeezes, and shushes the little one. A red face and a small cry let him know it's nearly time to change the diaper. A glance at the clock lets him know the nurse should be there soon. A golden bit of text on one of the panels lets him know that Roland is still hellbent on learning, nagging, and all around being involved in the whole process.

The nurse comes in for Mom's 4 hour check and another round of meds. They help Mom sit up and adjust in the hospital bed while Miller changes the diaper.

He keeps up a steady stream of words at the little squirming bundle. "I know, I know. It's so cold right? Well we'll get you warm in juuust a second."

Miller's grateful for the nurses and the well-stocked bassinet. Diaper changed, baby cleaned, and the tiny squealing human calms from squeaking cries to small grumbles as they shift from upset-red back to healthy pink.

They're so small. It's insane.

Miller's still staring when the nurse approaches to check and prep for another round of feeding and skin-to-skin contact.

"You're a trooper." They say, nodding to Miller.

"Actually I'm a Spartan." He jokes as he goes to wash his hands.

The baby mewls loudly before quieting again.

"Didn't think it was that bad of a joke…"

Mom smiles and the nurse rolls their eyes.

Miller comes back and moves his vigil to the chair in the corner over the next several hours.

It doesn't get any less surreal, but something's shifted.

[strictlyfavorites]

On this day, 80 years ago, in May 1945, Private First Class Desmond T. Doss, 26 years old, was serving as a combat medic with Company B, 1st Battalion, 307th Infantry Regiment, 77th Infantry Division during the Battle of Okinawa. His unit was assigned to take the Maeda Escarpment, a steep, jagged cliff the Americans called “Hacksaw Ridge.”

The Japanese had turned the top of that ridge into a fortress. It was honeycombed with caves, tunnels, and concealed firing positions. On April 29, Doss and his company scaled the cargo nets up the cliff and pushed inland. Almost immediately, they encountered fierce resistance. Mortar shells, grenades, and machine gun fire rained down on them from concealed positions. The Americans launched several assaults over the following days, taking ground and then being pushed back again and again. The fighting was constant and brutal.

On May 5, his battalion launched another assault. They gained a foothold but by nightfall the unit was devastated by a Japanese counterattack. Dozens of men were wounded and left stranded on the top of the escarpment. The rest of the battalion was forced to withdraw, climbing back down the cliff to regroup. Desmond Doss refused to leave.

Alone on top of the ridge, with enemy soldiers still nearby, Doss spent the entire night crawling from one wounded man to another. Each time he found someone alive, he dragged or carried them to the edge of the escarpment. There, using a rope and a makeshift sling knot he had learned as a boy, he lowered them one by one to safety. He exposed himself to enemy fire over and over again. He was unarmed. He carried no weapon. The Japanese could see him moving but didn’t realize he was a medic until it was too late. In some cases, he treated enemy soldiers as well.

Throughout the night, he kept working. He prayed each time before going back out: “Lord, please help me get one more.” By the time the sun came up, he had lowered an estimated 75 wounded men off the escarpment. Some said it was closer to 100. Doss himself later said he believed it was 50. His commanding officers split the difference. The Army credited him with saving 75 men in one night, alone, under fire, without a weapon.

Over the next days, he remained on the line. On May 21, while moving through a shell hole, he was hit by a grenade blast. Shrapnel tore through his legs. He treated his own wounds and waited five hours before stretcher bearers could reach him. While being carried back to the rear, his unit came under sniper fire. Doss saw another man seriously wounded and rolled off his stretcher, insisting the other man be taken first. He then crawled 300 yards to the aid station. A few days later, he was hit again, this time by a sniper’s bullet that shattered his arm. He fashioned a splint out of a rifle stock and crawled back to safety.

For his actions at Hacksaw Ridge and in the days that followed, Desmond Doss received the Medal of Honor from President Harry S. Truman on October 12, 1945. He was the first conscientious objector in American history to receive the Medal of Honor. He also received two Bronze Stars for actions on Guam and Leyte, and three Purple Hearts.

After the war, Doss suffered from tuberculosis he contracted in the Pacific. He lost a lung and five ribs and spent years recovering. Despite long-term health problems, he lived quietly in Georgia with his wife and son until his death in 2006. He was buried in Chattanooga National Cemetery in Tennessee.

Desmond Doss refused to carry a weapon, but his actions saved more men than most who did. His courage under fire, his refusal to abandon the wounded, and his commitment to his principles made him one of the most remarkable soldiers of World War II.

World War II American Army Medic Desmond T. Doss, serving during the Battle of Okinawa, refuses to kill people and becomes the first man in American history to receive the Medal of Honor without firing a shot.

[velkia]

you have some of the coolest ocs ive ever seen! can you please share their jobs/combat styles (if they have any)?

-cracks their fingers-

Thanks for this question, it's been ages since I got to talk about my characters, and I'm so happy to see there's still interest in my babies! ;w;

Just a heads up, I'll be using some older drawings (pre-2023) and comic pages in french to illustrate things, if you notice a difference in style, that's totally normal!

My characters go through a lot of phases, but I'll just summarize two of the main ones: the time when they were traveling together and the time when they’ve settled into adulthood.

Click here to read this on a more suitable interface, if you are on a computer!

From left to right: Axel, Uvia, Veron and Tellos

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nowadays, Axel's just your average journalist, living life without much magic, except for the occasional use to rev up his motorcycle or light his pipe.

Back in the day when he was an adventurer, though, things were different. If he found himself in a scrap, he had a mechanical flying broom, crafted by Tellos, at his service, along with a trusty rope to tie up his foes. He could also conjure shields of cascading fire.

If things got really intense, he would unleash a massive fire laser to clear his path, but only in the most extreme situations (he's not a violent boy).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nowadays, Veron's a simple office worker clocking in 9 to 5. But he's also a priest, so his schedule is packed with community events like soup kitchens, masses, and charity activities.

Back in the day, he was an exorcist on a mission to heal the many cursed gods that inhabit their world. His powers were tied to electricity and magnetism, which he used to fly, deflect enemy attacks and connect his exorcism amulet to the targeted god. Plus, he wielded a katana and could manipulate any metal weapon from a distance.

In a pinch, he could disarm his foes and, if things got really out of hand, he could zap them with a jolt of electricity (but same as Axel, he's a good boy so it's not his cup of tea to turn the enemy into a roastie).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Nowadays, Uvia, Axel's twin, is a harbor innkeeper just trying to navigate the chaos of motherhood with her hellish kid, Nikolaj. Her powers allow her to play with ice and manipulate the temperature in her cocktails.

Back in her youth, that same ice was a formidable weapon. She could conjure swords, sabers, and shields to defend herself, and she had a blast shaping the terrain to trap her enemies or slide in for a quick attack. Outside of combat, she could use her abilities to cool down injured areas, acting as a makeshift anesthetic.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

These days, Tellos is a plumbing engineer who sometimes picks up extra work doing repairs in people's homes. He’s also the adoptive father of Nikolaj, and he's doing his best to keep the little hellion out of trouble. His powers are great for maintaining his vegetable garden.

Back in his adventurous days, he relied heavily on his mechanical backpack, which was like a Swiss army knife for combat: it had propellers, thrusters, giant hands, blades, and even a small squadron of machine-gun robots. His plant-related powers came in handy too, allowing him to create fuel for his gadgets and potentially trap enemies. Outside of battle, he used those same powers to whip up powerful ointments whenever needed.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Speaking of my other OCs (this post is getting pretty long lmao), Kohana used to be a spy on the run, wielding daggers and setting traps.

Now, she’s made a name for herself as a legitimate political figure who genuinely listens to her constituents.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Then there’s Rhoda, Veron’s little sister. She shares his powers but focuses on precision, using her abilities to electrify her projectiles and target enemies effectively. Today, she’s a close colleague and valued friend of Kohana.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

As for Elombe and Yasmine, I don’t have a visual for their current designs, sorry! Just picture Elombe as a barely-teen elf, while Yasmine was already an adult when the others were still on their adventures so she didn't change much.

Elombe is still a schoolboy, he loves to dress up as the god of rain and show off the shapes he can create with his powers. He can even make water clones, which can be quite the hell for enemies who hate kids~

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Yasmine, on the other hand, is a priestess in a women’s parish dedicated to the god of wind. Her powers allow her to soar through the skies to visit her deity and send her enemies flying, though that doesn’t happen too often.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Thanks for your patience while I rambled about my characters! qvq

It’s always a joy to share their journeys and transformations. If you have any more questions or want to dive deeper into any specific character, feel free to ask! I’m always here to chat about my OCs and their adventures. Until next time, thanks for joining me on this little trip down memory lane~

[homosexuality-and-morphine]

Thinking about Leon and how much of a little freak/pos he is in my au and so here's some instances of him being weird

He has tried to eat a candy bar with the wrapper still on bc he didn't feel like unwrapping it (Chris caught it before he could eat it and unwrapped it for him)

He consistently breaks vending machines while on missions to get a snack

He can't sit normally and actually gets irritated in professional settings when he doesn't have a chance to sit weirdly

Tends to get picked up and will try to wriggle out (with usually no luck) and the only exception is when Chris picks him up and hes just like "oh ok this is happening now ig"

Tends to try to get to the highest place he can to watch everyone and not get bothered

When not working he can't stand to not be touching/near someone so it's very normal to see him just standing somewhere with his hand on someone's shoulder and most of the time he doesn't know what he's doing there (mainly from his mutations being licker based and my version of them being pack animals)

Gets territorial over lickers being in his general vicinity (specifically bc he "imprinted" on humans so he doesn't view lickers as his "species" despite the fact if he hadn't escaped raccoon city with Claire he would have ended up viewing himself as a licker due to not being around humans during the first "developmental stage" of his infection)

When he sits he curls his tail around himself like a cat would

If he doesn't wanna talk about something he will try to hide under things or climb into the ceiling (the wolf hound squad base has room above the ceiling so that Leon can have his own area)

If he thinks something could make a cool noise he attempts to get it to make the cool noise (this involves him pushing things off ledges for no reason)

Will start to attack a Lazer pointer or other cat toys if he is prompted to (practically shoved in his face) at the right moment of him spacing out

He has so many silent ways of communicating to Claire and Chris that either of them could probably have an entire conversation with Leon without him even making a noise

He doesn't like being treated like an animal but sometimes people genuinely have to treat him like that to fulfill his needs (by that I mean he starts chewing and clawing things if he doesn't get enough enrichment... Which also means he sometimes needs to indulge his urges that he gets from being infected which he hates)

He can space out for hours at a time and it's very common to see him laying on the floor and then coming back like 2 hours later to him still being on the floor and has not moved at all

Has guns stashed everywhere if there doesn't seem to be a gun nearby it's probably with him or in the ceiling

He has an insane amount of plushies and pillows that take up almost all of his bed (he uses them to make a makeshift cave along with multiple blankets and Chris has to be super careful to not make it collapse bc then Leon won't get any sleep trying to fix it)

Doesn't trust Ashley to drive him anywhere despite the fact she can drive better than him

Has back issues but also is more bendy than anyone else in the wolf hound squad

He trys to bite people if he gets startled but tries to not break the skin because it would just be annoying for the other person to get multiple cures at once