#status effect whump...

[whumpscholar]

@seth-whumps

Whenever I feel like writing my WOL getting beat up I just pull up the FFXIV statuses wiki page

[seth-whumps]

consider a whumpee who would normally heal quickly, with magic or a healing factor, inflicted with a poison/illness/curse/just plain exhaustion that prevents any wounds from healing, hemopheliac style. going from standing up the day after a stab wound to watching the damn thing bleed, and bleed, and bleed, it won't even close, it stays stubbornly open.... caretakers putting pressure on it, desperate, "why isn't it working?!"

[killacharacterbingo]

Withered away

This prompt was originally inspired by the Minecraft Potion of Decay, which inflicts the wither status effect. In terms of gameplay, the wither effect saps the target or targets' health over time and, unlike poison, can affect undead creatures as well.

As usual with prompts referencing specific franchises or IPs, AUs based on Minecraft are more than welcome for this entry. However, it isn't mandatory to write a Minecraft AU to fit the category for this prompt. In broad strokes, to wither away is to become brittle, to decay, to shrivel and become lifeless over time. The concept is applicable to real life and fantasy/sci-fi scenarios alike.

[rainbowolfe]

Points of Interest from The Gaslight District

-"Humanity" is coded orange and green. Green particularly seems to reference the loss of the humanity in becoming undying beings. This is really emphasized by the association of green with Cementing. Which is. Pretty fucking inhumane.

-"The Virtue Corps. Exposed!" "What kind of secrets do these walking tin cans have locked away in their Citadel? The returned pieces of our investigative journalist may tell the tale..."

-"Humans Are Born From Angels!" "Sources have confirmed that the prophesized human is born every 10,000 years from the egg of an angel. The human holds the power to destroy the Gaslight District as we know it. It must be rooted out and DESTROYED with utmost prejudice."

-Mel having the hots for whump-- But ALSO the greater implication that, in a society that majority lack genitals, violence has become the new sex. Which means those two getting stabby in the bar were just FUCKIN in public

-Ken not actually looking over Mel's plan and agreeing to go because of his anger towards Temperance. (the "mad sus" Virtue)

-The guards and the Virtues effectively being eyeless. Mmm, see no evil type deal? It's also notable that when Mud takes that shot at Jack that actually hits, he covers his eyes.

-Despite seeming imposing and put together, Diligence is actually quite antsy/fidgety, a sign of either boredom or anxiety. Or both.

-Mud intentionally avoiding direct eye contact with Diligence.

-After Diligence looks over the shipping manifesto, their visor flickers between "Status: Needs QA" and "Status: Approved".

-Diligence's sheer annoyance and desire for (unnecessary) violence makes them forget about the foreign presence they detected. They actually seem to let a lot of things slide and ignore all the warnings they're getting solely for their own gratification. They're, uh, not exactly living up to their name.

-the parallel between Ken and Mel as she goes to do something shortsighted that overlooks a very obvious problem that will only become apparent in hindsight... while he goes to "kill" Temperance.

-the difference in between recovery time from "death". Jack recovers SUPER slow compared to Mud, Ken, and Breadhead. Joshua doesn't need to recover at all and can still function in his "death" state.

-there seem to be a loooot of "dead" Virtues in the bird cage.

-the parallel drawn between the angel egg and whatever the fuck Temperance is working on.

-the flash frames of blue and pink when Ken clashes with Diligence, colors that usually appear layered on top of each other as a representation of (un)death but now exist separately just for this scene.

-Diligence recognizes Ken but can't "process" the information because of the damage to their head.

-Diligence's hand is still in the truck. Surely that won't come up later to cause problems.

-Temperance had Mel when she was a baby, freshly out the egg. All of Ken's photos with Mel depict her as much older, closer to the age she is now.

-Jack's an organ donor. That's probably why he's getting fished up from his cementing. Interestingly, the card is mostly filled out by someone who's not Jack. Someone who signs their name with a heart.

-the moment that the angel egg begins to hatch, revealing Mel's con, is in someway comparable to Ken's memories of the Inferno.

-Speaking of the Inferno, Ken's recounting of his experience would mean that his sin is Gluttony. (Placing him in the third circle/ring) //squints. And potentially suicide considering the Virtues are very harpy-esque.

-oh my god the angels are lying.

-also the one-eyed angel-crow actually is watching Mel the whole time, you can see it throughout the episode.

[serickswrites]

Walk IV

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: gunshot wound, blood, unconsciousness, unclear character status

"NO!" Caretaker screamed as Whumpee collapsed in a heap.

"Well, you couldn't make a choice, Caretaker. So I made it for you."

"No," Caretaker sobbed. They had failed Whumpee. Had failed Whumpee so spectacularly. They watched as Whumpee's blood pooled around them.

Whumper turned around. They glared at Caretaker. "They're not dead you know."

"What?"

Whumper smirked. "I didn't shoot to kill. Though," Whumper glanced over their shoulder, "they don't have long. You have a choice to make now, Caretaker. So many choices."

"Out with it, Whumper!" Whumpee wasn't dead. They were dying. But they weren't dead.

"Let me walk out of here and you can save them. Or rush me and maybe I die, but Whumpee definitely dies. What's your choice?"

Caretaker didn't want to let Whumper go. But they couldn't let Whumpee die. They walked forward, past Whumper and dropped to their knees besides Whumpee.

"An excellent choice," Whumper chuckled as they began to run. "Let's hope it works out for you!"

"Hold on, Whumpee, hold on," Caretaker said as they rolled Whumpee onto their back and pressed their hands to the bloody wound in their chest. "Just hold on. Please, Whumpee. Just hold on."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat @sowhumpful @gala1981 @andithewhumper @pigeonwhumps

@dragonfireridge @whumpity-whumpwhump @sadist-by-night @collectingblorbolikerocks @whumpy-daydreams

@whimp-whamp-whump @sapphirechao @the-crystal-w1tch-whump @the-whumperfly-effect @jaypostssometimes

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @madmadder @freefallingup13 @whumptastic-world @anton-inspiration-sigma

@utopian819 @whump7401 @danswhumpdump @angrbodawrites @whump-me

@whumpy-wyrms @sweetwhumpandhellacomf @hostagesituations @joelle2038 @jesse-wilder

@painless-innit-colourful @whumblr @bloodinthemud @whump-whump-whump-it-up @eyehartart

@undeadunhingedchaos @whimp-whamp-whump @whump-till-ya-jump

[year-of-whump-tropes]

Here's the tentative list for April!

April: Magic Whump

Week 1: Magical side effects 

Day 1:

Magical scars

Curses

Day 2:

Magic fatigue

“Did I do it?”

Day 3:

Improper magical healing

What magical side effect(s) do you find most interesting?

Day 4:

Wild/unpredictable magic

“I can’t keep this up for long!”

Day 5:

Physical consequences of magic use

Magic fatigue or magic euphoria? Why?

Day 6:

Magic euphoria

“It’s too much.”

Day 7:

Painful magic

“I wish we had another option.”

Week 2: Used for their magic 

Day 1:

Bound/imprisoned with their own magic

Sealing

Day 2:

Living battery

"We need/deserve this magic more than you"

Day 3:

Loved one used as leverage

What’s the most fun way to compel a whumpee?

Day 4:

Forced to overtax themself

“I can’t!”

Day 5:

Magic suppressors

What role would you be in a whump story?

Day 6:

Magic transfer

“You work for me now.”

Day 7:

Owned magic user as a status symbol

Whumpee’s own magic out of their control

Week 3: Nonhuman whump

Day 1:

Harm to/removal of nonhuman parts

Nonhuman traits used against them

Day 2:

Sentient weapons/bindings/other objects

“Get it!”

Day 3:

Fae whump

What’s your favorite kind of nonhuman whumpee?

Day 4:

Unwanted transformation

"Stop complaining, you’ll heal anyway"

Day 5:

Immortal whump

What’s your favorite kind of nonhuman whumper?

Day 6:

Dehumanization due to being nonhuman

“You’re not one of us. You’re lesser.”

Day 7:

Demon/angel whump

What whump trope(s) do you think work best with a nonhuman whumpee?

Week 4: Magic with a price

Day 1:

Healing with a cost

“I have to…”

Day 2:

Magical contract(s)

"I'll be okay."

Day 3:

Loss of control

What example of power with a price in fiction do you find most compelling?

Day 4:

Ritual gone badly

"Come on, talk to me!"

Day 5:

Magic that draws from the user’s body

What’s your favorite kind of self-whump for a whumpee to go through?

Day 6:

Whumpee pushing themself too far

"It's killing you!"

Day 7:

Magic that causes a loss of the user’s humanity

“You can’t keep doing this.”

[an0m0lyy]

New fic just dropped!! Have fun reading!!

“Rib Inhabiting green and Jason’s luck”

Fandom: DCU/Batman

Warnings: Graphic Descriptions of Violnce

Status: complete, 6/6

Words: 11,326

Main tags:

• 5+1 Things

• Jason Todd and the Lazarus spit, Pit madness, Lazarus pit side effects

• Jason Todd's kinda sentient pit

• Blood and Injury

• Cuddle Pollen

• Feral Dick Grayson + Jason Todd

• Hurt/Comfort, Whump

• Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Tim Drake

• Jason Todd centric

Summary:

The Lazarus pit didn't just affect Jason's emotions and anger. It doesn't just bring out his rage. No, Jason feels as if it had brought something else out. Something animalistic.

OR

5 times Jason’s somewhat but also not sentient pit saves his family and the one time they save him

[masters-of-void]

just anyu/eleanor things while i'm thinking about them

early into the spiral, he met "the scholar" who gave him a flask of alcohol that he became dependent on for years worth of loops (until thrax found where he stashed it). so when eleanor mentions the heavy drugs she takes to make her sleep, he can't help worrying about her

eventually when she trusts him enough, she lets him use transference on her to just sit in her head, methodically calming all the unwanted thoughts so she can rest without the drugs. it's bonding for them lol and sometimes they fall asleep together like that

the first time he gets injured in the field (because whump is always necessary), it's after the big new years rescue and he's on a mission with arthur. he spends a minute too long outside his frame, taking a bad glancing shot to the head. it causes a duviri trauma response and he void slings away when arthur tries to help, so eleanor has to psychically track him down to the alley he sequesters himself in and tell him that trust is a two-way street. that he's always gone to insane lengths to save other people's lives, and it's time now that he can feel safe in trusting them with his. picturing her ending it like, "besides, you're much more valuable to us alive," in a cheeky loving way uwahh

i think a side effect of using a warframe long term is that the operator goes somewhat nonverbal from the strain of dual focusing in a machine not designed to speak (so that'd be why even drifter doesn't have in mission dialogue like even during quests). he's so chatty otherwise that it unsettles the team that's used to noisy banter and status reports, so eleanor takes to making the important callouts for him when she's not on duty and keeping tabs on him anyway

gods all the hair braiding

cute dinner dates include taking her to the future to try the ~exotic~ foods there. it's not perfect cause he has to stay in transference but they're together and das what counts

ough i need more unlocked conversations

[ao3-reading]

when somebody needs you

Written by: lostintheclouds321

Fandom: Trash/Lout of the count's family

Ships: Eruhaben x Cale Henituse

Tags: Terminal Illnesses, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, non-specified illness, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, but still takes place in Roan, Family Bonding, Whump

Thoughts:

Together, they have three kids, two houses, and an average life expectancy of four years. Eruhaben had never imagined himself part of such a warm family, but he'd been drawn in so easily. Cale just has that effect on people, he supposes. Or Eruhaben and Cale are dying together, but before that, they're trying their best to live what little life they have left.

Fuckkkk this fic gutted me in all of the best ways. It's a fanfic dealing with terminal illness, but not in a way I've really read anywhere else.

It's less off a fic where you're crying at everything, where all you can feel is the clock ticking and just wondering when the chime is gonna strike. It's more like... a celebration of what they have.

Moment's between the two and the children. Seeing them both acknowledge they have so little time with each-other and their family yet still choosing to keep it together, and shit, when it is time to leave?

It's as heartbreaking as you can imagine. I understand why Cale choose to do what he did with the kids, but the scene with Ohn clutching the notebook that explained everything made me SOB

It's just amazingly written with a wonderful pacing that allows you to glimpse into the life they lived and what happens afterwards.

The last paragraph was a balm to my soul.

more info under cut

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: Majour Character Death

Chapters: 2

Word Count: 23.4K

Status: Completed

Ask box is open for fanfic recs! Help me make this less TCF focued (or show me ur faves from this fandom too-) cuz I'm still very much down that rabbit hole lol

[forest-falcon]

The Butterfly Effect

Chptr 17

It's been a while since I've last updated this fic, but here it is - the next chapter of The Butterfly Effect. Hope you enjoy! And thanks for everyone's lovely support with this story. Hopefully it won't be as long before the next chapter is out 🤞

No major tags for this one - minor angst, whump and a bit of family fluff thrown in!

💙💚🧡💛💜🐦‍🔥🚒

John was torn. Torn between all those who needed him. Torn between duty and love. But, in the end, the choice was easy. His place was on the GDF carrier headed for Auckland, at the side of his brothers and Grandmother.

The post-mission clean up (if it could indeed be called that), the press, and the rest of the world waiting on them, would simply have to manage. God knows, he was having to.

Hauling himself aboard, he gently touched the painted name of the carrier, before finding a vacant seat next to Tam.

"Welcome aboard!" Colonel Casey greets, over the sounds of the engines, and flicking of buttons.

Val had been good to them. As soon as she had a functional comms line up and working, she'd taken the initiative to pull strings with a number of contacts. Phoenix would be allowed the time off from their regular civilian jobs back home to help with getting International Rescue back onto their feet, if they so wished.

It was a unanimous 'yes.'

"We're here for as long as you need us," her words held a warmth befitting her honorary Aunt status. She'd squeezed his shoulder, before brushing a stray lock of hair out of Scott's face.

"Thanks," John sighed, with a gratitude that somehow furthered his exhaustion.

Although it was in the world's best interest to see International Rescue functioning again, as swiftly as possible; it was good to know that people had their backs when the chips were down.

Val made her way to the front of the carrier and a flutter of garish Hawaiian fabric filled the seat.

Gordon peered over the eldest brother.

"Hey there, Bird Bath! How's the head?"

A groan, but Scott's eyes remained shut.

"Gords..."

"The one and only!"

Scott could hear his brother's Cheshire Cat grin.

"As your brother, I feel it's my duty to tell you that that landing was...*raspberry* stinko, awful...I've seen Rigby land better!" He gave a thumbs down.

"Ah, save it! Yours is the one Thunderbird that doesn't fly," Rigby deadpanned, from the cockpit.

"Make him stop," Scott's hoarse whisper is mainly levied at John, but entreats any and all who can hear him.

"Gladly. Just tell me how," John smirks, finally letting his shoulders drop a fraction.

"Ah, don't be like that... Hey, I know what'll cheer you both up!"

"No."

"A good ole sea shanty!" Gordon whips out his pocket device.

"Veto."

"Aww, really John? Not even, 'Leave her Johnny, leave her?'"

"Especially not that."

"Fine. I've got you..."

A moment passes as Gordon scrolls, then taps; and the hangar bursts into song.

"Eurovision!"

Virgil reopens his eyes to the sounds of...wait, is that Conchita Wurst?

Oh God, Gordon - Rise Like a Phoenix...really? Phoenix. This was definitely Gordon's taste in music - and humour.

Virgil doesn't remember being hover-stretchered to the hangar, but it's good to hear the voices of his family once more.

"Stop your fussing. I'm fine,"

"I'll be the judge of that Mrs. Tracy."

"Matthew Eric Jones!" Grandma starts.

"She middle named me! Did y'hear that Mac? She middle named me!"

"Oooh! Now you're in for it!" Gordon's chimes in, clearly enjoying his inflight entertainment.

"I was a doctor-"

"-And now you're my patient. So, unless you're going to sign an AMA form, you'll sit back nicely, and let me do my job."

"Oooh, I like him." Grandma's voice concedes. "Fine. But if they keep me in, you're bringing the treats! And none of this basket of grapes rubbish. I'm talking chocolate and brandy - neat."

"It's a hospital, Grandma." John's voice reasons.

"And?"

"And you should know - better than most, that they're not gonna let us bring that in for you."

Grandma goes to fold her arms, then winces, with a concealed hiss.

"John. Kid. I'm old! Just stick it in a sippy cup and call it apple juice - they'll never know the difference!"

"Stop tryna...get John...into trouble."

It's a wonderful sound, hearing the deep rumble of baritone. Sally can feel a secondary tightness - one she could not attribute to her injury, leave her broken ribcage.

"Eh. Twas worth a shot." She offers up a warm smile, knowing he cannot see it - both her eldest grandsons sporting large foam trauma blocks; but she hopes he can hear the sentiment within her voice.

"Nice to have you back in the land of the living, kid!"

[seth-whumps]

would anyone be interested in a status effect breakdown post where I go unnecessarily in depth on how to use status effects to whump your blorbos

[whumpetywhumpwhump]

Posting one of my actual (fandom-related) full fics on here... be nice!!

This is some good ol' intubation whump because it's my favourite.

(for slight context of character, see this old post)

When the call comes in, everybody in the ER is hoping it isn't Coop. Especially Neela.

Severe asthma attack. 26 year old male.

Somehow, because it's his day off and he really ought to be relaxing, it seems almost impossible for him to find himself back in the hospital as a patient. It just… isn't fair.

That doesn't stop the wheels of the gurney from rolling through the doors, though. Doesn't change the fact that Coop is laying half-conscious on top of it, his quick, shallow breaths fogging a nebulizer mask, his skin so pale it looks ashen.

“26 year old male,” the paramedic conducting the transfer restates. “Severe asthma attack with symptoms pointing to onset of status asthmaticus. Albuterol administered, as well as 0.5mg subcutaneous epinephrine, both to minimal effect.”

Dr Lewis, the attending on the case, moves to Coop’s side, slipping the chest piece of her stethoscope underneath his t-shirt as they continue to move into one of the trauma rooms. Her expression, when she withdraws it, is severe.

“His airways are pretty much closed up. He needs more epi now.”

Abby hurries to drag a crash cart in, and Neela follows the gurney all the way until it's positioned in the trauma room, at which point she starts readying an IV kit with shaking hands.

Coop does not look good. Even when compared to the time she almost killed him with epi. At least then he'd been alert, sitting up, and his skin hadn't lost all of its colour like it has now.

Dr Lewis returns from fetching some more equipment, and as she waits for Abby to arrive with the crash cart, she strokes Coop’s hair reassuringly.

“Hang on, sweetheart, we’re going to help you feel better. Just keep breathing for me, okay?”

Through weak wheezes that emerge from blue-tinged lips, Coop nods. His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.

Neela hasn't seen an asthma attack this severe in person before, but she knows from med school how dangerous they can be- especially when the patient is as tired as Coop is. It isn't clear how long he's been struggling this much to breathe. The colour of his skin (or lack of, for that matter) tells her it's been too long.

If they don't work quickly, his body will run out of energy. He'll stop breathing, too exhausted to even inhale anymore. He'll lose oxygen.

He'll die.

“Neela, I need an IV of 100mg hydrocortisone.”

She turns to find Dr Lewis’ keen gaze on her. There's a thinly veiled panic in the attending’s eyes that quickly disappears as she turns back to Coop, gently trying to reassure him as he fights for air.

“I’m going to page Pratt as well, alright, Coop? He can get you some more albuterol so your nebulizer doesn't dry out.”

Neela can't see whether Coop replies, but if he does, it isn't audible. All she can hear is his terrifying wheeze and the hum of the nebulizer, shortly joined by a rapid beeping as a nurse finally helps him take off his shirt and hooks him up to a monitor. She doesn't dare turn around to look at his oxygen saturation. It's likely going to keep plummeting.

Instead, she focuses on setting up the cannula in Coop’s trembling arm, her left hand holding it steady while her right slides the needle in.

“There we are, Coop.” she murmurs. “You're doing so well, sweetheart.”

The pet name feels stranger coming from her lips than Dr Lewis', but at this point her slight blush is the least of their worries. While Coop’s this sick, it doesn't matter what she calls him. He just needs to start breathing properly again.

Once the IV site has been secured with a clear sticker, Neela measures out the dose of hydrocortisone. 100mg. When they're giving it as a steroid over a longer period of time, they prescribe 20-30mg a day, in two doses. The fact that they're pumping him full of this much at once is testament to just how emergent his case is.

“100mg hydrocortisone going in.” she announces. Connects the needle to the cannula. Pushes down on the plunger of the syringe.

Despite her accumulated knowledge surrounding medication, Neela still half expects the effects to be immediate. For Coop to suddenly relax, his airway opening up again, the colour gradually suffusing his cheeks. For the wheezing to fade as he breathes in properly for the first time in hours.

It doesn't. None of this happens.

Minute by minute, Coop continues to deteriorate. Abby brings in the crash cart. Dr Lewis injects the epinephrine beneath the skin of his forearm and, unlike before, he doesn't even react to the needle. His eyes flicker like his awareness is slipping away from him.

By the time Pratt arrives to switch out Coop’s nebulizer, such a small intervention becomes pointless. Even if Coop were able to breathe properly, time has proven that albuterol, on this occasion, just isn't working. Pratt sets down the new nebulizer and instantly crosses to Coop’s bedside, brow furrowed.

“Coop, man, can I listen to your chest?”

A barely perceptible nod.

When Pratt presses the cold stethoscope against Coop’s heaving chest, it seems more of a confirmatory action than one that's actually necessary. He sighs, shaking his head. Coop, as evidenced by the blue tinge to his lips, his rolling eyes, the pallor of his skin, is officially status asthmaticus.

He's in respiratory failure.

Things suddenly grow a lot more urgent. Pratt gives Lewis a gesture that she reciprocates, and a nurse pulls the crash cart closer to the bed. Neela’s heart sinks just as Abby sinks into position right at Coop’s bedside, crouching next to him as she strokes his hair and updates him.

“Sweetheart, your breathing isn't where we need it to be, okay? You're not getting enough oxygen. We need to put you to sleep for a while… intubate you. Do you understand?”

Coop closes his eyes, humming in assent even as a frightened tear slips down his cheek.

“Ju-just… d-d-do… iiiiit.”

His voice is shot. Weak. Resigned to his fate.

It's the same phrase he used when Abby shocked his heart back into a regular rhythm a few months ago. Back then, though, it had simply been a plea to get things over with.

Now, it seems not only a desperate entreaty, but also a solemn reminder:

I’ve been here before.

Neela knows, just as the other staff do, that Coop’s been super sick a couple of times. He knows what it's like to wake up in the ICU feeling like you're breathing through a straw. He knows what it's like for weeks to pass in the span of a minute.

He knows that when he's tubed, he can breathe, and that’s all that matters.

“We’re going to look after you, sweetheart, I promise.” Abby says, her own eyes a little misty. She brushes the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and squeezes his hand. One of the other nurses adjusts the bed so it's laying flat. The tears, terrified, continue to stream silently down his cheeks.

Abby lifts his hand, pressing an almost motherly kiss to the back of it, while Pratt slots a syringe full of medication into the cannula of his other hand.

“Propofol and some muscle relaxants are going to go in now, man. Just relax and let yourself drift off- we’ve got you.”

As the syringe is pushed, Neela can see Coop’s grip on Abby’s hand loosen. The thick tears decorating his cheeks seem, in themselves, to slow down, the scared expression in his eyes melting away beneath the anaesthetic. He blinks once. Twice.

Gone.

There's something so unnerving about Coop being still. How, as Pratt brushes his index finger underneath Coop’s eyelashes, the latter doesn't stir at all to crack a smile. When Dr Lewis gets into position behind his head and adjusts her patient accordingly, he's limp and movable. Floppy.

“Pratt, can you get that nebulizer off?”

“Sure.”

There are red marks across Coop's face from where the straps of the mask dug into his skin for hours. Now, he doesn't breathe at all. He looks dead. According to the dropping numbers on the monitor, he may as well be dead.

“Laryngoscope.”

“Here. Laryngoscope.”

A nurse places the metal instrument into Dr Lewis' awaiting hand. Her other hand gently tilts Coop’s head back.

“Alright… sliding laryngoscope in… got slight cord visualisation. Tube?”

“Tube.”

Neela watches her angle the endotracheal tube in with bated breath- and for good reason.

“C’mon, Coop.” Lewis murmurs, desperately trying to gain access. “I need to help you breathe, sweetheart. Let me help you breathe.”

Pratt steps up next to her, arms crossed. “Difficult airway?”

“Nearly impossible. Haven't seen this level of inflammation in a long time. Poor guy must have been so incredibly uncomfortable.”

The monitor continues to blare. Coop’s oxygen levels continue to drop.

Abby, still positioned right next to him, stroking his hair even as he lays there unconscious, glances worriedly at the screen.

“His sats aren't looking good.”

Dr Lewis sighs. “Yeah, I know, I'm just trying to- there.”

Her relief is palpable, and Neela knows at once that she’s finally in. She watches the tube slot into place before Lewis inflates the cuff, and Pratt connects everything up to the vent.

“Tube’s misting.” Abby says gently, as everyone begins to relax. “Looks like good placement.”

Pratt pulls his stethoscope out from around his neck.

“I’ll check.”

He moves to Coop's side and checks his breathing, first auscultating the left side of his chest, then the right. It's odd, Neela thinks, to observe how natural his breathing looks now, when only moments ago it was erratic and desperate- but of course, it isn't technically him breathing now at all. They've taken over for him.

After a few more checks with the stethoscope across Coop’s chest and neck, Pratt stands up, slinging the device back around his own neck.

“Bilateral breath sounds. You're in.”

Everyone in the room seems to relax at once, especially when the numbers on the monitor start to creep up to normal.

“Alright,” Dr Lewis breathes, turning to Abby. “Secure it, then we'll get him down to ICU. Keep him on max settings until we know it's safe to start weaning him off."

She moves back, as does Pratt, and Abby stands, giving Coop’s hair one last gentle run through with her fingers before she moves away to fetch the tube holder. Neela's eyes remain fixed on him, though. It's impossible not to when he's so completely still.

“You alright, Neela?” Abby asks gently as she returns a few moments later.

Neela nods. “Yeah, I just… it's so different when you know them. I didn't realise how sick it would make me feel.”

Abby gives her a small reassuring smile, then focuses her attention back on the packaging she's just picked up, tearing it open and pulling out the holder before she starts to peel off the tape on the pads.

“I know what you mean. It's not easy seeing somebody you care about like this, and it's somehow even harder with a person like Coop. He's always smiling, always moving, always there, and now…” She presses the first pad against his cheek gently, thumb brushing against it to secure it. “He's not. He's always there to take care of everybody else, and now…” She applies the other pad, movements just as careful and attentive. “He needs us to take care of him.”

Neela hums affirmatively, watching her secure the tube.

“There's just so much at stake. So much that could go wrong, and nearly did. Maybe it even has.”

Abby finishes, standing up fully again and adjusting things ever so slightly. Coop looks like the other patients in the ICU now, and it makes Neela’s stomach roll with anxiety.

“It isn't easy.” Abby responds. “But that's what the ER’s like, even if it happens with one of our own. It's fast-paced, it's risky, and sometimes the worst happens. Sometimes, we can't easily cure a patient, and we have to hope that they'll fight enough on their own to get through things.”

“Do you think he will? Coop?”

“There are no guarantees, but if anyone's going to, it's him.” She looks down at him with a mixture of affection and admiration. Her thumb strokes along the curve of his jaw. “He just needs to hang on long enough for the inflammation to go down. He just needs to do something which is pretty alien to him, and rest. Let us do some of the heavy lifting for a while until he's strong enough to do it on his own again.”

Neela nods. “He'll get through it.”

Abby smiles. “Exactly. He'll get through it… You’re a tough one, aren't you, sweetheart?” She brushes back some more sweat-damp and unruly hair from his forehead. “Let's get you somewhere you can rest, hm?”

Coop remains still, the only sign he's still there at all being the beeping of the monitor and the fogging of the tube. But somehow, as Neela helps Abby raise the railings of the bed ready for transport, she knows he's going to come out of this.

He always does.

[piracytheorist]

In Life, And in Death (7/11)

Fandom: Spy x Family Word count: 4.8k for this chapter | 23.6k so far | 32.4k in total Rating: T Warnings: Temporary character death, graphic violence, horror imagery, body horror, mild gore, whump, language Cover art by buf309

Summary: Anya is kidnapped, and Twilight is thrown into the horrors of a mysterious, deadly village. Forced and then choosing to survive its trials - physical and mental - he’s brought to figure out who he truly is. (A Resident Evil Village fusion)

AO3 Read from the beginning

~

Chapter 7: Factory

~

Passing through the giant’s nest, he reached a small room with a TV, a few decorative items, and most importantly, the last flask.

SUBJECT 007 – LEGS

As soon as he picked it up, another vision flashed in front of his eyes.

Inside a cavernous room, five figures were looking at his direction. Dimitrescu, Beneviento, Moreau, and two more people he couldn’t recognize. One was a grey-haired man wearing a long khaki jacket, a wide-brimmed leather hat, and black, circular shades. The other, in the quick flash he saw of her, seemed to be wearing black robes, a golden mask over her face, and had black wings on her back.

Heisenberg and Miranda?

The figures approached, the four Lords in specific, reaching their hands closer as small hands appeared from his center of vision.

“Papa… Mama… Help…”

The vision ended, and he was left staring at the flask in his hands.

Oh, Anya…

“You’re the real deal, Twilight. Well done,” came Heisenberg’s voice from the TV, which was once again showing his crest.

“You can quit hiding,” Twilight hissed at the screen. “Because I won’t let you off so easily.”

Heisenberg laughed. “Spunky! But cool your jets. Just a little bit more and you’re all wrapped up. I’ll lend you a hand, so in exchange…”

He didn’t like where this was going. “In exchange what?”

“First of all, come to me. Once you’re back in the village, you’ll find a stone bridge on the path next to the graveyard. The ceremony site is on the other side. There you will find an Altar, where you can put the flasks in. I’m sure you’ll figure the rest out. See you, Loid.”

The name was used emphatically as the screen turned off.

“Damnit,” Twilight growled.

Was he really supposed to trust him? He had just had a vision of him along with everyone else reaching their hands towards Anya.

His chest constricted at the thought. Had she been awake while they ‘d been doing this to her?

The way she’d called out for them…

He breathed in, blinking the tears away from his eyes.

Just a little bit more, was what Heisenberg said?

The room had a path to an underground tunnel, which according to his orientation should be leading back to the village.

Sure enough, once he reached a staircase going up, he found himself in a basement at the center of the village.

Secret underground connection to the stronghold, huh?

It was nighttime by now. The moon was providing limited light, so finding a few dry branches, he fashioned a quick torch to light his way to where Heisenberg told him to go.

The ceremony site. Where Miranda was planning on resurrecting her daughter using Anya as a vessel.

Over his dead body.

Indeed, next to the village’s meek graveyard was a clean path, which lead to a stone bridge over a river.

There was green slime on the bridge, and he assumed that was the effect of him opening the floodgates on Moreau’s reservoir. He crossed carefully, keeping the torch in his left hand and his gun in his right.

The sound of the river below him was too jarring in the eerie silence. What one would find calming anywhere else, here only felt unfitting.

Past the bridge and a few sets of stone steps, he reached what must have been the ceremony site.

Four big statues adorned the four edges of the field, looking down at its center, where a wide, cylindrical stone altar lay.

On the surface of the altar were four square holes, the same size as the flasks.

As he wondered what hole should take what flask, he realized the altar was perfectly aligned with the cardinal directions, as well as the locations of each of the Lord’s territories.

To his left and west was Dimitrescu’s castle, where he’d found the head flask.

To his back and south was Beneviento’s house, where he’d found the torso flask.

Right and east, Moreau’s reservoir, the arms flask.

And to his front and north he could see lights inside a wide building, which he assumed was Heisenberg’s factory, though he already had the last flask.

He felt a pang of terror as he placed the first flask. What if he did it wrong? What if he caused Anya to not come back, or come back like…

Like the creature he saw in that dark basement?

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. The signs were there for a reason.

Head to the west, torso to the south, arms to the east, legs to the north.

As soon as the last flask was in, the ground underneath him started moving down. He flinched, holding onto the altar, more worried for what it contained than for himself, but it simply moved a floor down like an elevator.

When it stopped, he could see an opening to his front and north.

He’d figure the rest out, right?

He started to move, but froze when he saw light flash through the four flasks, then go out, then flash again, in the rhythm of a heartbeat he could hear coming from them.

“Anya?” he whispered, gently touching the surface of the altar. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”

Can you hear my thoughts?

He was met with absolute silence, save for the sound of the heartbeat.

Heisenberg’s voice came from afar. “Don’t worry about the kid, Twilight. It’ll be fine. Just get your ass over here!”

It would be fine? Was he talking about Anya as an “it”?

His chest burned with fury. He wasn’t going to let Heisenberg get out of this.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the altar. “I’ll come back for you.”

His feet feeling heavy, he walked away.

He followed the lights of the factory. He would soon not need the torch anymore.

The building seemed quite small, at least what was on the surface. It couldn’t be bigger than Dimitrescu’s mansion, though it had a massive funnel which was currently smoking, and was surrounded by transmission towers.

Perhaps it was bigger underground.

“Ah, Agent Twilight. Welcome,”  Heisenberg’s voice was heard from speakers at the factory gates as they opened.

It still made him nervous to hear his code name from that bastard.

“I didn’t think you’d make it past Donna or Moreau, but I suppose spy training pays off, hm?

Ah. So the lycans’ nest hadn’t been a test of his durability.

It’d been a test of his compliance.

 “I like you. I’d like to speak to you about Anya, and Miranda.”

Twilight walked on, looking around cautiously.

“Oh, come on in. Don’t worry, it’s not a trap.”

Once again, he could hear a definitive smile in his voice.

What was he planning?

There was a door already open in the building, and he assumed it was meant for him. He snuffed the torch in the snow right outside, and paused.

He looked over the path he’d just walked. In the absolute darkness of the surroundings, he could still see the small lights blinking on the altar.

Anya… wait for me.

There were no words to describe just how bad this idea was. However, he didn’t have a lot of options left. If at least he could know a bit more about that ceremony…

The doors closed behind him after he walked in, and he clenched his jaw as he kept going. Past a long corridor, he found a room where a wide canvas sheet was hanging over one of the walls.

It seemed to be covering something, he realized, and on the edge of it he could clearly spot part of a picture; a sight of pink hair caught his attention. Tensing, he reached forward and pulled the sheet away.

The wall was full of various photographs and paper notes.

One photograph of the other Lords each, all three crossed with a red marker. Another one of that woman with the golden mask. The rest were of Anya, he assumed, from her pink hair. They went from her as a baby, to a toddler, to her current age.

In all the photographs from before she was dressed in a plain white robe, and her face was blank, her eyes void of any light. In a few of them her eyes looked puffy from crying, and he felt as if a punch went through his stomach.

All of those seemed to have been taken from inside a medical lab.

Only a few, at the edge of the wall, had her smiling.

The Forgers’ family photos.

The papers seemed to have come from that lab. Words like “bioweapon”, “mutamycete genome”, “infectious”, “mind-reading” were scattered around them.

Were they all about Anya?

“Truth hurts, don’t it?”

He gasped, turning around and pointing his gun at the man glaring at him.

Heisenberg.

He scoffed at the gun, taking a puff from his cigar. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re thinking, you’ll take me out like the others, and then you get to go and save Anya, right?”

Twilight lowered his gun, but kept it in his hand. “This is not about you.”

Heisenberg shook his head. “Look. You’ve got this all wrong.”

Before he could say anything else, a rumbling sound came from below, like a motor starting up.

“Damn it, I’m talking here,” Heisenberg said, looking down at a closed hatch on the ground. Grunting, he walked to it, opened the cover, and shouted, “Shut your fucking hole!” down at it.

The rumbling stopped.

Heisenberg turned to him, lowering his head a little. “Sorry about that,” he said. He grabbed a metal chair from the side, putting it right in front of the opening. “Take a seat,” he said.

Yeah, no way in hell.

“Listen, Loid, you’re being played,” he said, walking away from him and towards a table on the other side.

“What are you talking about? Played by whom?”

Heisenberg looked at him, took a knife in his hand, then turned abruptly.

He was ready to raise his gun again, but Heisenberg threw the knife at the wall, right onto the photograph of Dimitrescu, as he walked right at him and pushed him towards the chair.

“I said sit!” he exclaimed.

Twilight wouldn’t normally let anyone manhandle him like that, but once he was on the chair it suddenly hit him just how much he hadn’t sat down since he was dragged into this place. His feet immediately started tingling from the relief of not carrying his weight.

Heisenberg loomed over him, but then took a step back. He turned to the wall again, raising his hand towards it. “First, you take on Lady Super-Sized Bitch.” He moved his hand back, and the knife came off the wall, then with another swing it was buried onto the photograph of Beneviento. “Next, the ugly-ass psycho doll and her master.” Again, he moved his hand and the knife went through the photograph of Moreau. “And then, that moronic freak.” He turned to him, spreading his hands. “Don’t you get it? It’s Miranda’s test to see if you’re strong enough to be a part of her family.” He turned to the wall again, looking at the picture of who he’d correctly assumed was Miranda.

“I don’t want to be a part of Miranda’s family—” Twilight started.

“Neither did I!” Heisenberg interrupted him. “But here we are! And I’m next in line, right? You kill me, and you move up the chain… Well, fuck that!” He jerked his hand, and the knife crossed over Miranda’s picture, cutting it in half.

“I don’t care to play any part in your family drama,” Twilight said, biting back a growl. “I just want to fix Anya.”

Heisenberg chuckled, though it sounded void of mirth. “So do I! Do you have any idea how powerful that kid is? Even Miranda is actually scared of her—”

His voice trailed off again as the rumbling from below came back. Heisenberg shook his head in contempt, and leaned over the hole again.

“Last time, you freak, I swear to god…!” he shouted down at it.

The man Twilight had met after the castle… he had said that Heisenberg was taking part in experiments far worse than Project Apple.

Exactly what was down there?

The rumbling paused again, and Heisenberg took a few deep breaths, before he leaned closer to him, taking his shades off.

It felt eerily reminiscent of the vision he’d seen, of him along with the other Lords reaching their hands to take Anya apart…

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” Heisenberg said coolly. “Miranda just took me, took us, to be her ‘children’, because of our affinity with the fungal root. She locked us away in this village. But I am not like how my siblings were. I have no faith to Miranda. I want her dead for what she did to me.”

That, he could understand. Still…

“You and me, Twilight. Together, we go save Anya, and then we can use her to grind Miranda into paste!”

Nothing else registered to his ears once those words were out.

Use her.

He had been doing the same, hadn’t he? He was not one to judge, but this was part of his spy attitude.

Right now, the rage of a father burned inside him at the prospect of his girl suffering in the hands of a man like Heisenberg.

“My daughter is not a weapon,” Twilight said.

My daughter.

My daughter.

He moved closer to Heisenberg, and he actually jerked a little back. “Fuck you!” Twilight spat at him.

Heisenberg jerked further back, letting out a breath. He looked down, and just as Twilight was ready to draw his gun at him, Heisenberg pulled it away from him with his power, and in the same beat he kicked the chair back.

Twilight slipped away, but he knew he didn’t have a lot of chances against a man who could control metal. Before he’d taken three steps away, a metal chain wrapped around him tight, then lifted him off the ground. He struggled against it, his feet kicking the air, as the chain was brought over the hole to the basement.

“Last chance,” Heisenberg said, his hand raised as it kept the chain up. “You don’t wanna find out what’s in that hole.”

Twilight sneered at him. “I’ll take my chances,” he said.

And at that, the man seemed genuinely surprised. But then, he shrugged, saying, “Your funeral.”

And he dropped him.

Twilight groaned at the landing, thankful to realize it was just one floor down. It still hurt, but he could manage it.

The rumbling came back, close and ominous. He turned, getting his first taste of Heisenberg’s experiments.

It was a human – or at least, it used to be. It had no head, and its torso had been replaced by a metal engine, with a turbine spinning on the front.

Its arms had no hands, and from the position of the turbine he assumed they had been chopped off by it.

Which meant he didn’t want to get caught in that creature’s range.

He got up and made a run for it. His pistol and grenades were gone, his shotgun was empty, and he wasn’t crazy enough to try and take that with a plain hunting knife.

Running down the corridors, his heart dropped to realize he was at a dead end.

The only way was down, through a wide trash chute, covered by a wide plastic tube.

He slipped inside it, pushing against its sides so he wouldn’t slide down.

The turbine-creature arrived, leaning over the hole. Sparks flew as metal banged on metal, and Twilight inched a little back, further down into the chute.

And then, the tube started slipping down.

Twilight gasped. “No. No, no, no, no!” He fumbled with his hands, trying to grab at the inside of the chute, but he ended up getting dragged down further. He slipped, falling and landing somewhere, still inside the tube.

As he crouched out of it, he realized he was in a wide disposal chamber filled with scrap metal. He could hear creatures snarling from the floor above.

He took a few steadying breaths. He had a shotgun and no shells, and handgun bullets but no handgun. Right now, his only viable weapon was the knife.

It sounded like there were three creatures above him, but no engine running.

He’d have to try his luck with that.

Clutching the knife tightly between his teeth, he climbed up a ladder to them.

Those weren’t lycans, however.

He could only describe them as undead creatures. Certain horror films he’d watched as part of various research would call them zombies.

They were bare, save for a plain canvas sack covering their torso and thighs. They seemed to have metal contraptions – which reminded him of Franky’s various attempts at making glasses that could see in the dark – stuck, or maybe screwed, to their head.

And they were holding maces.

Well, at least they were stumbling around, and didn’t seem to have good reflexes or speed in general.

It took a lot of careful swings, and he didn’t want to think how rotten the black liquid that poured from the slices he gave them was, but within a few minutes he’d taken all three of them down.

He had to find a gun, and more ammo. Something told him those were the bottom of the chain in here.

Finding another ladder going up, his suspicions were horrifically proven true.

He found himself in an open, vast chamber, with multiple lines of overhead conveyor belts hanging from the high ceiling. They reminded him slightly of conveyor belts in meat factories, where they’d hang the various meats to transport from one department to the other.

Only here, it was human bodies hanging from the hooks. Obviously dead ones, but every single one of them had a metal modification done to them. Metal drills and chainsaws for hands, visors around their heads, and most notably, every single one had a metal contraption implanted on their chest.

Experiments far worse than Project Apple, huh?

Upsetting as the sight was, he had no time to ponder on it. He already had the worst idea about Heisenberg. He was now realizing he had gone four floors down, four floors that he now had to go up before Miranda started her ceremony.

Just as he started racking his brain for how he could survive this place – especially if any of those bodies tried to attack him – he realized that, for once, luck seemed to favour him.

Because one of the first rooms he came into in his search for a way up was an arsenal.

It wasn’t the best, but it was something. A handgun, a sturdier shotgun, plenty of ammo to go around, and multiple grenades and pipe bombs.

He’d need a bigger bag.

Equipped as best as he could, he stepped into the unfamiliar depths of Heisenberg’s factory.

It was different, here. The zombies had slower reflexes and perception than the lycans, which meant he could sneak by them and outrun them far more easily.

But when he came upon one with a chest implant, he realized that headshots were just wasted bullets.

A small inscription on the metal implant caught his attention, right before a drill came too close to his chest.

SOLDAT #104

Soldiers, huh?

He could only use the shotgun to parry the drill attack, damaging its grip. Twilight yelled and kicked the Soldat away, noticing a faint red glow at the core of its chest implant.

Immediately, he fired a shell into that core.

The Soldat jerked its arms, and before Twilight could prepare another shot, it lunged at him, burying its drill into his waist.

Twilight wailed, but fighting through the pain, he raised his shotgun and fired at the red core again.

The Soldat fell down, dragging a limp Twilight with him.

Panting, he pushed himself off the drill, feeling hot blood pour from the wound.

With trembling hands, he reached for a healing bottle, pouring its contents on it.

Stop, stop! That’s enough!

He was shaking so hard he almost dropped the bottle completely, but he managed to put it down straight, and he focused on his breathing as his wound closed.

Get up. Anya is waiting for you.

The zombies were easy to avoid, but he had to avoid every Soldat, if he wanted to preserve ammo and healing. Some of them he had to kill to clear his path, but it seemed that destroying the red core did the work faster.

Just as he went up one floor, Heisenberg’s voice was heard from the various speakers scattered around the factory.

He did enjoy his theatrics, didn’t he?

“Oh, Twilight. Such a disappointment. I thought we could join forces against that bitch Miranda. Truly, truly disappointing.” After a long pause, he added, “I spent decades being forced to serve her. Can you even understand that humiliation? I want nothing more than to be free of her. So, I need power. I need enough power to destroy her. These are the fruits of my power. The strong will destroy the weak. That’s the way of the world!” He paused again. “You should have never refused me.”

So that’s what all this was? He was trying to make an army to take down Miranda?

Therefore the “soldiers”.

And why Anya? What exactly was her power that Heisenberg desired, and Miranda feared?

Aside from her mind-reading, of course.

As he kept on, he thought about his reaction to what Heisenberg had said.

Twilight had been a spy for over a decade now. In the line of work, he’d hurt and manipulated and killed multiple people; many of them had had families, and he’d certainly been the cause of some children crying for a dead parent, or at best, an incarcerated parent.

But he never believed himself undeserving of their wrath. He’d rather face the tortures of an organization like the State Security Service than the revenge of someone whose family he had hurt.

He knew Yor loved Anya, and with every day of realizing that, he was certain that Yor would carve his heart out and eat it raw for how he’d used the girl.

And he would never blame her, though he would try to avoid such a fate, if nothing else, so he could continue doing his job.

And right now, he could realize that a similar rage was powering him on.

He was not just a spy who wanted a peaceful world where children wouldn’t have to cry. He was now a father who would bring hell to anyone who harmed a hair of his daughter’s head.

His daughter.

His little girl, with the brave and kind heart it would take to risk her own life to save someone else from drowning.

A heart that must have shaken with fear as those monsters loomed over her…

I’m coming for you.

Another floor up, and as he wished he could somehow take the drill from a Soldat’s arms and use as a weapon against others, Heisenberg spoke up again.

“Soon, she’ll start the ceremony with your Anya. If that happens, it’s all over. For your kid, the village, and probably beyond that. But don’t worry, I’ll stop it. I’ll use Anya to kill Miranda.” He laughed. “Poor papa. You’re the only one who doesn’t see your kid’s power.”

He didn’t give a damn about her “power”.

He just wanted to make sure she was safe.

As he hid in a tight corner from a now fully armored Soldat, he realized how empty his bag felt now that the flasks weren’t there. He could still barely wrap his mind around what they really were, let alone that he’d held them separately in his hands, so while it felt preposterous to feel like he was missing them… he realized he just missed her.

Heisenberg had photos of her from the time of the experiments. Her empty glare would probably haunt his nightmares, along with everything else he’d witnessed in this village.

So long as he could see her smile again…

He had to use grenades for the armored Soldat. None of his bullets would pierce the metal surrounding it, but at least a blast would peel part of it away so he could shoot at the core in his chest.

There was still one more floor to go.

The floor he had escaped from, where the creature with the turbine lurked.

Just as he reached that, and the rumbling of the turbine was heard in the distance, Heisenberg spoke again.

“You really are a tough one. But I’m tired of chit-chat. Time to die!”

The rumbling got closer.

“You can hear it, can’t you? Someone’s waiting for you.”

Just then, the creature appeared, breaking apart the wall in front of him.

Twilight growled at it. “Out of my way,” he said.

Heisenberg had been wrong to have him go through the stronghold as a test of his “value”. He should have just had him survive the factory, so Twilight could’ve killed two birds with one stone.

But then, where would Heisenberg be without his army?

The creature wasn’t an easy task. Soon Twilight was out of grenades, and his only hope was shooting at the core which was placed on its back.

Not an easy feat, considering the creature kept trying to charge at him.

It only became a little easier after it threw down a few walls, since it kept getting stuck in the debris.

At least, he didn’t have to attempt to reason with it, after everything.

When it was finally down, Twilight wondered if that alone would evoke Heisenberg’s ire. Unruly and uncoordinated as it was, it seemed like it was his most powerful weapon yet.

He sighed, shortly lamenting his nearly empty guns.

One more floor. Just the one and he would be out.

Or so he thought.

As soon as he reached the ground floor, he went for the door he’d come in through. Right as he went to push it open, the metal lock distorted, making it impossible to open.

Metal scrap from around the room flew up, reaching for him, and he barely managed to avoid them. They slowly gathered in the form of a staircase, on the top of which Heisenberg appeared, clapping his hands.

“Not bad, not bad, Twilight! You’re persistent, but I’ve got a rebellion to lead, so stay out of my way.”

Only a few bullets left in his gun, Twilight shot without thinking.

Heisenberg didn’t even flinch.

More metal parts flew around, slowly taking form around Heisenberg.

Twilight’s view of him was blocked by some of it, and when they moved away, he came face to face with a creature of flesh and metal.

He just had to have a dramatic transformation too, didn’t he?

“Don’t come back!” Heisenberg said, using an arm with a saw at the end to cut a hole right in front of where Twilight stood.

The whole ground shook, and he couldn’t find a stable part of it in time.

It split open, and he fell.

He flailed his arms around, falling and falling, until he caught on a metal hook adjoined to a long piece of rope.

It only managed to break his fall a little, since as soon as it was pulled taught Twilight’s hand slipped, and he fell the couple remaining meters to the bottom.

He grunted, his vision swimming from the disorientation and the pain.

Heisenberg laughed, too far above him.

“You bastard,” Twilight groaned. His back didn’t feel broken, yet it still hurt as he sat up. When he could finally see clearly, he turned his eyes up.

Damn it, he had to get all the way up again?

He winced, a small whine leaving his lips as he got to his feet.

He had no idea where he even was now. The drop made him lose his sense of orientation, but he was sure he hadn’t been at this side of the factory before.

At least, he was closer to the side of the exit?

And during the drop, the pistol had also slipped from his hand, landing who knew where, leaving him with a damaged, empty shotgun.

He sighed, taking out the hunting knife as his last resort. He’d come so far, hadn’t he?

Pushing away a fallen piece of wood that blocked his path, he found himself in a high-topped room full of scrapheap.

An open metal tank was the first thing that caught his attention.

The second thing was the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

He raised the knife, using his free hand as support for it as he scanned the room.

“Twilight?!”

The voice sent a different chill down his spine. Not one of fear – at least, not the kind he’d been feeling all day – but one of an instinct to follow a command.

He kept the knife up even as his Handler appeared from behind the tank, her eyes and mouth wide open.

[avvail-whumps]

‘the facility’ — pre-breakout 3/3

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content warnings: medical whump, prison whump, captivity, imprisonment, prisoners of war, dehumanization, unethical medical practices, non-con drugging, torture, drug-induced torture, prison whump, reluctant whumper, manhandling, asphyxiation/strangling, mass prison breakout

Noah didn’t see Cash for a few days after that. 

He was limited to the laboratory, simply working on the drug, and he wasn’t sure what would have been worse. Having to test the drug on Cash himself, and watch the horrible effects of it, or stew in his guilt with each new lab experiment that passed by. 

Personnel had even ran by with a few files regarding their less than ethical methods, but he found that it made everything much worse. No matter how much tried to convince himself that somehow, he didn’t have a part in this, it didn’t ease the ache in his resolve. He tried to tell himself that if he had any choice, he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be experimenting on people, he wouldn’t be subjecting Cash to awful drugs. 

He really did try, but it was hard. 

Fionn made things that little bit easier, he supposed. In the morning of their forbidden conversation, he had been more than surprised to find himself waking up, tucked back in bed. The water was on the small bedside table, and he had immediately reached for it to finish it off. They had both been cautious about speaking a word to each other for a while, but when they could, Noah found himself asking questions. 

Then more. Then another, until Noah had made a habit of accidentally fainting in his room and requiring assistance. He knew that what he was doing was imbecilic - he was risking his sister’s safe recovery, but Noah was so lonely, and he missed his friends and family. 

“Do you have any siblings?” Noah asked, sitting on the edge of the tub with a tilted head. He had a cold, damp cloth in his hands, something that he might have placed on his forehead if he had really been feeling unwell, but of course, he wasn’t. Nobody needed to know that, though. Fionn had his rifle slung over his shoulder, and he was perched on the edge of the toilet seat, lid down. Noah still didn’t have the liberty of seeing his face, but then again, that was a little too far. 

“No,” he answered, the modulation in his helmet crackling slightly. “I used to. An older brother, but he passed away.” 

Noah bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

He’d learned a lot about Fionn in their frequent, but lowkey conversations. A part of him had been adament the Apoid wouldn’t keep indulging him like this, but he had. Noah suspected that a lot of people here would jump at the chance to have a normal conversation for once. Apparently, stoic Apoids were no exception. 

One of his favourtie things about Fionn was the fact that he liked poetry. 

It was a stark juxtaposition to the aura Apoids were meant to give off. Killing machines, steel guards, emotionless statues that had a job and followed it to the letter. When Fionn talked about poetry, it was easier to see the human underneath all of that uniform and behind all of those dangerous weapons. 

William Butler Yeats was his favourite. Fionn could sit there and recite his poetry perfectly, and Noah would listen with a subconscious smile on his face, because he could tell that he was really passionate about it. 

“Would you ever write your own poetry?” Noah had asked, picking at the threads on the damp flannel. His heart ached to see him take off the helmet. He could only imagine what kind of expressions he made when he talked about this.

Fionn faltered, shifting back slightly as the helmet tilted, mirroring a hesitant glance to the side. It was a sight he didn’t think he would ever get used to - seeing an Apoid show so much emotion through simple body language like this. 

It was cute. 

“I do,” Fionn answered, and Noah leaned forward slightly in a flurry of excitement he couldn’t contain. 

“Can you read some to me?” 

The Apoid seemed to think on it for a moment, before he slowly shook his head. “I don’t have enough time to write anything new.”

The answer was curt, and after Noah winced slightly, the helmet pointed back in his direction. The modulation softened just an inch. “And what I have is at home.” 

A familiar face stared back at him through the reflective screen of the helemt. “Where is home for you?” 

“Dungarvan,” the Apoid answered quietly. “My Pa’s a fisherman.” He paused just for a minute. “What about you?” 

“London,” Noah responded, and he noticed that Fionn shook his head slightly. 

“Busy place,” he hummed. “Not my scene.” 

“You like the quiet?” 

Fionn nodded slowly. “Once my contract is finished, and I know my family has enough money, I want to move. I want a cabin in the middle of the countryside, somewhere in Ireland.” 

The words came out quiter than Noah was expecting. “On your own?” 

When Fionn didn’t answer, Noah tucked some of his hair behind his ear gently. His gaze shifted to the cloth in his hand, and he set it in the tub instead. The Apoid passed him a hand towel to wipe the lingering dampness away, and he took it. For a moment, he felt his glove brush up against his finger, and when he glanced down, the skin there was burning red. 

“Do you not have a girlfriend back home?” Noah hesitantly asked, his eyes flickering up after a tense moment. The Apoid was already looking at him, and he suddenly felt sheepish for asking a question that was just meant to be curious. 

“I did,” he tightly responded, like he was treading on ice. “We had some disagreements over this. About me signing my life away to the Facility for ten years. We split up.” 

Noah slowly nodded his head, fiddling with the red spot on his hand. It was strange; after his last encounter with Cash, he felt like being here would be unbearable. He didn’t know what he felt towards Fion - friendship? Connection? Desperation? 

“You should come to Ireland,” Fionn perked up gently, and Noah couldn’t help but glance up at him with a hint of surpirse. The Apoid leaned his elbows on his legs, shifting an inch closer, and he couldn’t help but feel his stomach twist. “See my hometown. Do you fish?” 

“Me? Fish?” Noah splutters. “I’ve never fished in my life. I would be really bad.” 

“I’d teach you.” 

At that, Noah couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but the moment his mind raced a bit, it slowly faltered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes glancing to the bathroom door. They really shouldn’t still be doing this. 

“You have almost three years on me,” Noah whispered glumly, the ticking clock on their contracts weighing heavy on his chest. “Promise you won’t forget me when you get out?” 

Fionn slowly rose to his feet. He shrugged the rifle across his chest, and just for a moment, he looked like he was contemplating something. But then, a gloved hand gently patted his head. 

“Promise,” Fionn whispered, his voice softening. “See you later, Noah.” 

The Apoid was already out of his room by the time Noah found the strength in his voice to respond. He gripped his hand tightly. 

“See you.” 

. . .

Noah wasn’t looking forward to seeing Cash again.

He also wasn’t looking forward to seeing how effective the drug was at breaking down the prisoner’s defences and making him so vulnerable. He could conceal his anxiousness this time, even when Cash was brought in, same as always. Apoids surrounded him, ensuring his successful tranfer from one restraint to another.

This time, they made use of metal cuffs in the wall, clamping around Cash’s wrists and effectively pinning him to the wall.

Noah was a little concerned that his midsection and his legs hadn’t been retrained, but he assumed they’d neglected it for a reason. There was a nagging possibility that Cash could kick him, and those cuffs looked a little rattly, and what if the same thing that happened to the scientist before him repeated?

He swallowed the lump in his throat, setting down his clipboard and sucking in a sharp breath. He could do this. Cash wasn’t a person; he was a prisoner. A number. Someone who was withholding information the government wanted for themselves - the exact details, Noah would never know, but it wasn’t his job to know.

There was no interrogator today. He was glad for that.

With Fionn shadowing him, he internally noted the small brush of his arm against his own, a quiet action that held a thousand words. It hardened his resolve, just for a moment, and gave him the strength to step closer to the gagged man. Intense eyes pierced his own, but he looked elsewhere.

“I’m removing the gag,” Noah firmly spoke, inching slightly closer to Cash. He noticed the muscles in his arms tensed just a fraction, but he didn’t seem eager to attack Noah at the moment. It was still tense as he untied the gag, taking a small step back so he was far enough away.

“I’m going to ask a series of questions, so please answer honestly for your own wellbeing.”

He squeezed his hand behind his back, watching as Cash licked his lips. There was only coldness behind those eyes.

“Sure, doc.”

He cleared his throat. “Are you feeling any dizziness or lightheadness?”

“No,” the prisoner responded coldly, before he tilted his head slightly. “How long have you been here, doc?”

Noah ignored the question, keeping his wits about him. “Have you been experiencing any pain?”

“You don’t seem comfortable with this,” Cash continued regardless, and Noah’s eyes flickered slightly. “This new for you?”

“Answer the question.”

Cash chuckled breathlessly. There were still evident bruises on his face, but they’d had time to simmer down a lighter green colour instead. He tried not to let his eyes linger on them too much, otherwise his guilt would begin to stew. “No, doc.”

Noah stepped aside to administer the drug. It felt like he wasn’t quite holding the needle as he efficiently prepared for it, his mind lost and swimming with a cotton sheet over his thoughts.

In a blink, he was inserting the needle into Cash’s neck carefully, pushing the plunger in with precision and care. He remembered when he was practicing the precedure on synthetic skin during his time at medical school. Noah was baffled that this was what his life had devolved into. He refused to meet Cash’s eyes this time, who hadn’t even winced at the pinprick.

It didn’t take long for the effects of the drug to kick in like that last time.

Sweat built up on Cash’s forehead in little beads, and his expression had visibly hardened as he attempted to ignore the throbbing pains that had started spreading throughout his body. This time, Noah was forced to watch every second, comparing the effects of the last compound to the new one on Cash’s body. The prisoner was tense, his wrists straining against the cuffs as he groaned painfully through clenched teeth, Noah’s guilt only prodding harder at his heart.

It felt just as wrong as the last time. Noah tentatively approached him and checked his pulse, practically hearing the rapid pounding of Cash’s heart in his chest. He dabbed the soaked area around his neck, cautious of his buckling knees. It looked like he could hardly stand now, so Noah assumed he wouldn’t have the strength to use his legs even if he tried.

The skin on his wrists had been rubbed raw, and Noah could just catch a glimpse of a flash of blood beneath them.

Through Cash’s strained, gutteral curses, Noah sensed the moment it began to wear off, which was quicker than he had expected. He pressed his lips into a thin line, adding that to his notes with a swift scribble. When he went to draw his blood with a fresh needle, he tried to ignore Cash’s contagious trembling, and the way his wrists were straining firmly against the cuffs.

They would hold, right? Cash was strong, but surely he wasn’t that strong. There were Apoids with guns ready to fire if they did break.

He carefully inserted the needle, drawing a small vial of blood. It made his stomach swoop straight to his boots when Cash shuddered, and he turned away to the long desk to shift through his supplies. He blocked out the sound of Cash’s pained panting, before he went to administer another dose.

Two doses, Personnel had told him. That was a big risk.

His prisoner reacted much worse to the second dose, thrashing against the cuffs and desperately clenching his jaw. He looked as though he was forcing himself not to scream, squeezing his eyes shut as Noah could only imagine what kind of pain this was bringing him.

The second dose lasted a few minutes longer, but that was all.

After he emptied the syringe of blood into a small vial, he set it aside and prepared to sample another. He had to wipe a sheen of his own anxious sweat before he wandered over, reminding himself to breathe.

This time, Cash winced when the needle slid into his skin. Noah concentrated in drawing the blood safely while he was in his state, and he was rather lucky, because Cash gave a violent jerk at the cuffs only when it was finished.

He barely even had time to register the snapping of metal before a voice split through the air urgently.

“Doctor, get out of the way!”

Something constricted around his throat, and Noah felt the hard slam of the wall against his back. The needle fell from his fingers and crashed onto the ground, but he had barely even registered it from the force that had bounced through his skull.

Apoids lunged forward, their guns raised almost immediately towards the prisoner, his fingers digging into Noah’s throat. He couldn’t even catch his breath, his hands scrambling at his wrist in an attempt to get the air to his lungs.

Noah faintly realised it had been Fionn who shouted, and he was at the center of the swarm, rifle raised defensively. Cash had moved so swiftly, even with the drug, that no one could fire at him without hitting Noah.

He wheezed, wide eyes staring into Cash’s narrowed ones.

“You’re a little slow to move, doc,” he hissed, the exhausted strain still evident in his voice. His fingers tightened, pushing Noah’s head back further against the wall.

Fionn’s voice boomed through the room, and he barely noticed more Apoids spilling into the room. There was the faint sound of an alarm.

“Cooperate now, Prisoner Seven,” he demanded, causing Cash’s head to languidly tilt towards them all. He didn’t look bothered, and that was scary. Noah could only think about the fact that he was going to die. That Cash was going to kill him like he killed the other scientist before him.

He was suddenly jerked forward, and Cash’s arm winded around his neck instead, tugging him back against his chest. The arm was crushing his windpipe, with a force intended to suffocate him. Noah’s eyes buldged, and his nails raked desperately into his skin. A wheezing choke escaped him.

Cash’s lips lowered to his ear just as Fionn shouted another firm order to cooperate. All of those guns pointed in his direction made his heart pound, and he could hear it consuming his mind.

“When I get out of here,” Cash growled, his voice so quiet and deadly that no one else could hear,” I’m going to find you, doc. I’m going to make you wish I’d killed you right here, right now.”

Tears spilled down Noah’s cheeks, his lungs burning like wildfire. He could feel his knees buckling and the cotton building in his skull. Cash wasn’t budging, even when Noah’s vision began to blur around the edges. He desperately gasped for air, but he couldn’t find it.

All the Apoids were blending into one little blob. Was he really going to die? After everything?

Fionn’s voice tore through the room again, this time more fiery than ever before.

“The scientist is expendable,” came his voice, and Noah’s foggy brain latched onto that. What? “We will open fire if you do not cooperate!”

The scientist is what?

Cash chuckled darkly. “Hear that, doc? That’s what they said when I had the other one like this. She had the same look on her face as you do right now. Give it another ten seconds and he’ll repeat it.”

Noah’s trembling fingers dug into the skin of his arm.

“Cooperate, now. We will open fire!” Fionn shouted, and all of their fingers shifted to the trigger. They were really going to shoot. “The scientist is expendable!”

Noah wheezed, his burning eyes rolling to the back of his head. Only then did Cash release him, shoving him towards the guards with a harsh push. He immediately felt himself hit the ground, frantically sucking in any scrap of air he could find.

He heard a defeaning amount of commotion, but he was more focused on the gentle hands on his back and someone murmuring into his ear.

“Breathe,” Fionn instructed, setting his arm over his shoulder so he could help him onto his feet. Noah spluttered, each violent cough feeling as though it was tearing him apart. Once Fionn had guided him away from the commotion, he eased him back down onto the floor, where Noah desperately sucked in any mouthful of air he could.

His nerves were on fire. But he couldn’t stop thinking about one thing.

“Are you alright?” Fionn asked, as if Noah didn’t feel like his world had been turned on his head.

“The scientist...is expendable?” He croaked, his tear filled eyes flickering up to the black visor with a hint of anger. Fionn went still.

“I have to follow protocol,” he answered curtly, and Noah’s trembling fingers cup his neck, like one little touch and the skin would break. He feels like he can still feel Cash’s hand wrapped around it, and he has to pause to take another wheezing breath.

“You were going to shoot me,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “You were all going to shoot me.”

Fionn’s head tilted slightly, and Noah was reminded of all the time they spent in his bathroom, talking about poetry and family and breaking the rules just so they could feel normal again. Fionn’s robotic voice was the only thing echoing in his mind right now, but Cash’s lingered.

That’s what they said when I had the other one like this.

“I have to follow protocol,” Fionn spoke, and Noah sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“You break protocol to talk to me.”

“That’s different,” he snaps, and neither are paying attention to anybody else in the room. “This was an emergency. A prisoner was loose.”

“You were going to shoot me.” Noah hadn’t realised that more tears were leaking down his face. His desperate, wide eyes stared up at him as his voice broke. “Weren’t you?”

The Apoid shifted. The silence was all the answer that Noah needed, but Fionn still murmured out one that struck straight through his heart.

“Yes,” he nodded. “It was my job. I would have had to.”

Noah’s bottom lip wobbled. He knew that Apoids had different protocol because of their vastly different job, but in the idea of an emergency like that - the scientist was expendable?

“What happened to taking me to see Ireland?” He choked out, and Fionn’s voice hardened inexplicably.

“Quiet. Don’t say that here,” he hissed. “You can’t be mad at me. My hands are tied.”

He knew that Fionn was right.

But right now, after that? After he’d been so helpless in his grasp, feeling the heat of all of those rifles on him, realising that they would tear through him without a care once Cash refused to cooperate; it made his heart burn. Because Fionn could have at least lied.

Personnel rushed into the room, and they first checked that all of Noah’s notes and samples were safe. Then, they flocked to the two of them once the room was cleared of any dangers, both Apoid and Prisoner Seven.

Noah shoved Fionn away. He wasn’t even strong enough to make him budge like this, but the Apoid moved away regardless.

“Stay away from me,” Noah demanded, his trembling voice thick as he stuttered with another wheezing cough. “Don’t ever come near me again.”

One woman gently helped him up, and another kept a supporting hand on his back.

“Come on, let’s go to the infirmary,” one suggested gently, urging him along. Noah could barely put one foot in front of the other, his knees wobbling slightly with each movement. He noticed Personnel were glancing between him and Fionn awkwardly. “It’s alright now. Prisoner Seven has been secured.”

Alarmingly, it wasn’t just Cash that he realised could get him killed in this place.

He was vaguely aware of Fionn following them to the infirmary. It didn’t make him happy in the slightest, but he recognised that he had a job as his personal Apoid, as much as Noah couldn’t maintain that same sentiment for what had happened.

He was taken care of in the infirmary, mainly his wounds, before they let him go. Noah didn’t know what to do with himself, and after spending so long in the infirmary, he suddenly realised that Fionn was no where to be seen.

Noah swallowed uneasily.

Fionn couldn’t just leave the scientist he was assigned to, right? Yet, as he wandered alone down the corridors to his room, he noticed an Apoid near the door. A part of him knew that it was Fionn, but he was more concerned with the fact that a Higher Up seemed to be speaking with him.

With both of their masks on, Noah couldn’t get a sense of what was going on. He was too far away to hear them, and when the Higher Up curtly walked away, Fionn tilted his head towards him. Noah awkwardly shifted when he began to approach him.

He opened his mouth to say his name as he passed. “Fionn?” But the Apoid walked straight past him. Noah’s head whipped around to watch him go, and he suddenly felt his stomach drop to his boots.

What was going on? Why had he been talking to a Higher Up?

Numbly closing the door behind him, Noah stripped off his white jacket, and caught a glimpse of his guilty expression in the mirror. He looked ghostly pale, with a ring of fresh bruises around his neck, but he could only think about one thing.

Had he got Fionn terminated?

He desperately shook his head, his exhausted eyes glimpsing at the tube of cream on his bedside table. It felt quiet without Fionn in here, and even worse when he tried to sleep off the chaotic events of the day.

Regardless, he didn’t sleep a wink. All he could see was down the barrels of rifles and the sickening spray of bullets ripping through his flesh.

Noah’s eyes stung painfully when the lights came up, and he almost considered pulling the blanket over the top of his head and wallowing by himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about the aching pain in his neck, the leftover bruises a plum purple, or the fact that Fionn had left after talking to a Higher Up.

It made it all the more worse when he didn’t see him outside his door.

The guilt tore into him, because what if he had really gotten Fionn fired? After everything he had told him about his family, about why he was here, and he forced him back to the surface with nothing? Noah released a shuddering breath, heading to the labatory.

On the way, he was greeted by Personnel.

“Oh, Noah.”

They stopped him, and he stilled when he noticed a quiet Apoid hovering behind them. He stared at the black visor uneasily, but a part of him was confident that wasn’t Fionn. Their words only confirmed it.

“Due to certain circumstances, you’ll be receiving a new Apoid from today onwards,” Personnel informed him politely, motioning towards the guard with a slight nod. Noah couldn’t hide the unease on his face, as well as the confusion. When he went to open his mouth to speak, to question what on earth was going on, the room was suddenly plunged into redness.

A blaring alarm screeched out over the speakers, and Noah felt his head whip around to find other scientists had similarly frozen in their spots, a look of horror on their faces.

His heart lurched into his throat.

On the speakers, a warning rang out.

A warning that made Noah’s blood run iciliy cold.

“Code: Black.”

tag list – @suspicious-whumping-egg @sunshiline-writes @rabidrabidme @whumpatize-me-captain @thegirlwholived1213 @reverie1234 @unforgiven235 @morning-star-whump @seaweed-is-cool @d-cs @whump-me-all-night-long @whump-me @gala1981 @pirefyrelight @whumpterful-beeeeee @miss-unicorn0907 @avidrambling @anoontjecanush @2in1whump @ha-ha-one @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @whatwhump

[serickswrites]

Walk III

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Warnings: hostage situation, gun, gunshot, blood, wounds, collapse, unclear character status

"Don't shoot Whumpee, Whumper. Please!"

Whumpee's heart sunk. Caretaker had arrived. But they were unarmed and unprepared for the gun that Whumper had.

"Do you have what I want?" Whumper didn't take their eyes off Whumpee. They knew Caretaker would be unarmed. How had they known?

"You know I do."

"Then hand it over."

Caretaker's lips were a thin line. "I don't have it with me. If you give me Whumpee, I will--"

"You have what I want and you expect me to hand over what you want without getting it? Are you stupid? Do you think I'm stupid?" Whumper asked angrily. They kept the gun pointed at Whumpee.

"No, of course not! I don't think you're stupid," Caretaker backpedaled quickly. They stared at Whumpee with horror filled eyes. "It's just I--"

"Am not prepared. You have two choices, Caretaker. You let Whumpee and me walk away and then you bring me what I want. Or you get what I want now."

"Whumper, let's talk. We can talk about this. I think--"

The gun going off was louder than Whumpee expected. They felt the bullet rip through their chest. Felt the pain burning as Caretaker screamed for them. They could barely feel anything as the ground suddenly rushed up to meet them. And then all they knew was darkness.

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[lisupandowntown]

Happy Sunday Sickness, Lis! The backstory question is really cool and it made me curious - what things in the past of your OCs plays a big role in their worldview/behavior, but get hardly acknowledged in text/their daily lives? The reminder of Logan went through with her sick brother for example and what an introvert it made her in collage and there is Rory's sibling...but it doesn't just have to be death, but something in their backstories that influences them more than they realize? @writing-whump

Ooh, thoughtful question, Sol. Let's see

You're right that for Logan and Rory, their siblings' deaths affected them, but in different ways.

Logan is naturally an "introverted extrovert" in that she does like being social to a point, and then she really needs time alone to recharge. But she didn't get as much of the social time growing up because she spent a lot of time with her brother and came to college more introverted than she'd naturally otherwise be. It's not that she didn't have friends - she played field hockey and softball and had friends from those teams - but it was limited because she both wanted to be with her family but also felt guilty when she was not. So college was eye-opening, and she didn't quite know how to be herself.

Rory, as we know, was affected by his sister's death by becoming very protective of Noa and generally a private person except with those he's closest with and can trust the most. What I haven't revealed is that - ironically - his mother has become a functional alcoholic as her way of coping with his sister's death. It's been a slow process. For a little while right afterwards his mother refused to drink at all since it was a drunk driver that caused the accident. But then her anger over the situation led her to need to "prove" that it was easy to drink but not drive. And it's gotten a little bit away from her. She would never, never get behind the wheel of a car after having a drink and for that reason, thinks that she doesn't have a problem. Rory "sort of" knows about her, but he's repressing it. Noa knows too, but they've not talked about it. Not because she's avoiding bringing it up but because she knows he's not ready yet.

Noa was also affected by Jamie's death, of course, but another thing that shaped her was getting together with Rory so young. Always having someone that much in love with her and that supportive kind of enabled her "control freak" side a bit because he never called her out, lol. The two of them did break up for two years when Rory left for college, and Noa was more lost than she wanted to admit during that time. She's only now starting to really realize that sometimes her need for control can have a detrimental effect on other people.

For Gabe, it's always been about being part of a team. Sports since a young age and into college has been a big part of who he is. He doesn't stress about competition, which is why he has been able to handle the very high stress job he has - it's like being on a team for him. And he still plays sports and it's a big physical release for him,

For Jeremiah, in addition to growing up poor and ambitious and with a mother who worked so hard that he had to kind of raise himself, he was also affected by being confused about his sexuality. He always worried about it, because in his mind, successful doctors were straight and had wives and families and all that. He didn't have many role models and that is partly what led him be so concerned over status - he unconsciously knew he was never going to have a wife, so he felt like he had to collect his status in other ways, by making important connections. As we are going to see down the road, this actually had a consequence once that he has not really dealt with yet, but is going to have to.

For Adam, knowing early that he was gay and deciding to start coming out when he was 14 was defining for him. His parents were supportive, but his father had a harder time. I think I've mentioned that his father came from a very conservative, restrictive, religious background that he left when he fell in love with his wife, who was not from his religious background (he grew up Evangelical, Southern Baptist). And even though he completely rejected that, his upbringing that homosexuality was a sin was hard to get past, even though he wanted to. It led to some stumbles with Adam early on, but only made Adam more determined to live his life as honestly and openly (and sometimes loudly) as possible.

For Drew, theater made all the difference. He began learning about set and lighting design in 8th grade and that's where he found his people. Any other stresses in his life - his kind of jerks of parents, their money, their subtle disapproval of him - did not matter. And because they had money, he was able to use it to get away from them the second he graduated high school, and go halfway across the country for college.

Avery comes from a family of law enforcement. But he did not only want to be a local cop or local firefighter like his brothers and uncles, and father and grandfather. When he decided to pursue the FBI, he got a hard time at home for trying to be "better" than the rest of his family. It wasn't terrible, but he still puts up with some teasing even though most of them are also kind of impressed too.

Hope that was interesting, lol. I know there is more about each of them, but that was a good exercise for me.