#rust eliminator

[accessabletechnology]

Powerful Rust Eliminator for Long-Lasting Protection

Say goodbye to rust with our effective rust eliminator. This fast-acting solution removes rust and prevents further corrosion, keeping your tools, vehicles, and metal surfaces in top condition. Easy to apply, it ensures long-lasting protection against rust buildup, prolonging the life of your metal items.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - physical abuse, mentions of kidnapping, themes of marking/ownership. based on this ask.

Suguru has your name tattooed just below his collarbone.

It's subtle. Black ink pressed into neat kanji, bold lettering camouflaged behind the swirls and patterns of his other designs. Yours emerges from the back of a brilliant, white and blue dragon, while Satoru's hangs below, settled into the spiraling pupil of the dragon's eye. You try not to look for it. Really, you try not to look at him at all, but he makes it difficult - always forcing your hand against his chest, always asking you to read out the only names that have or will ever matter to him. It might be a little more romantic if he didn't seem so proud, if he didn't purr out his affirmations of love with quite so much self-satisfaction. He wants evidence of his claim to you, of his right to you, and what could be more telling than carrying your name so close to his heart?

Satoru wears two wedding rings.

Technically four, if you count the engagement bands he keeps on a delicate silver chain around his neck. It's embarrassing, honestly. He'd always been the one to propose - first to Suguru, when they were fresh out of high school, then to you, on the first anniversary of your abduction. The two of you aren't actually married (no, they'd never let you stray far enough from their countryside estate for that), but Satoru likes to pretend, and Suguru likes to indulge him. He calls you by all the right terms of endearment, brings home cake and flowers every few weeks for some invented milestone, whines when he finds your rarely-worn ring stuffed under the mattress or broken into pieces on the floor. He's always wanted something domestic, something mutual. Your continued imprisonment may eliminate any hope for the latter, but he can still try to nudge you towards the former.

They've both carved their names into you.

Suguru's, first, stretching over the small of your back. The lines are jagged, the scarring ugly and only just beginning to heal around the roughest patches. He did it on impulse - as a punishment for trying to run away, as proof that you'd never really be able to get away from them. He wanted to make himself a part of you, and in a way, he did.

Satoru's had to be inflicted later on, after weeks of building jealousy and off-handed comments about how unfair it would be to leave you so lopsided. His name was handled more with more care - engraved in your shared bedroom rather than the back of Suguru's car, using a proper scalpel rather than a rusted pocket knife. Suguru held you while Satoru did the dirty work, nuzzling into your tear-streaked cheeks and promising that they were only doing this because they loved you, because they had to make sure you knew who you belonged with. That did nothing to stop the pain, of course, almost as intense as the bitter hatred you feel every time Satoru presses a line of kisses up the length of your spine or Suguru settles a hand over the ruined mess of skin and flesh that you once called your own. Satoru holds up his rings to your scars, and Suguru offers to get another line of ink, and they try to convince you that you're all on equal ground. You're not, though. Obviously, you're not.

As violently as they refuse to admit it, Satoru can take off his rings, and Suguru can cover up his tattoos. Your claims to them can be removed, or hidden, and if they ever wanted to, they could leave, separate themselves, run.

For whatever reason, you just weren't given the same choice.

[relicfragment]

had to put our fire pit to the road today because it was completely infested with brown widow spiders. I bought it 3 years ago and we only used it twice but i still feel like shit that its gonna get thrown out.

[dangeroustravelermultiverse]

Neglected wintersoldier! Reader x batfam

Chapter 3 : Ghosts in the shadows

TW: Violence

Location: Gotham City — 2:03 AM Target: Retrieve stolen WayneTech data from rogue arms dealer Vasili Krymov Status: Active

(I wanted to put a credit on this art but I found this in Pinterest so I don't know who draw this.)

The city hadn't changed.

It still reeked of rot and rain. It still bled corruption through every alley and whispered violence through every crack in its broken concrete. The skyline loomed jagged above her like the ribs of a dead god. Gotham was a graveyard, and she moved through it like a ghost.

Her boots made no sound against the damp rooftop. A cold breeze kissed the exposed edge of her black tactical suit, which blended seamlessly with the shadows. Her mask concealed every part of her identity, its visor glowing faint red, casting a dull light across the rooftop ledge. The metal arm, sleek and plated in black alloy, flexed as she adjusted the sniper sling across her back.

Winter Soldier didn’t feel the cold. She didn't feel anything.

Only the mission.

Behind her, two silent figures waited. Dressed in similar black stealth armor, the two backup agents—Agent Kova and Agent Mikhail—stood with rifles slung, eyes scanning the skyline.

"In case she falters," Mikhail muttered in Russian, nodding toward her. "You say the first three. I say the last two. Understood?"

"Understood," Kova replied, eyes never leaving the perimeter.

Just in case.

Winter Soldier pressed two fingers to her comm.

"This is Winter Soldier. Target compound in sight. Four hostiles on perimeter."

"Confirmed," her handler's voice responded in her ear—calm, clipped, in Russian. "Eliminate. Secure the drive. No witnesses."

Her eyes narrowed behind the mask. With one fluid motion, she leapt from the rooftop, landing in a crouch behind a stack of rusted crates. She counted the guards silently.

One smoking near the fence. Two more walking a lazy patrol near the loading dock. The last one was nodding off by a security panel.

Winter Soldier moved.

The first died with a blade across the throat. The second and third didn't even have time to reach for their weapons before her silenced pistol dispatched them with two clean shots. The last one barely gasped before her metal arm slammed him into the wall hard enough to break his neck.

She approached the warehouse door, scanning the lockpad. A few seconds of silent work, and the door hissed open.

Inside, the flickering industrial lights illuminated rows of crates stamped with WayneTech logos. Krymov was hunched over a workstation, shoving encrypted drives into a bag.

"You're late," he muttered in Russian, not bothering to look up.

"You're dead," Winter Soldier replied.

He barely had time to turn before her boot collided with his chest, sending him crashing into a metal shelf. His gun clattered uselessly across the floor. She walked toward him with clinical calm, withdrawing a blade.

Just as she reached for the data drive—

"That's far enough."

The voice came from above. Familiar. Dangerous.

She turned instantly, blade raised.

Shapes descended from the rafters and shadows. One by one, they emerged: Nightwing, flipping acrobatically to the floor. Red Hood, twin pistols aimed. Robin, sword already drawn. Orphan, silent but watching. Red Robin, analyzing the scene with sharp eyes. And at the rear, stepping out of the darkness like a judgment—Batman.

They surrounded her.

Y/n's pulse didn't change. Her training kicked in.

Assess. React. Eliminate.

From across the compound, Kova and Mikhail crouched in the shadows, watching closely.

"She’s hesitating," Kova whispered. His hand hovered near his mic. "She might be glitching."

"Trigger sequence," Mikhail replied. He raised his comm and spoke softly in Russian:

"оставление. тень. назначение."

Then Kova finished with:

"без страха. удар."

The flicker behind Y/n's eyes vanished.

Jason took aim. "Who the hell is this?"

"Doesn't match any League profile," Damian said coldly. "But she moves like one."

"Familiar," Orphan whispered. Her head tilted. "Too familiar."

Batman stepped forward slowly. "Identify yourself."

Y/n didn’t answer. Instead, she adjusted her stance and charged.

The first hit was aimed at Red Robin. Tim dodged narrowly, his staff meeting her blade with a sharp crack. Her strength was overwhelming, forcing him to retreat. Nightwing intercepted her next strike with his escrima sticks, sparks flying from the impact.

"She’s strong—too strong!" Dick called out.

Red Hood fired two shots toward her legs. She flipped over them, landed behind Jason, and landed a sharp elbow to his jaw, sending him stumbling. Robin rushed in, sword raised, slashing fast and precise.

She parried each blow effortlessly. Her metal arm caught the blade mid-strike and twisted it from Damian's grip. She kicked him across the floor.

Orphan stepped in next, engaging in close combat. Their movements were a blur—strike, block, twist, pivot. Orphan aimed for pressure points; Winter Soldier deflected every attempt with brutal counterattacks. The fight was surgical.

In the chaos, Batman approached from behind, aiming to incapacitate her with a precise nerve hold.

But she ducked, swept his legs, and drove her elbow toward his chest. He blocked at the last second, but stumbled.

She was winning.

Then she threw down a smoke pellet.

The room exploded in black fog. Coughs. Shouts. Disorientation.

When the smoke cleared, she was gone.

All that remained was the unconscious arms dealer, the stolen drive—and a broken batarang embedded in the wall, its edge crushed in a mechanical grip.

Batcave — 4:30 AM

The footage played on a loop.

Bruce stood in silence, arms crossed, staring at the slowed-down video. Winter Soldier caught the batarang mid-air. Crushed it with ease. Not with anger, but precision. Purpose.

"She dodged me," Damian said from the side. "Like she knew my strikes before I made them."

"I got a clear shot. She moved the moment my finger touched the trigger," Jason muttered. "Like she'd been trained to read me."

"She fights like one of us," Dick said quietly.

Orphan stood in the corner, arms crossed. "It was her."

Everyone looked at her.

"We don't know that," Bruce said, but his voice lacked conviction.

"She moved like her. The hesitation. The way she didn't strike me when she had the chance."

Tim frowned. "You think that... thing was Y/N?"

No one spoke.

The silence in the cave was deafening.

Bruce turned back to the screen, watching the figure vanish into smoke again.

His daughter had once begged to be a part of their world. She had trained herself to the brink of exhaustion for a place in their shadows.

Now... she was the shadow.

And they didn't recognize her.

W-17 Extraction Point — Undisclosed Safehouse, Gotham — 5:12 AM

She sat alone in the corner of the room, helmet off, visor resting on the table beside her. The data drive was secure in her hand, clutched like a lifeline. Blood—some hers, some not—dried on her suit. Her metal fingers twitched slightly, remnants of a surge triggered by that damn batarang.

She hadn't expected them to be there.

No—she hadn't expected herself to care.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

Focus. Forget. Reset.

But the voices lingered.

The red one. The blue one. The boy with the sword. The quiet girl. The big one in black.

She didn’t know them.

She shouldn’t have known them.

And yet… something pulsed in her skull. A flicker. A whisper.

"Dad?"

She flinched.

A gloved hand suddenly touched her shoulder. Mikhail.

"You hesitated," he said simply.

Y/N didn’t look up. “Just a flicker.”

"Flickers become fractures," Kova warned from across the room.

"Say the sequence," Mikhail ordered.

Her jaw clenched.

"Say it."

“…оставление. тень. назначение. без страха. удар.”

The words burned now. Like chains around her tongue.

“Good soldier,” Kova muttered.

“Successful extraction. Mission complete,” Mikhail said into the comm.

Y/N stood, walking toward the window overlooking Gotham’s skyline. Her city. Her past.

They hadn’t seen her.

Maybe they never really had.

She clenched the drive tighter.

She is Winter Soldier now.

And ghosts don’t get remembered.

Notes: Boom Shakalaka ! SURPISED EXTRA CHAPTER! I do this on the spot just to distract myself from reality because who needs them ? Sure I have my assignments but I need to do something to get my minds off depressing thoughts.

[fiyaahhhhh]

(sorry for the crappy recording)

I love them.. I love them so much...

AND OH MY GOODNESS!???? HER REAL NAME IS DAIDAN!??????

I ACTUALLY THOUGHT HER NAME WAS MADE BY RUST (@rusted-fairy-wings)

AND THE FACT THAT KAI JST ONE SHOTS THAT SEA MONSTER AND BREAKS THE SCREEN??????? (he's so op, I'm gonna blaze him all day to my friends who know Ninjago cus I'm born and a natural Kai blazer and also because he was my first childhood crush)

DAIDANS FREAKING VOICE!?????

THE TRIO IS THE LITERAL DEFINITION OF "this trio is too powerful, we need to eliminate one of them."

RAAAAHHHHHGSHSHSJSJDBNDBDNFBDNFN (also, rusty please come back, this duo and this series are nothing without you..)

[castielscaplan]

The One in Charge(ketch/Dean)

Summary: Dean doesn't trust Ketch, and the night proved him right.

Warnings: minor violence

WC: 561

Read on ao3!

for my bean @heavenssexiestangel <3

--

The job had gone south. Fast. It was supposed to be simple—track down a rogue nest, clear them out, and get the hell out before sunrise. But things were never simple when Ketch was involved.

Dean gritted his teeth, pressing his back against the cold brick wall of the abandoned motel. Blood dripped from a cut above his brow, and his ribs ached from where a vamp had thrown him into a rusted-out car.

Ketch, standing across from him, didn’t look much better. His suit was torn, his lip split, and his right hand was clutching his side like he was trying to keep himself together.

"You had to go in first," Dean muttered, wiping the blood from his eye. "You just couldn’t wait for backup."

Ketch scoffed. "Backup? You mean you? Forgive me if I don't place my life in the hands of a man whose strategy usually involves kicking down doors and shooting first."

Dean pushed off the wall, advancing on him. "Yeah? And what was your grand plan, exactly? Getting yourself caught so I had to save your ass?"

Ketch huffed, shifting his weight. "I was gathering intelligence, Winchester. Something you might try sometime instead of—"

A crash from inside the motel cut him off. Both men tensed, their weapons raising instinctively. They weren’t alone.

Dean’s hand clenched around his gun. "We’ve got maybe a minute before the rest of them come looking. So how about we skip the part where you act like you’re smarter than everyone else and work with me for once?"

Ketch tilted his head, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth despite the blood staining his teeth. "Dean," he murmured, voice low, smooth, and dangerously amused. "There’s a reason I’m the one in charge. And it’s not because I play nice."

Dean’s jaw tightened. "Yeah? Well, look where that’s got you."

Ketch chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "True. But it also got us exactly where we needed to be."

Before Dean could ask what the hell he meant, a single gunshot rang out from the other side of the room. A choked gurgle followed.

Dean spun around just in time to see the last standing vampire slump forward, a neat bullet hole in the center of its forehead.

"You son of a—" Dean turned back, eyes narrowing. "You planned this?"

Ketch exhaled, straightening despite the obvious pain in his ribs. "I had a strong suspicion our little friend would alert the nest to our presence. And I knew their leader would send out his strongest to flank us. Now, thanks to my recklessness, as you put it, we’ve eliminated the head of the operation, and the rest will scatter."

Dean stared at him for a long moment; lips pressed into a tight line. Then, finally—"You’re a dick."

Ketch smirked. "Yes, but an effective one."

Dean rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached out, gripping Ketch’s arm, steadying him when the other man swayed slightly. Ketch stiffened, as if the idea of someone helping him was more offensive than the wounds he’d sustained.

"Relax," Dean muttered, hauling him toward the exit. "You might be in charge, but you still need someone to drag your sorry ass out of here."

Ketch exhaled sharply, but this time, he didn’t argue. For once, they were on the same page.

[gardens-light]

Heyy, I just wanted to say I really love your writing! Your stories are always so good, and I admire how creative you are. I was wondering if you’d ever think about doing something with Dino/Mirage x human spy? I’m obsessed with his design in the Bayverse movies

Hey there, and thank you so much for the lovely compliment! I know I say this alot, but it really does mean alot to hear that people enjoy reading my silly little fics.

I've honestly only know of Mirage in the ROTB movie, but I'd be lying if I didn't say I didn't love that mech's attitude. Anyways, hope you enjoy this piece that was inspired by your prompt, and I do have a few ideas floating around in my drafts for future works of Mirage.

Apologies again for the long wait.

---

High Stakes and High Tension

Content: Autobot Mirage x GN/Human Spy Reader.

Inspired Song: A View To A Kill- Duran Duran

Word Count: 1900

Sunlight streamed through the broken windows of an abandoned hangar on the outskirts of a forgotten airstrip. Inside, the air was thick with dust, along with the scent of oil and rust lingered like ghosts of a time long gone. Optimus stood tall within the center, his frame gleaming faintly in the dim light. His blue optics studying the black SUV's approaching in the distance.

"Prime, I don't see why I need a partner." Mirage complained from the sidelines, casually leaning against a support beam. Occasionally feeling Optimus' side glance, raising an optic ridge at the sleek silver-and-blue Porsche's smooth, almost teasing tone. "I'm perfectly capable of handling a little infiltration on my own. It's my speciality afterall-"

"I do not question you nor your abilities, Mirage. But, this mission requires cooperation from the humans governmental intelligence. I believe their chosen agent has been briefed-"

The sound of your steel-cap boots clicking against the concrete interrupted the air, drawing the attention of the Autobots and fellow soldiers. Mirage's optics slowly wandered over your frame, taking in how the tailored black tactical suit outlined your confident figure. A headset tucked neatly behind your ear, keeping your hair out of your face. As your piercing eyes scanned the room with the precision of someone who left nothing to chance.

"Mirage, this is Agent Y/N. Aka, Agent Cobra." Optimus introduced, acknowledging you with a simple nod and curt smile. "They're one of the U.S government's top spies. They'll be assisting you on this mission."

"So, you're the 'advanced asset' I'm working with?" you clipped with a professional mannerism. Striding towards the silver-and-blue Autobot, with a tilted head and placing hands upon your hips.

"That's me. The only mech who looks good." Mirage pushed himself off the beam, gesturing towards himself with a dramatic flourish, before holding out a relaxed fist. "Nice meeting you, babe. The name's Mirage."

Your brows furrowed slightly, "save the charm. I'm here to get the job done, not to exchange pleasantries."

"Oh you're feisty. I like that." A small smile teased the corners of the blue Autobot's lips. "I like it alot."

"What's the mission?" rolling your eyes, already feeling the beginnings of a headache.

Optimus projected a hologram from his forearm, displaying a video of a group of individuals from high society, exchanging crates of weaponry with a towering Deception in the background. "For months these humans have been collaborating with the Decepticons. I believe they're providing our enemy with resources for their war effort. Your task is to infiltrate their operation, confirm the extent of their alliance, and eliminate the threat."

"Understood. Let's move out." You spoke with a curt nod.

With a dramatic spin and styled flair, the sound of whirling gears and shifting pistons filled the air, as Mirage transformed into his alt-mode. The Porsche engine growling with a prideful rumble, as he felt your gaze rake over his sleek, silver with cobalt-blue racing stripes. Swinging his passenger door open with a gentleman like gesture towards you.

---

Infiltrating a posh gala where the rich and elite of high society mingled, including the suspected allies of the Decepticons were said to be meeting. Mirage's altmode blended in flawlessly with the other high-end sports cars, which parked outside of the modern mansion. His sensors feeding you information through your comms.

You moved through the crowd with calculated movement, your elegant black attire matching the formal style of the grand ballroom.

"Target spotted." You whispered into the earpiece.

"Which one? 'Mr Tacky Red Tie' talking to the broad dressed in purple?" Mirage teased.

"No." You lowly hissed, scanning the room. "Black suit and tie by the bar... and keep your chatter to a minimum."

The Autobot's laughter crackled softly through your earpiece. "You're at a fancy party, babe. Loosen up."

Rolling your eyes, ignoring his teasing tone while sliding into a seat near your target. The middle-age man didn't notice your presence until you casually ordered a drink, only giving you a slight flirtatious gaze before returning to his own drink.

"Uh, Cobra?" Mirage's serious tone buzzed through your earpiece, snapping you out of a daze that held your attention for the past uneventful moments. "We've got company. Big, stompy, and ugly."

Your eyes flickered towards the mirror behind the bar, catching a glimpse of two brutish mechs that past the far window behind you. One with jagged red plating, while the other had rust covering his gun-metal frame. Their massive frames concealed by Cybertronian cloaking tech, making them nearly invisible to the human eye.

"I see them." Your muttered words remained in your calm tone, while you casually and discreetly followed your target towards the nearest exit.

"Time to bail?" Mirage suggested.

"Not yet. We need confirmation they're handing over Cybertronian tech first-"

"You're gonna get yourself squished!"

But you continued, ignoring Mirage's warning.

Moving towards another spot closer to your location, Mirage's altmode tucked away under an empty driveway, his sensors watching you creep into the garage that was clearly restricted access from the rest of the party.

The dimly lit garage hummed faintly with the energy radiating from the Cybertronian tech scattered around. Kneeling by a crate, your small camera clicked quietly, as you documented the evidence of human-Decepticon collaboration. Each photo capturing damning details: encrypted datapads, energon cubes, and schematics that only a Cybertronian would recognize.

"Cobra," Mirage's voice crackled softly through your comm, his usual playful tone replaced with urgency. "You've got company-two guards heading your way. Twelve meters out and closing fast-"

"Give me thirty more seconds," your words came out in a hushed whisper. Your tone focused, aiming your camera at another crate, snapping pictures as fast you could. "I need to finish this-"

"You don't have thirty seconds, babe. They're gonna be right on top you in about ten. I suggest you-"

"I said almost done-"

Before you could even finish your sentence, barely having time to react before someone grabbed your wrist. Only a small gasp escaped you, as Mirage's human-like holographic form materialized out of nowhere. Pinning your back against the side of his altmode, the space between the wall of the undercover driveway and the Porsche forced the pair of you to be incredibly close.

Opening your mouth, but Mirage raised a finger to your lips. Silencing any protest that dared to murmur from you.

From your perspective, his hologram form looked incredibly lifelike- appearing as tall, well-dressed man who favoured the 90s street fashion. White hair loosely slicked back, while a roguish smirk framed his youthful features. But even through your annoyance, you couldn't help but notice the flicker of faint blue lines that occasionally danced across his 'skin,' a subtle reminder of his true nature.

"Two guards," Mirage whispered, leaning in close enough that you could feel the faint projection of his breath. "They're about to round the corner. Just... follow my lead, and don't overthink this."

Tilting his head and leaning in even closer, lightly pressing his forehead against yours. To an outsider, the position was rather... intimate, almost tender. You stiffened in surprise, your body instinctively tensing as warmth rose to your cheeks.

"What are you doing?" you hissed under your breath, voice barely audible.

"Improvising."

Your eyes widened as his lips softly pressed against yours- not cold, not mechanical but strangely warm and tender. Like the tactile perfection of a hologram designed to flawlessly mimic human touch. You couldn't help but freeze, mind racing as you tried to not lose yourself within the moment.

As the guards rounded the corner, their flashlights swept across the gravel driveway, illuminating the outdoor space. The beams of light stopped abruptly as they landed on upon the pair of you. Feeling the guard's gaze, but Mirage didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned in deeper, one hand cupping to your cheek, as if to sell the act even more.

"Hey!" one guard barked, stepping closer.

From the corner of your eye, seeing Mirage's expression softening, the smirk upon his lips turning into something earnest and... you dare say, endearing.

"Apologies." His smooth, confident charm returned to his tone. Resting his forehead against yours. "We... didn't think anyone else was here. Just... stealing a moment, excuse us."

A scowl flashed across the guard's face, lowering his flashlight slightly. "This is a restricted area. You two shouldn't be here-"

"No problem. We understand." Mirage tilted his head slightly, softly kissing your temple, putting on a sheepish smile. "We just... couldn't resist a little adventure." He glanced down at you, reluctantly playing along, keeping your head turned away from the guards. As if you were embarrassed to be caught.

The second guard lightly chuckled, elbowing his companion. "Leave' em alone, man. Nothing but a couple of lovebirds sneaking off for some... privacy. Let's keep moving."

Hesitating for a moment, the guard's suspicion lingered on the pair of you for a moment longer. Eventually grumbled and turning away, "fine... just don't let the boss catch you"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Mirage called after them, giving you a subtle wink.

Once the guards disappeared back around the corner, their footsteps fading into the distance. Once you were sure they were out of ear shot, you shoved Mirage away, a mixture of irritation and embarrassment across your features.

"What the fuck was that?!"

"Me saving your stubborn, uncooperative ass from getting caught."

"You didn't have to-"

"Didn't I?" Mirage casually interrupted, crossing his arms. "Face it, Agent Cobra, you were this close to blowing the mission. Admit it- I'm good at what I do."

You couldn't help but glare at him, lips pressed into a thin line. "Next time, warn me before you... improvise like that!"

"Sure thing. But admit it, babe- you liked it, didn't you?"

"And stop calling me that!"

Turning your back and not answering, Mirage's holographic form fazed out into nothing as you approached his passenger side. Trying to ignore the lingering warmth upon your lips. But the faint smirk tugging upon your lips, didn't escape the Autobot's attention.

---

Standing under the moonlit sky, adjusting your earpiece after sending the details of mission to your unit and Optimus, of how you and Mirage successfully dismantled the human-Decepticon operation. Confirming that appropriate authorities confiscated, and the conspirators were neutralized.

Your eyes flickering towards Mirage as he rolled out of his altmode, his blue optics looking down at you with soft amusement and curiosity.

"Y'know... for someone who acts like they're all business, you sure know how to have fun. When you decide to let loose."

A small smirk crept upon your lips, melting away your usual sternness, giving way to a rare moment of playfulness. You stepped closer, looking up at him with a glint within your eyes.

"And... for someone who can't take anything seriously and talks too much. You... can be rather charming, just lucky that you're easy on the eyes."

Mirage titled his helm, his optics brightening at your teasing tone. "Did you... just flirt with me, Agent Cobra?"

"Maybe." You spoke with a sly smile. "But don't let it go to your head."

"Wouldn't think of it... Don't be a stranger, babe."

You paused before approaching the black SUV's, glancing back with faint blush dusting your cheeks. "See around, Mirage."

As you climbed into the vehicle and disappeared into the darkness, the blue Autobot chuckled to himself. Feeling his spark hum within in its chamber, making his frame radiant with an unfamiliar warmth.

[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM THE MANDALORIAN SEASON 2 *  assorted dialogue from the tv show, adjust as necessary

enjoy the fights.

they say it lives here. they say it sleeps.

i know you're good at killing.

where did you get the armor?

i'm sure you call the shots where you come from, but 'round here, i'm the one who tells folks what to do.

take it off. or i will.

i'm prepared to pay you for the information.

i'm not leaving my fate up to chance.

thank you for coming to me.

give it to me now, or i will peel it off your corpse.

you must promise you won't kill me.

i promise that you will not die by my hand.

that wasn't part of the deal.

you don't understand what it was like.

i've got an idea. get its attention.

maybe we can work something out.

they might be open to some fresh ideas.

i hope someday our paths will cross again.

we've heard the stories.

what am i supposed to do with this?

am i under arrest?

you might be in luck.

oh, stop your crying. you'll rust.

i'm not a taxi service.

i paraphrased.

what can i say? i'm an excellent judge of character.

i'll let you know if i see any.

how much will it cost me?

thank you for letting me know. i'll get right on it.

what the hell are you doing?

this was not a part of the deal.

if you hadn't guessed, we're in a tight spot.

that old thing's gonna break apart in this atmosphere.

are you sure you won't join us?

there's something i need to do.

this is more than i signed up for.

that planet is cursed. anyone who goes there dies.

i can lead you to one of their kind.

do you copy?

put some tea on. we'll be up in a minute.

i'll let you live.

we've been hitting them pretty hard.

this was the best you could do?

were you able to eliminate them?

looks like we made it. get ready for landing.

according to records, you're quite a soldier. we could really use you.

that was some pretty impressive flying.

can i at least buy you a drink?

i believe you two have met.

i'm surprised to see this place is still standing.

i'll take my chances down here.

we'll watch the doors.

can we talk business?

i'm only here for repairs.

you wanna come back here and try this? be my guest!

i'm sure we can work something out.

i cannot train him.

you've seen what he can do.

i must get back to the village.

i've seen him do things i can't explain.

show yourself. i've been expecting you.

you will learn nothing from me.

surrender, or face the consequences.

we must find a way to free them.

my price is high.

i believe this is your payment.

you made me a promise, and i held up my end.

your bounty hunter failed.

if you want my armor, you'll have to peel it off my dead body.

i give my allegiance to no one.

nice shot.

you look like you've just seen a ghost.

you may think you have some idea of what you're in possession of, but you do not.

it's all the same to these people.

hey, i'm just a realist. i'm a survivor, just like you.

let's get one thing straight. you and i are nothing alike.

everybody's got their line they don't cross until things get messy.

you did what you had to do.

everybody thinks they want freedom, but what they really want is order.

we got company. hang on.

you get to the roof. i'll drop in and pull you out.

hey, if you want to accuse me of something, then just say it.

let's just say they might recognize my face.

you're not going alone. i'm coming with you.

that's not how this works.

that was some nice shooting back there.

wish i could say it looked good on you, but i'd be lying.

i can't go in there.

are you a jedi?

that's who you belong with.

may the force be with you.

you're a disgrace to your armor.

i've heard your voice thousands of times.

i thought you were dead.

don't be afraid.

drop your weapon.

don't worry about me. just be careful in there.

i need your help.

you're sparing my life?

open the doors.

i suggest you shut your mouth.

[theoceanoasis]

Hello ocean, I need angst. Rodimus knew they were going to attack the ship and made sure everyone escaped except him, and to eliminate the attackers he releases the rust plague, wiping out the ship and himself.

Everyone is devastated, especially a certain mech who loved him and his amica.

(Please someone get me off the internet and traductor 😔)

The ship shuddered and groaned before the lights went out. He held a hand against his bleeding wound as he followed the others towards the escape bay.

The Lost Light was going to be destroyed. Their attackers have already done a number on it, and parts of the ship were gone.

Looking at his injured crew, who'd done so much to stop the invaders, he ordered them onto the escape vessels. The Lost Light was lost, but the crew was still alive, and if they wanted to keep living, they needed to climb aboard.

He purposefully separated himself from Soundwave and his Amica. He couldn't have them knowing about his plan. He made it seem like he'd already boarded one ready to launch. He didn't want them to know. Not until it was too late to stop him.

He knew their attackers wouldn't stop, and when they launched, his crew would be stuck in space with no way to defend themselves. Their attackers would easily be able to destroy them.

To board their ship, they'd connected there's which means if he did this both the Lost Light and their attackers ship would be destroyed along with everyone on board.

However first he needed to make sure his crew was gone. Once they were done then he could inact his plan. Using tunnels only he knew about he went to the scientists lab where it held a container of the rust plague.

It was in a room covered in warnings and could only be accessed by three people. Perceptor, Megatron, and himself. He typed in the code and entered the first of three doors.

If the rust plague ever got out, nothing could stop it, and the whole ship would be doomed. Every precaution was taken except now. He looked at the container, feeling a jolt of fear. He knew how dangerous this stuff could be and what it did to a bot.

His hands trembled as he grabbed it, waiting for the all clear signal. Once he knew his crew was safe, he unleashed the rust plague. He screamed in agony as it engulfed his frame. The pain was unbearable until his spark finally gave out, and he died.

The Rust plague spread quickly and no one on board could escape. The crew had gasped watching in shock as it spread destroying the Lost Light and the other ship.

That's when Soundwave and Drift realized someone was missing. Since getting on board an escape pod, neither of them had heard from Rodimus.

They began asking around however no one had heard from him. He wasn't amongst the crew and that's when they realized who'd opened the container of rust plague.

Soundwave stared at where the Lost Light had been, his spark heavy with grief at the knowledge that his love was dead.

[jellyfishsthings]

Oh yes they both reached for the gun...

WARNINGS: um I don't even know... I have done several versions but I think this is the most angsty (I will post the others as well... propably), fem! Reader, unsub(kinda)!reader, mean Spencer because why not, enemies, open ending, typical cm violence, they could actually kill the other... I think that's it...

Second Version, navigation

requests are open

Oh yes

You sit in the dim light of your faded apartment, a world away from the gleaming offices of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The ticking clock on the wall echoes in the silence, each second feeling heavy with consequence. Your fingers hover over the screen of your phone, the resignation email to Aaron Hotchner practically written in your mind for days, if not weeks. A decision that could change everything.

There had been whispers, glances that lingered a moment too long — signs that someone suspected the truth. Spencer Reid, with his keen intellect and perceptive nature, was a source of humiliation and anger for you. He had questioned your every move, your every word. It grated at you. The internal storm of guilt and anger brewed each time you felt his intense gaze dissecting you, searching for the shadows lurking beneath your surface.

You tap the screen, and the email shoots into the ether, a sigh escaping your lips. The weight of your past presses down on you like a fist. You were never meant to end up here, but running from the memories is harder than running from the man who had created them. A man you have been hunting tonight.

Dusk blankets the city as you pull your hood up, your heart racing with anticipation and dread. You’ve tracked down your target, a figure tangled in the underworld of human trafficking, a sinister link to your past — a man named Marco Velasquez. He was everything that had torn your life asunder, the puppet master of so many horrors. Tonight, you will extract vengeance for the demons that haunt you, another fatal blow in a life you once considered lost.

On the outskirts of town, you find the warehouse, a rusted shell with shadows moving inside. Everything feels surreal, like a twisted dream where you’re both the predator and prey. You slip inside, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The plan is simple — ascend through the shadows, eliminate the threat, and be gone before anyone can connect the dots back to you.

Oh yes

But there’s that gnawing instinct at the back of your mind, a hair-raising awareness that you are not alone. You shake it off, chalk it up to paranoia, but you can’t shake the idea that Spencer is out there, lurking just beyond reach.

Moments stretch as you navigate through the warehouse, the shadows dimming the chaotic memories of your past. You hear muffled voices — laughter, threats, the raucous sound of a world you’d turned your back on. You reach for your weapon, a familiar weight that has felt like an extension of yourself for so long. One last job. You could be free.

Oh yes they both

Suddenly, the hairs on the nape of your neck rise. A noise behind you. The creak of a floorboard. You spin, instincts honed from years of training awakening within you, but it’s too late. Spencer Reid stands before you, gun drawn, aiming directly at your chest. His eyes blaze with betrayal and hurt, a mix that steals your breath.

Oh yes they both

“You,” he growls, rejection and accusation lacing his tone. “How long? How long have you been lying to us?”

Oh yes they both

“Let it go, Spencer,” you spit out, anger bubbling to the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about!” His voice rises, a battle cry resonating off the cold steel walls. “I saw the shadows behind your eyes. I thought you were just damaged, but you’re more than I could’ve ever imagined. You’re a killer!”

Oh yes they both

Your brow furrows, fire igniting within you. “I’m doing this for a reason. Marco Velasquez needs to pay for everything he’s done.”

“Why?” he spits out, incredulity mixed with desperation. “Because of your past? You think this will redeem you? This will only drag you back into the darkness!”

Reached for

The heat of your argument hangs in the air, thick with unresolved tension. You move your gun slightly, your gaze unwavering. “You don’t get it. I have a chance to stop him. I can’t let him continue.”

The gun

The warehouse feels smaller and smaller, both of you standing there, profiles sharp against the fluctuating shadows. “You’re not a vigilante,” he counters, voice low but fierce. “You follow the law, or you’re no better than him. Is this what you want? To become everything you tried to escape?”

Clarity crashes around you, the guilt gnawing at your insides. “Just get out of my way,” you demand, trembling, losing the steam in your conviction. But Spencer shakes his head, the gun unwavering.

“No, I will not let you do this. I can’t let you become someone like him.”

The gun

Both guns now leveled, each pointing at the other, ready to pull the trigger, poised on the edge of fate. The mad irony of the moment hangs heavy: Two soldiers in a war where morality isn’t just black and white, but smeared with shades of gray.

You stare at him, the rage bubbling beneath the surface. “You don’t know what I’ve had to live with! You think you can stand there, acting like you’re the moral compass?”

“No, I don’t,” he retorts, anger shimmering in those hazel eyes. “But I know at least one thing: You have a choice. You could walk away from this. We could take him down together.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Reid!” you shout, desperation clawing at your throat. “I’m not walking away!”

The gun

Time stretches like elastic, the air thickening with palpable tension. “What if we both fell?” you ask, almost in a whisper, a faint nuance of vulnerability seeping through the cracks.

“I’m willing to try,” he counters, his voice suddenly calm, intentional.

“You think I care?” you scoff, but the tremor in your voice betrays you. You lick your lips, filled with bitterness and wistfulness. “Is that why you were always so critical of me — because I remind you of the darkness you’ve tried to outrun?”

Spencer stands firm, the weight of his responsibility burdening his every word. “No, I was critical of you because I saw you becoming someone you didn’t want to be. We can fight this together, or we fall apart.”

Oh yes they both reached for the gun

In that fragile silence, you realize there’s no winner here, only a battle waged between passions and a desperate longing for resolution. Two souls standing on a precipice, guns drawn, gazes held fast — at an impossible choice that threatens to shatter you both.

For the gun

It won’t take much. Just a finger on a trigger, and everything you’ve built, everything you hoped to protect, could crumble.

The question remains: Will you both pull the triggers?

[anheliotrope]

Rambling About C# Being Alright

I think C# is an alright language. This is one of the highest distinctions I can give to a language.

Warning: This post is verbose and rambly and probably only good at telling you why someone might like C# and not much else.

~~~

There's something I hate about every other language. Worst, there's things I hate about other languages that I know will never get better. Even worse, some of those things ALSO feel like unforced errors.

With C# there's a few things I dislike or that are missing. C#'s feature set does not obviously excel at anything, but it avoids making any huge misstep in things I care about. Nothing in C# makes me feel like the language designer has personally harmed me.

C# is a very tolerable language.

C# is multi-paradigm.

C# is the Full Middle Malcomist language.

C# will try to not hurt you.

A good way to describe C# is "what if Java sucked less". This, of course, already sounds unappealing to many, but that's alright. I'm not trying to gas it up too much here.

C# has sins, but let's try to put them into some context here and perhaps the reason why I'm posting will become more obvious:

C# didn't try to avoid generics and then implement them in a way that is very limiting (cough Go).

C# doesn't hamstring your ability to have statement lambdas because the language designer dislikes them and also because the language designer decided to have semantic whitespace making statement lambdas harder to deal with (cough Python).

C# doesn't require you to explicitly wrap value types into reference types so you can put value types into collections (cough Java).

C# doesn't ruin your ability to interact with memory efficiently because it forbids you from creating custom value types, ergo everything goes to the heap (cough cough Java, Minecraft).

C# doesn't have insane implicit type coercions that have become the subject of language design comedy (cough JavaScript).

C# doesn't keep privacy accessors as a suggestion and has the developers pinkie swear about it instead of actually enforcing it (cough cough Python).

Plainly put, a lot of the time I find C# to be alright by process of elimination. I'm not trying to shit on your favorite language. Everyone has different things they find tolerable. I have the Buddha nature so I wish for all things to find their tolerable language.

I do also think that C# is notable for being a mainstream language (aka not Haskell) that has a smaller amount of egregious mistakes, quirks and Faustian bargains.

The Typerrrrr

C# is statically typed, but the typing is largely effortless to navigate unlike something like Rust, and the GC gives a greater degree of safety than something like C++.

Of course, the typing being easy to work it also makes it less safe than Rust. But this is an appropriate trade-off for certain kinds of applications, especially considering that C# is memory safe by virtue of running on a VM. Don't come at me, I'm a Rust respecter!!

You know how some people talk about Python being amazing for prototyping? That's how I feel about C#. No matter how much time I would dedicate to Python, C# would still be a more productive language for me. The type system would genuinely make me faster for the vast majority of cases. Of course Python has gradual typing now, so any comparison gets more difficult when you consider that. But what I'm trying to say is that I never understood the idea that doing away entirely with static typing is good for fast iteration.

Also yes, C# can be used as a repl. Leave me alone with your repls. Also, while the debugger is active you can also evaluate arbitrary code within the current scope.

I think that going full dynamic typing is a mistake in almost every situation. The fact that C# doesn't do that already puts it above other languages for me. This stance on typing is controversial, but it's my opinion that is really shouldn't be. And the wind has constantly been blowing towards adding gradual typing to dynamic languages.

The modest typing capabilities C# coupled with OOP and inheritance lets you create pretty awful OOP slop. But that's whatever. At work we use inheritance in very few places where it results in neat code reuse, and then it's just mostly interfaces getting implemented.

C#'s typing and generic system is powerful enough to offer you a plethora of super-ergonomic collection transformation methods via the LINQ library. There's a lot of functional-style programming you can do with that. You know, map, filter, reduce, that stuff?

Even if you make a completely new collection type, if it implements IEnumerable<T> it will benefit from LINQ automatically. Every language these days has something like this, but it's so ridiculously easy to use in C#. Coupled with how C# lets you (1) easily define immutable data types, (2) explicitly control access to struct or class members, (3) do pattern matching, you can end up with code that flows really well.

A Friendly Kitchen Sink

Some people have described C#'s feature set as bloated. It is getting some syntactic diversity which makes it a bit harder to read someone else's code. But it doesn't make C# harder to learn, since it takes roughly the same amount of effort to get to a point where you can be effective in it.

Most of the more specific features can be effortlessly ignored. The ones that can't be effortlessly ignored tend to bring something genuinely useful to the language -- such as tuples and destructuring. Tuples have their own syntax, the syntax is pretty intuitive, but the first time you run into it, you will have to do a bit of learning.

C# has an immense amount of small features meant to make the language more ergonomic. They're too numerous to mention and they just keep getting added.

I'd like to draw attention to some features not because they're the most important but rather because it feels like they communicate the "personality" of C#. Not sure what level of detail was appropriate, so feel free to skim.

Stricter Null Handling. If you think not having to explicitly deal with null is the billion dollar mistake, then C# tries to fix a bit of the problem by allowing you to enable a strict context where you have to explicitly tell it that something can be null, otherwise it will assume that the possibility of a reference type being null is an error. It's a bit more complicated than that, but it definitely helps with safety around nullability.

Default Interface Implementation. A problem in C# which drives usage of inheritance is that with just interfaces there is no way to reuse code outside of passing function pointers. A lot of people don't get this and think that inheritance is just used because other people are stupid or something. If you have a couple of methods that would be implemented exactly the same for classes 1 through 99, but somewhat differently for classes 100 through 110, then without inheritance you're fucked. A much better way would be Rust's trait system, but for that to work you need really powerful generics, so it's too different of a path for C# to trod it. Instead what C# did was make it so that you can write an implementation for methods declared in an interface, as long as that implementation only uses members defined in the interface (this makes sense, why would it have access to anything else?). So now you can have a default implementation for the 1 through 99 case and save some of your sanity. Of course, it's not a panacea, if the implementation of the method requires access to the internal state of the 1 through 99 case, default interface implementation won't save you. But it can still make it easier via some techniques I won't get into. The important part is that default interface implementation allows code reuse and reduces reasons to use inheritance.

Performance Optimization. C# has a plethora of features regarding that. Most of which will never be encountered by the average programmer. Examples: (1) stackalloc - forcibly allocate reference types to the stack if you know they won't outlive the current scope. (2) Specialized APIs for avoiding memory allocations in happy paths. (3) Lazy initialization APIs. (4) APIs for dealing with memory more directly that allow high performance when interoping with C/C++ while still keeping a degree of safety.

Fine Control Over Async Runtime. C# lets you write your own... async builder and scheduler? It's a bit esoteric and hard to describe. But basically all the functionality of async/await that does magic under the hood? You can override that magic to do some very specific things that you'll rarely need. Unity3D takes advantage of this in order to allow async/await to work on WASM even though it is a single-threaded environment. It implements a cooperative scheduler so the program doesn't immediately freeze the moment you do await in a single-threaded environment. Most people don't know this capability exists and it doesn't affect them.

Tremendous Amount Of Synchronization Primitives and API. This ones does actually make multithreaded code harder to deal with, but basically C# erred a lot in favor of having many different ways to do multithreading because they wanted to suit different usecases. Most people just deal with idiomatic async/await code, but a very small minority of C# coders deal with locks, atomics, semaphores, mutex, monitors, interlocked, spin waiting etc. They knew they couldn't make this shit safe, so they tried to at least let you have ready-made options for your specific use case, even if it causes some balkanization.

Shortly Begging For Tagged Unions

What I miss from C# is more powerful generic bounds/constraints and tagged unions (or sum types or discriminated unions or type unions or any of the other 5 names this concept has).

The generic constraints you can use in C# are anemic and combined with the lack of tagged unions this is rather painful at times.

I remember seeing Microsoft devs saying they don't see enough of a usecase for tagged unions. I've at times wanted to strangle certain people. These two facts are related to one another.

My stance is that if you think your language doesn't need or benefit from tagged unions, either your language is very weird, or, more likely you're out of your goddamn mind. You are making me do really stupid things every time I need to represent a structure that can EITHER have a value of type A or a value of type B.

But I think C# will eventually get tagged unions. There's a proposal for it here. I would be overjoyed if it got implemented. It seems like it's been getting traction.

Also there was an entire section on unchecked exceptions that I removed because it wasn't interesting enough. Yes, C# could probably have checked exceptions and it didn't and it's a mistake. But ultimately it doesn't seem to have caused any make-or-break in a comparison with Java, which has them. They'd all be better off with returning an Error<T>. Short story is that the consequences of unchecked exceptions have been highly tolerable in practice.

Ecosystem State & FOSSness

C# is better than ever and the tooling ecosystem is better than ever. This is true of almost every language, but I think C# receives a rather high amount of improvements per version. Additionally the FOSS story is at its peak.

Roslyn, the bedrock of the toolchain, the compiler and analysis provider, is under MIT license. The fact that it does analysis as well is important, because this means you can use the wealth of Roslyn analyzers to do linting.

If your FOSS tooling lets you compile but you don't get any checking as you type, then your development experience is wildly substandard.

A lot of stupid crap with cross-platform compilation that used to be confusing or difficult is now rather easy to deal with. It's basically as easy as (1) use NET Core, (2) tell dotnet to build for Linux. These steps take no extra effort and the first step is the default way to write C# these days.

Dotnet is part of the SDK and contains functionality to create NET Core projects and to use other tools to build said projects. Dotnet is published under MIT, because the whole SDK and runtime are published under MIT.

Yes, the debugger situation is still bad -- there's no FOSS option for it, but this is more because nobody cares enough to go and solve it. Jetbrains proved anyone can do it if they have enough development time, since they wrote a debugger from scratch for their proprietary C# IDE Rider.

Where C# falls flat on its face is the "userspace" ecosystem. Plainly put, because C# is a Microsoft product, people with FOSS inclinations have steered clear of it to such a degree that the packages you have available are not even 10% of what packages a Python user has available, for example. People with FOSS inclinations are generally the people who write packages for your language!!

I guess if you really really hate leftpad, you might think this is a small bonus though.

Where-in I talk about Cross-Platform

The biggest thing the ecosystem has been lacking for me is a package, preferably FOSS, for developing cross-platform applications. Even if it's just cross-platform desktop applications.

Like yes, you can build C# to many platforms, no sweat. The same way you can build Rust to many platforms, some sweat. But if you can't show a good GUI on Linux, then it's not practically-speaking cross-platform for that purpose.

Microsoft has repeatedly done GUI stuff that, predictably, only works on Windows. And yes, Linux desktop is like 4%, but that 4% contains >50% of the people who create packages for your language's ecosystem, almost the exact point I made earlier. If a developer runs Linux and they can't have their app run on Linux, they are not going to touch your language with a ten foot pole for that purpose. I think this largely explains why C#'s ecosystem feels stunted.

The thing is, I'm not actually sure how bad or good the situation is, since most people just don't even try using C# for this usecase. There's a general... ecosystem malaise where few care to use the language for this, chiefly because of the tone that Microsoft set a decade ago. It's sad.

HOWEVER.

Avalonia, A New Hope?

Today we have Avalonia. Avalonia is an open-source framework that lets you build cross-platform applications in C#. It's MIT licensed. It will work on Windows, macOS, Linux, iOS, Android and also somehow in the browser. It seems to this by actually drawing pixels via SkiaSharp (or optionally Direct2D on Windows).

They make money by offering migration services from WPF app to Avalonia. Plus general support.

I can't say how good Avalonia is yet. I've researched a bit and it's not obviously bad, which is distinct from being good. But if it's actually good, this would be a holy grail for the ecosystem:

You could use a statically typed language that is productive for this type of software development to create cross-platform applications that have higher performance than the Electron slop. That's valuable!

This possibility warrants a much higher level of enthusiasm than I've seen, especially within the ecosystem itself. This is an ecosystem that was, for a while, entirely landlocked, only able to make Windows desktop applications.

I cannot overstate how important it is for a language's ecosystem to have a package like this and have it be good. Rust is still missing a good option. Gnome is unpleasant to use and buggy. Falling back to using Electron while writing Rust just seems like a bad joke. A lot of the Rust crates that are neither Electron nor Gnome tend to be really really undercooked.

And now I've actually talked myself into checking out Avalonia... I mean after writing all of that I feel like a charlatan for not having investigated it already.

[accessabletechnology]

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[at0m-b0mb-baby]

Blind Betrayal

| Paladin Danse x SS!reader

warning: slight angst with some fluff as it follows his storyline!

The walls of the Prydwen’s command deck were suffocating, the air heavy with tension and judgment. SS stood in front of Elder Maxson, their heart pounding in their chest as they tried to process the words that had just left his mouth.

“Paladin Danse is a synth,” Maxson said, his voice a steely blade cutting through the silence. “A product of the Institute, hiding among us as a spy, a traitor.”

They couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The words felt like a bullet to the chest, each one more impossible to believe than the last. Danse, a synth? It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. Danse had been their steadfast companion since the beginning, a man of unwavering loyalty and conviction. He was the embodiment of everything the Brotherhood stood for, wasn’t he?

Elder Maxson’s gaze didn’t waver as he continued. “This is a betrayal of the highest order. The Institute has manipulated us, infiltrated us, and Danse whether knowingly or not has been a part of that. He must be eliminated.”

SS finally found their voice, though it felt weak and unsteady. “You’re ordering me to… to kill him?”

Maxson leaned forward, his expression unrelenting. “Do not think of this as a personal matter, Knight. This is about the survival of the Brotherhood. Danse is a danger to us all. He must be dealt with immediately.”

Their mind raced, a thousand questions and emotions colliding at once. “And if I refuse?”

Maxson’s lip curled, his patience thinning. “You swore an oath to the Brotherhood. If you refuse, you will be considered complicit in his treachery and will be dealt with accordingly. Am I clear?”

The room felt as though it were spinning, the cold metal walls closing in around them. They swallowed hard and nodded, the motion automatic and detached. “Yes, Elder Maxson. Understood.”

The air outside the Prydwen was harsh and biting, the wind whipping against their face as they descended the ramp. They clutched their laser rifle tightly, though their grip was more out of habit than necessity. Each step felt heavier than the last, the enormity of what they’d been ordered to do pressing down on them like a physical weight.

Danse was hiding in a remote bunker, his location shared with them by one of Maxson’s operatives. It wasn’t far—a short vertibird ride to the wilderness just outside Listening Post Bravo. The journey passed in a blur, the thrum of the engines doing little to drown out the storm in their mind.

When they arrived, they disembarked alone, their boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. The bunker was nondescript, a squat building nestled against the side of a rocky hill. Its entrance was marked only by a rusting steel door, faintly lit by the pale glow of the overhead lamps.

Taking a deep breath, they approached, their fingers trembling as they punched in the access code Maxson had provided. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior. The air inside was damp and stale, and the faint hum of a generator echoed through the narrow corridor.

Danse was waiting for them in the main chamber. He stood without his power armor, his broad frame towering in the low light. Without the imposing bulk of the T-60 plates, he looked more vulnerable, though no less commanding. His muscular form was clad in a simple Brotherhood jumpsuit, the snug fabric showing the strength of his build—broad shoulders, powerful arms, and a chest that rose and fell heavily as he watched them approach.

He looked impossibly tired, dark shadows under his brown eyes. His jaw was clean-shaven, revealing the sharp, chiseled angles of his face. His short, dark hair was slightly tousled, no longer perfectly groomed as it had always been in the field. For all his weariness, his posture was still straight, his bearing still noble, even in the face of what awaited him.

When he saw them, his expression hardened, though there was no hostility in his gaze. Only resignation.

“You’ve come,” he said, his deep voice steady despite the circumstances. “I knew Maxson would send someone. I didn’t expect it to be you.”

They froze, unsure of how to respond. The sight of him, so raw and unguarded, made their heart ache. This was Danse, the man who had been their anchor through the chaos of the wasteland. How could he be anything else?

“I…” They hesitated, their voice faltering. “Danse, is it true? Are you…?”

He nodded solemnly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I am. A synth. An abomination created by the Institute.” He spoke the words as though they were poison on his tongue. “Elder Maxson’s orders are clear. I am to be terminated.”

“Stop,” they interrupted, their voice trembling. “Just… stop.”

He frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it for my sake, Knight. I know what I am, and I know what must be done. I only ask that you make it quick.”

“Danse, I—” They faltered, the weight of the moment pressing down on their chest. “I don’t understand. You didn’t know you were a synth, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, his voice heavy with shame. “I didn’t. My memories… my convictions… they all felt real. I believed in the Brotherhood, in our mission, with every fiber of my being. But now I see it was all a lie. A machine can’t believe in anything. A machine can’t feel.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I betrayed the Brotherhood just by existing. And I betrayed you.”

“You didn’t betray me,” they said fiercely, stepping closer. Their hands trembled at their sides, but they didn’t dare reach for him. Not yet. “Danse, you didn’t ask for this. None of this is your fault.”

He turned away, his shoulders slumping. Without the armor, he seemed smaller, the weight of his self-loathing bearing down on him. “Fault doesn’t matter. I am what I am. And what I am is a threat to everything we stand for.”

They took another step forward, their voice softening. “What about what we’ve been through? Everything we’ve done together—was that a lie too?”

His head snapped up, his eyes meeting theirs. For a moment, he seemed to falter, the carefully constructed walls around him cracking. “No,” he said hoarsely. “None of it was a lie. Every battle, every mission… every moment we spent together was real to me. But that doesn’t change what I am.”

They felt a lump rise in their throat. “And what are you, Danse? Tell me.”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I am a machine,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “A soulless construct built to mimic humanity.”

They shook their head, their voice rising with emotion. “No. You’re more than that. You’re Danse. The man who’s fought by my side, who’s risked his life for mine, who’s always put others before himself. That’s who you are.”

“Why are you saying this?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why are you defending me? I don’t deserve it.”

“Because I love you,” they said, the words spilling out before they could stop them.

Danse froze, his eyes wide with shock. For a moment, it seemed as though the world had stopped, the silence between them deafening.

“You… what?” he finally managed, his voice unsteady.

“I love you,” they repeated, their voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t care what the Brotherhood says, or what Maxson thinks, or even what you think you are. To me, you’re not a machine. You’re the man I trust with my life. The man I—” They broke off, their voice catching on a sob. “The man I can’t lose.”

He stared at them, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his broad hands lifting to cup their face with a surprising gentleness. His touch was warm, his calloused fingers trembling slightly.

“You… love me?” he whispered, as if the words were too foreign to comprehend.

They nodded, tears streaming down their face. “Yes. I love you, Danse. I always have.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, he simply stared at them, his gaze filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Then, before either of them could second-guess it, he leaned down and kissed them.

The kiss was tentative at first, his lips brushing against theirs as if afraid they might break. But when they didn’t pull away, he deepened it, his arms wrapping around them as though he never wanted to let go. They melted into him, their hands clutching at the fabric of his jumpsuit as they poured everything they couldn’t say into the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I swear, I will spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of your love.”

They smiled, their fingers brushing against his cheek. “You don’t have to prove anything, Danse. You already are.”

In that moment, the rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of them.

[mrozzoosstuff]

𖥻 𝗢𝟱 ┆𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙄𝙢𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨 ★ ₊ ˚⟡

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋 ➠ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴜᴛʏ

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ༄

NOVI SAD, SERBIA

Outskirts, Old Abandoned Paper Factory

18:49

The abandoned paper factory stood like a skeleton of the past—its brick bones chipped and blackened by decades of rain, fire, and silence. Once a proud artery of the outskirts' industrial lifeblood, it now sagged beneath the weight of war's aftermath. The sign above the main entrance still clung on by rusted bolts, the faded lettering barely readable through layers of soot and peeling paint.

The factory's tall smokestacks, long since cold, jutted into the sky like broken fingers. Ivy and wire tangled up the walls, crawling over shattered windows and blown-out frames. Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten things. Stacks of brittle papers, scorched and water-stained, littered the floor—remnants of production lines that hadn’t moved in years.

Once a place where the workers burned their lives away, working till their hands were falling off—now a place where gangs, dealers, or teenagers threw parties.

Technically, the place was shut down. Secured. Marked as an unwanted scar on the town that everyone would rather forget was there or ever even existed.

But at this exact moment, there was no party in there.

And it was safe to say that everything had gone to shit.

“Soap! Behind cover! Now!” A gruff British voice cut through the sound of bullets, explosions, and screaming. Captain John Price pressed his back against the brick wall, dodging bullets that were a little too close for his liking.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get in, stop the transaction, get the NATO guns, and go back to HQ. Easy and quick. In and out in thirty minutes.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

They expected the locals to surrender immediately and the mercs to be far less experienced. But both groups had more balls than they thought. So now, they had local thieves, and a bunch of French mercenaries on their backs, shooting at them.

And no Gaz or the new addition in sight.

Just great.

Finally, the Scottish sergeant got to cover, pressing himself against the wall next to his captain. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace. His hand tightly gripped the gun, checking the magazine after a not-so-fun bullet exchange with the enemy.

"What the fuck, Cap?! This was supposed to be quick and peaceful!" Soap yelled at his captain through the storm of bullets flying around.

"Well, it ain’t. Suck it up, aye?" the older man growled, shaking his head with a clenched jaw. He didn't like the situation any more than the Scottish man did.

Soap only rolled his eyes but didn't shoot back with a sarcastic remark, knowing it wasn’t exactly the best time for that. "Where are Gaz and the Russian?"

"I don't know." Price shook his head with a deep sigh. They were supposed to be here already. It was worrying. In his mind, there could be a few reasons why they weren’t here yet.

One, they ran into trouble on the way and it slowed them down.

Two, the new girl caused some problems.

Three, their helicopter is running late.

There was also the possibility that they were surprised on the way and were no longer on their way. But that’s something the captain didn’t even want to think about.

"The snipers are eliminated. You need backup on the ground?" A deep British voice rang out in both earpieces. Ghost sat on the roof of the building next to the factory, his sniper rifle still in hand, targeting the snipers on the opposite side.

"It would be nice if you joined the party, Lt." Soap answered, reloading his rifle.

"Copy that. On my way." The masked man mumbled into the earpiece. Ghost gathered his sniper rifle and headed down to the factory to help his team.

Soap and Price looked at each other. Gripping their guns, they exchanged a short nod, preparing to jump out of cover and finish this mission.

Because frankly, it was starting to get on their nerves.

Soap leaned the muzzle of his rifle around the corner of the wall, shooting down two men on the opposite side. Right after, he signaled his captain, and they both jumped out of cover, moving down the hall of the factory. They managed to eliminate a few other threats as they moved through the temporary warzone in sync.

They stopped by the wall at another turn in the hallway. Glancing down, they saw three men, all in black gear and fully armed, a small French flag on their sleeves. Price looked at his sergeant and gave a faint nod toward the other side of the hall where there was a small space that divided two corridors. It wasn't big, but enough to give them the advantage and provide cover.

Soap, moving quickly and quietly, managed to get to the other side without being seen, pressing his back into the wall while Price stayed by the corner. They both raised their rifles, getting into position to take out the French mercenaries without getting hurt themselves. With one last glance at each other, their eyes locked on the men about ten meters away.

Before they could pull the trigger, a faint tapping sound stopped them. At the same time, they looked down at the ground where the source of the sound was rolling by and stopping a meter away from them. Their heads snapped up, eyes wide.

"Grenade!"

Soap didn’t think—just sprinted, scooped it up, and hurled it back, bullets snapping past him. He dove behind the wall with Price just as the explosion ripped through the hall, a hot blast of smoke and debris chasing them.

The shots and explosions in the background died down as a dark cloud of smoke filled the air, burning their lungs. Price and Soap leaned against the wall, their chests rising and falling quickly as they coughed.

"You alright?" the captain breathed out, looking at the sergeant next to him.

"I’ll live," the Scot nodded, resting his head back against the wall and glancing quickly at Price. "You?"

"Fine."

A faint sound of footsteps made them snap back into focus, heads whipping toward the source. Gripping their rifles tighter, they pushed off the wall and moved slowly toward the sound.

They stopped, frozen for a moment, as they were met with a gun pointed right at them.

Before them stood a woman. A black bandana hooked over her nose hid the lower part of her face, but her dark brown eyes stared back at them—cold and unreadable. White hair tied back into a secure low bun contrasted against the dark gear and the heavy aura floating around her. But when their eyes locked on the small Russian flag sewn into the top corner of her vest, it clicked.

Nikova Dragunova. Lynx.

The new one.

And she was pointing a gun at them.

How great.

So they stood there for a minute. Guns raised at each other. No words, no sound. Just an eye battle.

From behind her, in slow steps and rifle tightly in hand, walked in Gaz. His face relaxed faintly at the sight of his teammates, but immediately went back to neutral as he realized what was happening in front of him.

"Lynx..." he started slowly, his eyes jumping between the two men and the Russian girl. "This is Captain Price and Sergeant MacTavish. They're with us."

She knew who they were. She wasn’t stupid.

She’d memorized their faces from the files the night before. They hadn’t pulled the trigger. Neither had she.

Didn’t mean she trusted them. Why should she? First time seeing them. First time standing this close. And they had their guns pointed right back at her.

It was safe to say that it wasn’t the best way to introduce yourself, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

And it seemed that they had exactly the same thought.

Soap looked towards his captain, waiting for any kind of reaction or order. Either to shoot or to put the gun down.

Finally, the captain gave a faint nod, slowly lowering his gun, though he never took his eyes off Nikova. Soap followed through, also lowering his gun.

The Russian woman stood there for a few seconds, not moving a muscle. Her eyes locked with Gaz’s for a split second before returning to the Scot and the captain. Finally, her weapon slowly lowered, but the grip on the rifle was still tight. Like a warning.

"Officer Dragunova. Nice to finally meet you in person." Price started, clearing his throat.

It was weird to hear 'Officer Dragunova' instead of 'Komandir Dragunova', or even just 'Lynx'. That was definitely something she’d have to get used to.

Nikova gave a faint nod, reaching up to her face and letting the black bandana fall around her neck, showing her full face.

The Scottish sergeant cleared his throat, making her brown eyes flick from the captain to him.

"Haye, how you doin’? Soap." He gave a faint smirk, introducing himself. He took a step toward her, lifting his hand for a handshake. "You’re not planning to throw another grenade at us, are you?"

Nikova only responded with a hum, her eyes scanning Soap with a critical gaze.

"Funny." she grumbled stiffly, slowly lifting her hand and accepting the handshake.

Before Soap could shoot back with a sarcastic comment, the earpiece went off.

"Guns are secured. We’re done here." Ghost’s voice appeared in their ears, cutting the momentum short.

"Copy that." The captain answered, nodding at them to follow him as he moved down the hall. "Call Laswell. We’re going back to Viper.”

———————————————————————

𓂃🖊 𝙈𝙍𝙊𝙕𝙕𝙊 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝘼𝙆𝙄𝙉𝙂

HI LOVES ❤️

I'm so sorry for the long wait!

But now that I have summer I plan on quicker upgrades and finishing this before September.

PLEASE COMMENT AND LIKE!

LOVE YOU ALL AND SEE YOU SOON!

[sevenish-spheres]

Making it Hurt

TW gore (both mech and human), mutilation, lot of corpses, child death (implied), capitalist wanker. (Who dies painfully)

Cere exhaled a cloud of mist as she ducked through the narrow hatch of the hangar bay, narrowly avoiding a bundle of wires which ran directly in front of her towards the hangar doors. Calling it a hangar was generous, of course. In actuality, it was little more than a hole in the mountainside which her predecessor’s employer had outfitted with a room for sleeping and the bare minimum required to keep a mech functioning.

That suited Cere fine. Vacuous Hand wasn’t fussy, and neither was she. It stood on a rack at the far end of the hangar, chained in place by the ankles. She hadn’t had any issues lately, but paranoia was a close friend these days. After all, if her predecessor had had a bit more of it, his frame wouldn’t be a smoking wreck on the other side of the mountain. Cere pulled out a watch. Nine forty. Time to move.

She dragged over the rusted ladder and folded it open, bending down to undo her frame’s manacles. She could swear she felt the cold metal shiver in anticipation as she did so. It was a fairly standard frame, standing about four and a half metres tall, and half shrouded in a ragged cape. Its legs were digitigrade, and covered in riveted metal plates that reminded Cere of an armadillo she’d seen once, on a rare occasion where she was working somewhere hot. It was a nice change. The rest of the mech was pretty standard for a cavalier, with several segments around the abdomen and pauldrons which swept high near the head, which appeared something like a grill-covered shark’s maw. The mech’s jaws were lined with teeth too big to be human, and the head ended in an almost axe-like point. At this point, the head was all that was left of the original frame Cere had started work with, and even then she’d inherited it. Not many people gave their suits teeth, strangely enough. The chest was covered in tally marks, a small reminder of what it, and she, were capable of. The most recent one, signifying the hangar’s previous owner, still shone silver, and made for her twentieth kill in this particular frame. In the past, she kept separate tallies for engine and pilot kills. These days, they were mostly one in the same. Stubborn fools.

Climbing up the ladder, she ran through the mission in her head. Move to the peak, check. Eliminate the usual watchman. Check. Wait an entire fucking week for the target to show up on a bloody gilded landship. At last, check. Finally, Cere and Vacuous could do what they were really here for. Namely, killing the Guild-Magnate who’d been supplying the Stallions. Tisea said to make it hurt. That was unusual for her. Ordinarily, the boss was pretty calculating with her targets. Not Varis DeVarney, apparently. Renowned for his departure from the traditional DeVarney export of greypowder firearms, Varis had cornered the local market for urelium-fuelled laser weaponry. He was currently in negotiations with the Green Stallions local nobility for rights to open a mining outpost in the mountains, which meant the fucker had been supplying them with weaponry. Right now he was transporting miners and equipment to establish one near this pass, with the landship being laden with supplies and weaponry.

Not that it mattered much. Greypowder or urelium, he’d die quickly enough. Or, more accurately, slowly. Cere still wasn’t entirely sure what Tisea had against him specifically, but it was hardly her job to decide. Tisea said Varis had to die, and die he would.

The ladder was a bit too short to reach Vacuous Hand’s hatch, and so Cere grunted as she gripped its pauldron and hauled herself onto its back. For how freezing the mountains were, the metal was already remarkably warm. The implants along her spine itched slightly, as they often did as she was preparing to pilot the frame. She reached below the heady chainmail hood which ran from the back of the head-helmet and flipped it over, revealing a metal plate which, after she removed a deadbolt, flipped over to reveal the entry hatch. Cere hauled herself in, avoiding scraping herself on the jagged tear in the hatch rim where a lucky pilot had managed to jam a halberd before she tore its arm off. She landed on the pilot’s seat and brought herself down to a sitting posture. The cockpit was cramped, with wires hanging like entrails across its tiny diameter. A few screens and dials sat, their glass fronts stained with dried blood and ichor. Still, they were legible enough for Cere to only have to squint slightly to make out what they said. Pressure in the limbs was normal, ichor levels about acceptable, and hull integrity largely fine. She hauled the hatch shut, checked the emergency kit under the seat, and then made an ass of herself taking her jacket off in the cramped cockpit. Ordinarily, she wouldn'tve bothered to bring it, but as she said, these mountains were fucking freezing.

She made one final check, and then shifted into a more comfortable position before settling her hands into the trigger gauntlets that let her use the auxiliary weapons, in this case a wristblade and arm-mounted machine gun, and doing up the leather straps that kept her hands safely bound to the chair. Finally, she pulled on the goggles and gas mask that were suspended just above her, and felt the slight prick of the needles in their lenses injecting ichor into her eyes. Immediately, the world went black, and she arched her back slightly as the neural cables rammed themselves into the jacks down her spine. She might have screamed, but by that point her mouth was already hanging slack in its mask.

She opened her eyes and breathed out, but where once she gazed out of her own tired sockets, now she was looking out of the six grilled eyes of Vacuous Hand. She tried to focus, the fiery pain in the back of her head abating to a familiar pins and needles. Bloody hell, out of the suit for a week and she felt like a line soldier doing ichor on a dare. Still, she checked her fingers were all attached and working, and then took her first step forward. It was practically smoother than walking normally, the pistons and mechanical tendons beneath the dented armour compensating perfectly for the hangar floor. Vacuous Hand turned, her eyes falling towards the rack bolted to the wall that served as the armoury. Reaching out in an adamantine-taloned hand, she tore a shotgun from the wall and slung it on her belt, next to the round machine gun ammunition and rondel dagger. Finally, she grabbed the massive zweihander from its place on the wall and slung its huge scabbard across her back, where it nestled next to the exhaust vents, which already glowed with an anticipatory frame. 

With everything ready, Vacuous Hand ducked between the stone ridges in the hangar ceiling. Below her, she felt the rumble of massive treads as the landship entered the pass below. 

Time to hunt.

She dragged the hangar door aside and lept from from the cave down to the slopes below.

The mountain was steep, and Vacuous Hand half sprinted, half slid down the mountainside, the smoke of its exhaust mixing with a trail of greyish snow and grit.

Below her, the landship crawled across the pass, flattening the few trees that fought to grow this high up. It was a massive thing, covered in golden battlements and possessing four treads modelled to look like lion’s paws. It bore several huge cannons that, thankfully for Vacuous, were proudly trained on the valley below. Around it, several smaller tanks and frames maintained a perimeter, but none of them yet noticed the mech skidding down the mountainside towards them. Vacuous took it all in, noting the closest frames, mostly smaller Cuirassiers, and readying her machine gun to fire. The rattle of the gun tore through the mountain air, and more importantly, through the thin armour of the smaller mechs. Immediately, the guns of the smaller tanks swivelled to face her, but by the time they fired she had a dozen metres to her right, and the plume of snow that erupted where the shell fell was well off its mark. By now, several of the larger frames were moving in to intercept, and Vacuous Hand would have grinned, had it had the ability, as it drew the massive broadsword, which now glowed red hot and leapt from the mountainside. She selected her target, a decent sized cavalier wielding a shotgun-shield and falchion. It fired and she swerved slightly middair, the mechshot barely clipping a taloned toe. 

My turn.

She smashed into the cavalier as it charged towards her, taloned feet gripping its limbs as her broadsword punched through its abdomen. Vacuous barely had time to smell the burning flesh and ichor before another cavalier moved to avenge its comrade. This one wielded a broadsword similar to her own, and had a pair of ornate wings sprouting from its gilded back. As it charged, the wings emitted a flurry of missiles that arced towards her. She kicked hard to the left, dodging most, but a few found their mark. Two ricocheted off her pauldron, but a third slammed into her knee as she braced to cut down the cavalier. She stumbled, and her opponent capitalised, sweeping her zweihander aside as its own blade cut deep into her arm. Vacuous Hand howled as ichor welled from the wounded limb, and she dived forward, extending her wristblade and slamming it hard into the enemy mech’s chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one of the tanks firing, and turned to face it, the shell impacting hard into the back of the struggling frame she had impaled. It went limp, and she tossed it aside as she dashed for the tank. It readied to fire again, but she slid below the path of the shell and sprung up, her sword biting into the turret as her foot crushed the gun barrel below. She turned in time to see another shell as it slammed hard into her shoulder, rending pistons and mechanical arteries. She snarled, and leapt towards it, her machine gun howling a staccato burst as she impacted the tank. This time, there was no clean sword-strike as she tore open the turret and painted the insides of the tank with gore.

She ducked behind the wreck, considering her options. Thankfully, she was too close to the landship for its guns to be a threat, but already she felt the rumble as the other tanks moved around to finish her off. With one arm shattered but slowly pulling itself together, and a leg that threatened to buckle if it took another hit, killing them wouldn’t be worth it, and moreover, would open her up to strikes from the mechs which were now likely disembarking the battlements on the landship above. But if she didn’t move, the tanks would blow apart the mechanical carcass she was hiding behind. As the first shell dragged up a plume of smoke and snow behind her, Vacuous made her choice.

She dashed for the Landship, her talons biting into the massive treads, and the glowing blade of her zweihander easily finding purchase in the ornate plating above them. She reached out with her other arm and-

Shit.

The arm, slick with ichor and half-broken from the tank shell, slipped. The mech screamed as she plummeted, barely catching itself on the sword again. The Cuirassiers on the battlements were thundering towards where she was hanging, and only the fear of damaging the landship was keeping the tanks from eviscerating her. One of the Cuirassiers leaned over the battlements to shoot at her with a broad-barreled gun, and she snapped.

With her good arm she flung herself forward, jaws grinding open and snapping shut like a beartrap as she tore the head off the Cuirassier, and kicked herself onto the top of the tank as it plummeted to the snowy ground below. She breathed heavily, steam hissing from her ichor-slick jaws. In front of her, the two Cuirassiers were frozen, but as she looked up they regained their composure and opened fire. The impact of their guns felt like rainfall on her hull, but Vacuous knew she’d feel it later. She grabbed one of them, wristblade extending in and out of its gut as she punched its torso in. Then, she flung it forward, smashing it into the other frame. A part of her thought dully, these ones are just soldiers. Varis is the real target. Maybe, but they’re hardly conscripts either. Still, she left the second Cuirassier pinned under its compatriot. She didn’t have the time. Behind her she saw the form of a demi-lancer emerge from the rear of the tank. She certainly didn’t have the time for that. She slung her sword onto her back, and, catching sight of an entrance into the rest of the tank, dashed for it. She felt the impact of the demi-lancer kanding behind her as she ran through the bulkhead. She slammed the door behind her, and took a brief look at her surroundings. This was clearly a hangar bay, its ceiling high and vaulted, and criss-crossed by gantries and cranes. Below, a few technicians drew sidearms and opened fire. She ignored them, only sending a quick burst of machine gun fire to send them scurrying behind the empty racks where mechs could dock.

Suddenly, the door’s hissed open, and Vacuous Hand came face to face with her Demi-Lancer pursuer. It was tall, heavily armoured and, like many Green Stallion frames, modelled vaguely after an armoured human. Its face was sculpted like a death mask, and it carried a shimmering Rail-falconet.

You missed your chance. You can’t fire that in-

She barely had time to duck as a bolt of hyperaccelerated adamantine spiralled past her head and impacted into the ceiling behind.

Shit. This wasn’t one of Varis’ hirelings. This was an honest to god Green Stallion, with overwhelming hubris to boot. It fired again, slicing through a gantry as Vacuous leapt for its jugular. She tore its railgun aside with her foot, and readied her wristblade to slice throu-

Cere felt a coldness in her chest as she looked down witnessing the huge dagger that had pierced her mech’s hull and was now slicing into the side of her stomach, barely missing spilling her guts onto the cockpit floor. She felt faint, but even as her body gave way, she felt a familiar heat in the back of her head as her suit pumped more ichor into her spine. 

Cere and Vacuous Hand screamed in unison, wrenching the blade from their chest and biting down on the throat of the demi-lancer below her. Blinded by fury, they grasped its plated neck and pulled, ripping it clean off in a shower of black gore. Then, pulling out her yet-unused shotgun, she placed its barrel over the centre of the now-paralysed mech’s chest, and pulled the trigger. Cere almost smiled as the rounds tore through armour and pilot alike, rending metal mingling with a gurgling scream. She faded into darkness, and instinct took over.

Vacuous Hand turned, the sudden influx of ichor sharpening its vision as it spied the way further into the landship. The gilded walls were lined with pipes and cables, their gold fading to almost black and white as she focused on navigating the massive war-engine. She could feel the ichor knitting together the wound in her and her pilot’s chest, pulling her arm back into place, but it would be a while before she could function fully. The halls were quiet, with presumably most of the crew manning weapon emplacements or monitoring the treads. But even in her bloodlust-blackened mind, Vacuous thought something was off. This landship was transporting supplies for establishing a mine. There should be foremen, quarters for miners, at the very least some mud on the floors. But there was nothing. 

As she stalked the corridors, she saw a large door labelled ‘Hold’, beside which sat several piles of flowers, and what appeared to be bottles of incense or perfume.  She tore the door open, and was confronted with the answer to her question. The hold contained various crates of equipment, picks, sledgehammers, all sorts. To one side, several grubber frames sat, their forklift-like arms ready for hauling mined urelium. But still, she wondered where the miners themselves were. Then she caught sight of the strange galvanic chambers at one end, their iron caskets shaped eerily like coffins. Beside them, several staves topped with black crystal stood, quietly radiating an aura of cold death. She glanced to the centre of the hold, and found the reason the door had been decked in flowers. In the middle of the floor, a large grate had been placed and, just below it, was a huge pit, filled almost to the brim with corpses in varying states of decay. Each shared a gunshot wound to the back of the head, and while the grate was still as sparkling steel, the floor around it was splattered with blood. The corpses were varied in species, mostly being humans or orcs, and maybe a few dwarves-

No. Those were not dwarven corpses.

Instead of the bile that might have risen in an organic throat, Vacuous Hand felt only a thick black rage. 

Varis would die, and like Tisea wished, it would be slow.

She left that hold silently, pausing only to locate a barrel of oil, which she doused the corpses in before igniting them with a spark from her talons against the blood-splattered floor. The smoke rose thickly from the pit, choking the corridors of the landship as she crept up the staircases into the upper decks.

She passed into an armoury, gazing at the ornate shelves that put her own meagre supply to shame. As she did so, a cavalier entered the armoury, and in panic she swerved to face it. It was around the same size as herself, and painted a dark green, and carried a simple sword and shield, although both were still overgrown with vine-like gold trim. It seemed as surprised as she was, but overcame this as it charged. Vacuous made to draw her zweihander but-

Shit. The armoury was too cramped to draw it easily, much less wield it. The cavalier’s sword, however, had no such problems, she narrowly managed to step backwards to avoid its thrust. The mech’s eyes gleamed a cold blue through the smoke, and it advanced. She drew her shotgun to fire, but it dashed forward and slammed its shield into the barrel, knocking it from her grip. It punched forward with the shield, sending her to the ground as her already-damaged leg gave way. She rolled heavily as the two-metre long blade clanged into the deck where she had just been, and looked around desperately for an advantage. 

There! A falchion had clattered to the ground when she fell backwards. It was a one-hander, but it would do. She darted forward, grabbing the broad blade and bringing it up to parry another blow from the green cavalier. She punched out with her wristblade, but the Cavalier raised its shield, and the blade stuck fast. It twisted the shield and Vacuous felt metallic tendons snap as she tried to wrench the wristblade free. It didn’t budge, and she barely deflected another blow from the cavalier as it struggled to break free from the grapple. Finally, it was forced to drop the shield, with it clattering to the floor suddenly and leaving Vacuous unguarded. It jabbed its sword clean through her other wrist, causing her to drop the falchion, but as it did so she kicked out at its leg and it tumbled onto her. They grappled, the metal of their frames shrieking and sending bright sparks into the smoke around them. She pinned it down, her knee slamming into its arm as it tried to draw a dagger, whilst with her other arm she drew her own rondel. It was a wicked thing, reinforced adamantine terminating in a vicious point, which she drove into its shoulders, its neck, its chest. Over and over again she plunged the dagger into it, tearing through pistons, tendons and armour until finally, the writhing cavalier stopped moving. 

Heavily, Vacuous Hand got to her feet. Ichor dripped from all over her armour-plated body, and the entire world had devolved into black and white, punctuated only by the fading glow of the cavalier’s eyes and the sparks from the fire below. During the grapple she had gained more wounds than she realised, and opened up a few old ones as well. Now, she limped up the stairs before finally coming face to face with a huge set of doors leading to the ‘bridge’ of the landship, where Tisea had said Varis would be sealed. Before it stood his apparent last line of defence, a row of shield-and-spear-bearing infantrymen supported by a few cuirassiers. She made to fire her machine gun

Click.

Wonderful. Even better, her spare ammunition had presumably been dislodged by the cavalier downstairs. Seeing this, the poor infantrymen must have thought they stood a chance.

They didn’t.

…

Vacuous Hand tore into the doors with hands now stained a deep maroon by blood and ichor. Around her, the remains of the infantrymen were scattered across the landing. A few had almost pricked her with their spears, but it meant little. The door, an ornate thing of wood and bronze, fell away, revealing the bridge within. 

It was as gold-trimmed as the rest of the ship, full to the brim with terrified navigators and deck officers, and in the centre, a throne. Within it sat a small man in an ornate uniform, his gold epaulettes camouflaging him with the gaudy chair he sat upon. His balding head was crowned by a laurel wreath, and he carried a rapier at his side. 

Varis. 

He might have been an impressive display of nobility, were it not for the fact that as soon as the door gave way he scrambled from the chair and half stumbled, half ran for a door off to the side. Vacuous tore towards him, but he reached it in time, leaving the mech to tear through the wall into the next room. The jagged metal sliced at her arms, but at this point Vacuous Hand felt nothing. There was only her and her quarry, and it was getting away.

She dragged herself into the next room, a strange cylindrical space with walls lined with banded copper quite unlike the gold of the rest of the landship. One end extended out past the copper walls, and there stood Varis, grasping at a small control panel. 

Suddenly it hit her. Varis wasn’t running away, he was leading her here. A triumphant grin on his small face, the man pulled a switch and lightning arced between the copper wires, tearing into the mech within the coil. Vacuous Hand screamed, and within it, Cere awoke.

She gasped, coughing ichor into her gas mask. She fumbled for the straps that bound her wrists to the chair, undoing them as she watched through her mech’s eyes as Varis approached, carrying a large spear that featured a large grenade just below its tip.

“Can you hear me, dog? You’ve ruined everything I’ve been working for, so I think I’ll take this slow. I used to be a soldier myself, you know. I can make this hurt.”

The words caused something to snap within Cere, and she tore her goggles and mask off as she leapt for the catch above her. She twisted it open and dragged herself out just in time, as Varis plunged the spear deep into Vacuous Hand’s chest, a small explosion following as the grenade attached to it went off. Surprised, Varis looked up as Cere struggled free from the chainmail hood of the suit. Ichor bled freely from her eyes, nose and mouth, but right now she couldn’t care less. He had killed hundreds. He was Tisea’s quarry. But more than that, He had destroyed her mech. In a couple of seconds he had done what so many of his forces had tried and failed to do, and he did it with some copper wire and a spear. 

He. Was going. To die.

She fell on him as he drew his rapier, and it pierced clean through her shoulder. She didn’t notice, twisting herself just as the cavalier had done to her wristblade and dragging the sword from his grasp. He was stronger than he looked, and managed to push her off him as she pulled the rapier from her shoulder. Now she felt it. He stumbled back even as she shot forward, adrenaline and ichor keeping her faster than she had any right to be. She jammed the rapier into his gut, and he fell backwards.

“How many?” She choked, spewing ichor onto his jacket.

“What?”

“In-in the hold. How many people?”

“How the hell would I know, hound. They’re just meat.”

“Pity. So are you.”

She stood up, and stomped on his leg. Something snapped. Varis screamed.

“Who are you?”

“A hound. Remember? Now. You tell me what twisted fucking justification you have what what I saw downstairs.”

“As if I need to tell a lowborn bitch like you any-”

Cere broke his other leg.

“I’m sorry- I- Workers or slaves were too expensive to feed. This was the most economica-”

Cere’s boot slammed into his jaw. He fainted.

Cere sighed. 

“Pathetic.”

She pulled the rapier from his gut and drove it through his heart. More than he deserved. She made to walk away, but as she did so she felt the ichor’s influence beginning to wane. The pain in her shoulder flared up, and she stumbled. She glanced at the wound. It was bleeding more than she expected. She crawled to Varis’ jacket, tearing off its sleeve to improvise a binding. It wasn’t much, and she did the same to her gut wound. Thankfully, it wasn’t as deep as she feared, and the ichor had already gone some ways to patching it up. Still, now the ichor was gone she doubted she could walk. She slumped against the wall. She hadn’t really considered her exit strategy. She glanced at Vacuous Hand, and its black eyes stared back from within its head. At least they would die knowing they succeeded. That Varis was dead. That Tisea had got what she wanted. Cere thought she might have liked to see her, at least. To give her Varis’ head, or something. She passed out. 

She awoke to the sound of armoured boots approaching. She cursed, but she wasn’t surprised. The fact it had taken this long for guards to even come check was testament to Varis’ confidence in his victory. They were dressed relatively simple, carrying bolt-action rifles and bearing a dagger at their belts. One went to check on the little turd, while another pressed a rifle to her head. She spat a last globule of ichor and blood onto their boot. As she did so, an explosion rocked the landship. The guard glanced up, before a bullet lanced clean through their skull. The second guard rose, and met an identical fate. Cere slumped backwards as she watched through half-shut eyes a figure pick their way across her mech’s fallen frame, flanked by two heavily-armoured soldiers. It dashed towards her, dropping to a crouch in front of her. She had dark skin and hair, and her usually neat jacket had been thrown off, leaving a shirt flecked with a few drops of the guard’s blood. Her eyes bored into Cere as she cupped her cheek in her hand.

“Tisea?..”

“Yes?” Tisea looked almost scared.

“Did I do good?”

“Yes, yes you did.” 

“Then you owe me a new mech.”

That got a bit of a smile.

“Can you wa-” Tisea broke off as she studied Cere’s wounds. “No. No you can’t.”

Before Cere could protest, she dragged her up and slung an arm across her shoulders. For someone who, as far as Cere could tell, had never so much as thrown a punch, Tisea was remarkably strong. 

“Varis fainted before I could do much. Sorry.” 

Cere wasn’t sure Tisea heard her. Instead, she was looking up at the sky above them. The explosion she had felt had torn apart the roof of the bridge, and above them a skyship hovered, waiting expectantly.

“When’d you decide to bring in a ship?”

“Around the same time you set the landship on fire. I thought extraction might be an issue.”

“I would have been fi-” Cere broke into a fit of coughing, and clutched Tisea’s shoulder like she was drowning and her boss was a piece of driftwood. If Tisea noticed, she didn’t show it.

“I’m sure. You two-” she said, gesturing to the two armoured figures. “Get that mech hoisted onto the ship.” She looked down at Cere. “You're going to be fine.” She seemed to be reassuring herself more than anything else.

The skyship descended and extended down several ropes. Cere weakly protested as she was harnessed into one of them and hoisted aboard. She stumbled over to a bench as what remained of her suit was dragged onto the deck of the ship. She tipped forward as Tisea ran to catch her. 

“What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Killed everyone. Got stabbed by that shitstain with a spear. Had to kill him with his own rapier. He fainted too quickly.”

“Don’t worry about that now. You did so good for me. How deep are your wounds?”

“Not sure. I’ll probably be fin-”

Cere pitched forward, catching the gaze of Vacuous Hand as Tisea struggled to catch her. She looked at her mech for a moment.

We did good.

Cere smiled as she black out, and dimly thought that perhaps, Vacuous Hand opened its jaw into something like a grin as they passed out.

We did good.

[amilfdala]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ perdition.

pairing: cain x lane. — tw: assault, death. — words: 2.2k. — rated: t. — chapter: 1/?. — high school graduate lane & priest in training cain happens to cross each others path. — tag: @rc-catalog. — playlist. — next chapter. — hsr fic.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎chapter one. — the first sin.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎lane stood near the swingset, noting the rust and dampness on the seat as she contemplated. the wind fiddled with her hair, blowing a few wispy strands into her eyes. it caused her to blink once, twice. her actions looked automated, as if her physical body obeyed a set of pre-programmed motions, done in an attempt to make her appear human. a traitor in the pack, one would say, or an anomaly to fear.

there was a puddle nearby, and her reflection in it looked alien and lost, as if her physicality no longer belonged to her, and her conscious mind dawdled down to a thumping noise. to realign herself, a task herculean in its weight, required venturing past this haven of comfort that the park had become and welcoming a change of pace.

after adjusting the strap of her school bag, which hung haphazardly over her shoulder, lane shed the unnecessary trinkets she was forced to take home as parting gifts into a trash can. she watched as it all fell with a clang, burrowing deep with the rest of the litter and fading from her disinterested view. although this extra weight was eliminated, there was still something pressing down on her. but alas, she was not atlas condemned to hold the sky, so she ignored the throbs.

lane’s blazer was left open, allowing the dewy but fresh air to wash over her, cascading in gentle waves. instead of taking the usual route home, she opted for the bystreet near the main compound, where people hung by the windows like ghosts. maybe not the sanest of decisions, considering her self-preserving nature, but that peculiar throb, irritating and insistent, had urged her forward.

her strides echoed ominously across the pavements as she sped through the winding pathway into an open road that led nowhere. thick fog formed around the town with a creamy consistency that made it impossible to discern any shape or form. and it looked like, somewhere along the way, lane had teleported, and now stood stranded on an alien land where the price for life was obscurity, and death.

she took in a deep breath. calm and collected, that’s how she should approach any situation, and how she must behave, as drilled into her by her parents. but it felt like a daunting jab, rather than well-meaning advice. they did not care about her, and had her almost out of pity for themselves, so any life lessons they imparted felt like hot stones being rubbed into her skin; sizzling her flesh and charring the bones beneath.

a chuckle left lane’s mouth, lips pulled into a thin line of mockery for her redundant life. what decision was there to make, anyway? the road ahead was haunted, she knew for sure, but so was home, and so was her life. the staggering realisation only lay in the fact that even an abandoned lane was as familiar as the place she referred to as home.

such thoughts only served as a fortitude for despair, and lane neither had the time nor energy to expend on such harrowing introspections. at least, not at the moment anyway, as there were plenty of chances for that, and plenty of chasms to fall into, once she returned home. so for now, the road less travelled will suffice.

and so she continued, a treacherous trek into the unknown, until she finally sensed some human activity. the toll of a bell was what she first took notice of, as it rang with clarity and cadence. then came the echoes of distant chatter, motorbike rumbles, and the permeating scent of an ordinary life lived. lane let out a heavy breath she didn’t know she had held in. it came out in wisps, challenging the mist around her parted lips.

she could vaguely make out the city square, the centre of lush civilisation. how she ended up there was a confusing ordeal, considering she took a route that led her away from this compound in the first place. but she appreciated the outcome nonetheless, as the derivative chill from a lonely, abandoned road was not as sprightly as she had initially imagined.

but her merriment dissipated right as she took another step, ramming into an obstructive figure. the force of the hit propelled her backwards, and the weight of her bag made her stumble even further. but lane got herself in time, swinging the bag from her back to clutch it to her chest as she looked up at a man leering down at her.

lane’s expression remained impassive, and she offered no apology, for this was not her mistake. her face almost contorted into an unsavoury expression, reeling at the sudden interruption of an otherwise peaceful outing.

the man did not let it slide. lane expected as much.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“where are you off to, conniving bitch?” he sneered, spit flying.

he was short and stout but proud of his stature. he gave off a threatening aura, which contrasted heavily with his haggard look. lane did not bother to make out much of his face, half concealed by the fog and by her own disinterest. but she knew, from his caustic tone, and the way his neck turned red from fury, that backing away was not an option.

retrieving a blade from her side pockets almost imperceptibly, lane stepped aside and mouthed an excuse me, unwilling to engage in violence unless provoked first. the man, however, had no intention of letting her go, and immediately lunged forward, grabbing her wrist in an iron grip.

lane yelped and hissed, her bag falling to the ground with a thud, and her along with it, as the man brutally shoved her down and hovered over her with a maniacal grin. “don't be shy” his acrid stench was unbearable, “you may beg for my forgiveness, through other... services”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎her answer was a slash of her blade.

he sprung away, howling as if the blade had severed his heart and not his cheek that spurted a measly amount of blood. lane supported herself on her elbows, watching and observing from the ground as the man clutched the side of his face, which she finally feigned attention to, and regarded her handiwork with satisfaction.

but she had to leave, and fast. however, in her adrenaline-driven state, lane had failed to register her twisted ankle, caused by her sudden, brute fall. the impact even left behind cuts and bruises, courtesy of the gravelly road, and she remained in its prickly embrace even after several attempts to get up.

the man’s wailings had stopped, and lane had factored this development in too late. his laboured breathing slowly approached her fallen self, feet scrapping across the rock-strewn path as he looked determined enough to kill.

one step, two, and a third one. thud, thud, thud. the master with a scythe has approached to quell.

but the scythe did not swing. the master took no further steps. because a greater being took hold of its skull, and bashed it in.

lane noted the gleaming white fog, shimmering like stars. the glow brightened, eclipsed. she could vaguely make out two figures, one slumped, wrung like a ragdoll. and the other;

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎he appeared, like a burst of supernova, pulling everything toward him with a force so divine the space around him contracted, and in a blink, exploded into a brilliant shower of sparks. the blinding lights around him parted, with the same ease of a curtain pulled, and he took on a concrete form, as if shedding his luminous light to remain compliant to earth’s strict regulations.

he had his fingers wrapped around the limp neck of the man who had attacked her, now blistering under his tight grip till the blood in his body flared and spluttered. lane had an odd wish to press her thumb to his pulse point, to feel the life in his body disperse in agonizing lengths. but her attention did not linger long on the writhing body, as she had a miracle to behold.

an angel, she realised, with staggering reverence and piety. she had half a mind to believe this was a farce, conjured up by her frightened state of mind. but she knew, goodness she knew, that this was no illusory trick, as his indomitable presence held a severity incapable of being recreated by the human psyche.

he was real, and he was here. while she was sprawled on the ground, kissing calamity in the face as she watched god’s creature smash a man into an adjacent pole, toppling it over.

when his attention shifted to her, languid in its movements and thoughtful in its gaze, lane suddenly felt conscious of her current disposition. she hid the blade in her palm, dripping with the man's blood, and the warmth of the liquid was cathartic enough not to make her lose her mind. when the angel inched closer, she scrambled back, huffing and glowering, and he stopped, pushing his hands up in a placating gesture, and waited.

he didn’t intend to leave, that much was evident from his body language, positioned toward her with an anchored resolution. lane bit the inside of her cheeks, sprawled on the ground like a crushed spider, flanked by his inscrutable presence. was there a proper etiquette to greet the heavenly messenger of god? she wouldn’t know, as she wasn't a frequent visitor of the church.

but the flashing pain in her ankles, acute and searing, drowned out all other worries and focused rabidly on one thought, to find an elevated platform to rest. she stood up in an attempt to move to a bench nearby, but her legs, which remained uncooperative to strenuous movements, buckled right before she could find solid purchase.

the world slipped, rushing past her vision with incredible speed, but then stopped just as abruptly, standing still like an obedient child. lane blinked, surprised, then slowly sensed the ice-cold grip on her elbows, and her heart sank just as it rose.

the angel was near her, dangerously close, who had wrapped his long, ivory fingers around her arm, and the air clashed with a static shock. she couldn’t help but choke on a strange morbid feeling as she looked up and met his empyrean gaze, which never wavered and silently took hold of her bereft soul.

he was beautiful, like that of a moon in the morning, all firmament, majestic, and evocative, but defying the rules of nature, appearing where he should not be. he had a sculpted, aristocratic face, framed by lily white hair and eyes so piercingly blue that it shamed the skies and the heaven it housed. he shifted, guiding the young girl to the damp bench, and diligently ignored her incredulous looks and appraisals.

all the events that led up to this moment created a startingly emotive effect, and it was incongruous enough to shush her body and mind, letting it slink back against the creaking backrest. taking advantage of her momentary distraction, the angel spoke, his silky smooth voice cushioning her leaden thoughts.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“you have nothing to be afraid of”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎lane looked at the body of the man beside them pointedly. “the evidence suggests otherwise”

the angel’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and after brazenly sweeping his gaze over the unconscious body, settled on gracing her retort with a subtle smile. it unsettled lane, but it piqued her interest nonetheless, and she realized that she was inadvertently falling into a cesspool of emotions that were becoming increasingly harder to detangle.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎he inched closer. “then lend me your trust, just for the day”

lane frowned, startled and confused. the blade between her fingers left another cut, like an amorous kiss of a parting lover. she savoured the sting, letting it ground her to reality as she pondered the irrefutable existence of him and this calamitous incident.

but right now, as she realised that the angel’s attention had pivoted to a space beyond her grasp, lane decided that such a stifling discovery could await its deserving reaction after she had made it back home.

instead of bombarding him with questions about his kind or asking after the penultimate truth of the world, she suppressed her sweltering curiosity and settled on a simple observation task. her eyes wandered unceremoniously over the angel’s figure, noting his athletic stature, the rigid posture, and the porcelain make of his face and skin. flawless, timeless, he stood tall, with a white button-up shirt, loose black pants, and a rosary wrapped tightly around his left palm.

the latter part spiked her already elevated interest. she wondered, for a brief moment, about what would happen if she threaded her fingers along his, snaked through the beads, and yanked it away from his palm. would he fall apart, then? would the mist take the earth's guest away, wavering like a reflection on unsteady waters, before the seams burst and the stars welcomed back its light?

lane didn’t linger long on her thoughts, unnerving and strangely addicting as they were, as a slight rustle forced her privy eyes up, and she caught sight of it. the thing that separated humankind from immortals, the anatomical difference that immediately stood apart; the wings.

but the angel shifted, breaking the spell with a divot of his movement, and caught the flitting eyes of the girl, urging her to cease her rove. he cocked his head to the side, crossing his arms across his chest, which crunched his flimsily buttoned shirt. impassive as he may, he had his moments of indulgence in human emotions, so he spoke, mimicking the tenderness of a leaf caressed in the wind. “i’m cain”

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎his extension of trust, she presumed.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎“my name is lane”