#*aggressive wretching noises*

[quillandink333]

Us @ the big mainstream canon x canon ships with the hive mind fanbases that lack any original ideas and butcher our poor f/os to no end (2:03-3:04)

[kometqh]

Return pt.2

╰┈➤ Ethan Landry x Female Reader

╰┈➤ Warnings: mentions of murder, blood, cursing, breakup, angst turned to fluff, ghostface! au, not explicitly following the events of the movie (Scream 6), alcohol, mean and sad ethan :(

╰┈➤ Summary: Ethan has to break up with Y/n, but regrets it instantly. Why? Because to him, she's the love of his life.

╰┈➤ Word count: 3,609k

╰┈➤ Part one

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

He'd done this before; same thing over and over. One victim after another. Something in him twisted and churned at the stranger's screams, their begging, their cries, but a more cruel, a more violent part of Ethan supressed that twinge of guilt. It's not like he could do anything anyway – his dad would skin him, and his sister would take it upon herself to make his life more miserable.

"Please no! Stop I beg you." A voice screeched in his ear, begging for mercy, bloodied hands grasping his own. They were in hysterics, using all their strength against him but to no avail. His mind was elsewhere, the screams becoming white noise as he continued to drive the knife up. Agonisingly slow, too. He could feel the skin cut beneath his fingers, the blade never stopping. "I don't want to die..."

Their voice became all but a whisper, their hands losing the strength they had just a moment ago. He chuckled quietly, before abruptly pulling the knife out, his chuckling turning into a full-blown laughter as they screamed, body twitching against the wall behind them.

"I'll make it quick buttercup, yeah? Would you like that?" He whispered into their ear, holding the knife too close to their neck for comfort. He could feel them tremble, even in their half-passed out state, their fear too overwhelming. A slight nod followed shortly after his words, and he tutted in disapproval, moving away to take in the sight, his work.

"Please- if you're going to kill me, do it quick!" They exclaimed.

"So much demand from someone in your position..." He wasn't impressed, nor was he content. He didn't like being told what to do unless it was coming from Y/n. Speaking of which, he looked around the room for something. A clock.

"Shit."

His eyes caught sight of the moving handle, it was coming close to 8pm, in 15 minutes he was supposed to meet Chad.

"Look buttercup, I would love to drag this out, but I'm running low on time-" He muttered, more to himself really, whilst flipping the blade in his gloved hand, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the walls as he stomped towards his victim – a fellow student – plunging the knife into their chest repeatedly, choked stutters and gagging resonating within the room, followed by pure silence just a few short moments after.

"Fuck."

He wiped his knife clean on their clothes, turning to a window. His bag was there waiting for him, ready with his awfully stupid costume that Chad would force him to wear later on.

He heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head, muttering curse words under his nose as he awkwardly exited through the window and onto a rusty staircase.

Taking his mask off, Ethan inhaled a deep breath of air, shoving the damned thing back into his bag and instead placing on the wretched cardboard cut-out.

What even was it? He had no idea.

Down below, his bicycle was waiting for him, luckily it hadn't been stolen by some drunkard. Everyone seemed to be drunk and gone by this time, celebrating Halloween.

His feet moved quickly, the tyres spinning aggressively as he swerved to the left, narrowly avoiding a car. "Watch where you're driving dickhead!" He shouted, flipping the driver off in a fit of rage. After a couple of minutes, he could see heaps of students cluttering the streets, all dressed in silly, sexy or actually well-done costumes.

Some hollered at him as he hurried past, others swore as he swerved, his eyes finally settling on the half-naked figure of Chad, sported in some shorts and a cowboy hat, waiting outside their shared dorm building.

"Ethan what the fuck?!" Chad shouted, prolonging the 'fuck', flailing his arms in the air as he approached the teen, "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago! Where were you?" He continued, his arm wrapping around Ethan's neck as the boy put his bike away.

"Sorry Chad, I was in the - uhm, library?" Ethan said slowly, though it sounded more like a question rather than a statement. It wasn't questioned by Chad though, who seemed like he already had a few too many drinks for the hour it was. He was already swaying as he walked alongside Ethan, tripping over his own feet - earning a few giggles from passing ladies - winking and blowing kisses, flashing his pearly-white teeth in a boxy grin.

In all honesty, Ethan didn't expect to get away with his lie so easily, but Chad was such a frat boy he couldn't keep his hands off alcohol until they got to the party. He let out a relieved sigh as he heard music blasting out of a specific home - the 'go to' for everyone.

There wasn't a single week without at least one party, and that added onto the ease Ethan felt any time he had to go and slash someone up.

Because nobody would even notice he was gone. Not even the people that called themselves his 'friends'.

Okay - that wasn't the whole truth. There was one person that truly did care for him. A small smile tugged at his lips as he thought of her - her beautiful, soft and shiny hair, that smile that made her look like an angel sent by God himself - no, not even that, she is a literal Goddess - he thought, those little crinkles under her eyes as she smiled, the few tiniest freckles scattered across her cheeks. The way she would always lead him to the dance floor, enticing him, bringing a smile of his own to his face. His heart pounded, no, it clawed at his chest whenever she was around. She was his whole world, and she held his heart in her grasp. He was at her mercy.

But their relationship wouldn't last.

As much as Ethan loved Y/n, he would eventually be forced to kill her. She was heavily associated with the 'Core Four', as Chad liked to call it, being present at the Woodsboro event. She was there when his brother was brutally slayed by none other than Sam Carpenter.

A string of curse words fought to escape his mouth, but he fought against it as Chad pulled at his bicep, leading him away to a group of dancing girls - who in his mind - were the most awkward dancers possible.

"Ladies, meet my bro Ethan." Chad introduced, slinging one arm around Ethan's shoulder and the other around a blonde girl's waist, "Ethan, these are my classmates. They're all gorgeous aren't they?"

Ethan grinned at the group, doing his utmost best to look sweet, innocent and convincing. Chad wasn't aware of his current relationship status, and that was okay. Neither Ethan nor Y/n were bothered enough to tell anyone; they'd figure it out on their own.

"Hey there, nice to meet you guys!" He shouted over the music, lightly nodding in greeting as his cardboard helmet slid down and blocked his vision. He was about to move it out of the way, but a smaller hand did the job for him. He looked to his side, and was met with a big cheeky grin. The one he adored.

"Y/n? It's good to see you!" Chad erupted, arms raising high as he embraced her in a suffocating hug. Ethan's heart twitched, his stomach twisted with a tinge of jealousy. He did not like the sight of Chad acting all touchy with his girl - did he need to do so?

The answer was a simple no.

Y/n's hands awkwardly patted Chad's back, her eyes nervously moving from the other girls to Ethan's, though his seemed to have a darker look in them - he wasn't happy, "Alright Chad I think that's enough." She said quickly, clearing her throat whilst backing away from the taller male, and joining Ethan at his side. 

She turned to Ethan, her gaze meeting his lovingly, "Hello stranger."

"Hey there, fancy seeing you here." Ethan said, clearly pleased as he bit his lip lightly, his hand itching to reach out for her own, and it would have if it wasn't for another body crashing into Y/n's back, arms slinging over her shoulders as lips entered Ethan's vision, a sloppy wet kiss was planted on Y/n's face.

"Mindy?! Ewww your breath stinks!" Y/n exclaimed exaggeratedly, fanning the space before her face as she moved her head away. Mindy chuckled at that, attempting to gift her with another kiss whilst fluttering her eyelashes and puckering her lips in, what she thought was, a seductive manner, "Oh come on! My kisses can't be that bad!"

Ethan looked to her, a questioning eyebrow raised, "Are you sure?" He scratched the back of his head, purposefully looked around the room to imply Mindy was, in fact, a bad kisser. Though he couldn't know really. The girl in question smacked the back of his head, a nasty snarl gracing her features, rolling her eyes in the process, "Thanks Ethan. At least I can pull the ladies, unlike someone..." A couple of 'oohs' and 'ahhh's' left the small group, and Ethan could almost feel the sting - only he didn't, because in his mind he did pull the best girl possible.

And she was standing at his side, stifling a couple of giggles.

"Come on Y/n, let's get some drinks." Mindy said, taking a hold of Y/n's hand as she lead her away.

Ethan shook his head and chuckled, sending a slight wave at Y/n, who had turned back to say something, but was far too gone to be heard. He reached into his pocket, fished out his phone, and was greeted with the sight of two missed calls from his sister - Quinn. He sighed heavily and excused himself from the group, making his way outside as he attempted to ring her back.

The phone rang for a long while, and Ethan was growing agitated the longer it took.

"Ethan? Why didn't you answer?" Quinn's annoyed voice rang through Ethan's ear.

Clicking his tongue, he retorted, "I told you I will be busy. I'm at a party, why are you calling me?"

"You need to break up with that bitch. Plans have changed." Her tone was cold, and Ethan let out a scoff at the insult. How dare she insult the one girl he cared about? 

"Me and dad decided to let her live," She took a pause, awaiting any sort of reaction from her brother, but was greeted with pue silence as he anticipated her words, "If you break up with her, we won't kill her. We will only go after Sam, Tara, Chad and Mindy. Though I can't promise you that she won't be injured during the process."

"And if I don't? Maybe she can still be an asset." He argued, directing his attention at a stray rock on the side of the pavement, kicking it, "Then I will personally ensure she is gone. We need you to stay focused, Ethan." Quinn's voice sounded harsh, and it sent a chill down his spine, his eyes widening in horror. He never believed her threats were real; up until now. But she was giving him a choice.

"Ethan? Did you hear me?"

He took a moment to say anything, his attention shifting to how rapidly his heart was beating, how he suddenly felt so warm and self-aware, he felt as though he could feel every sensation on his body - from that miniscule itch on his thigh to the way his hair began to stick to his forehead unbrearingly.

"You'll let her live? If I break up with her?" He asked, swallowing down the invisible lump that had formed in his throat. He's never felt this way. What was it? Anxiety? Fear? Over the phone he could hear a male voice call for Quinn, and he visibly cringed, "I am very serious Eth. You think I wouldn't be up for the task?" She questioned, taking a puff of air, "Dad's getting impatient, and I'm being kind by giving you a choice. So act fast."

And with that, she hung up the phone.

His arm fell limp, and the blood pumping through his veins deafened him. His thoughts raced one hundred miles per hour, and yet did not come up with a single answer or solution to his predicament.

His sister, his own flesh and blood, was threatening what he deemed the 'love of his life', but was giving him the chance to save her life? He definitely needed a moment to think that one over.

A few minutes went by, the music coming from within the house never stopped. It worked as background noise as he pondered, talking under his breath about all the possibilities and pacing around, clearly anxious. Could he get out of this one? Was breaking up with Y/n really the ultimate choice?

He felt like falling in through the earth, down into its very core so that he did not have to make such a choice. He wasn't stupid though - he knew if he suddenly disappeared, that Quinn wouldn't hesitate for even a second - and Y/n's life would be in grave danger.

He couldn't let her do that. If anything, he would break up with Y/n, break her heart and have it crumble to pieces just to ensure her safety. 

"What's got your pants in a twist cupcake?" A soft voice asked behind him, at first he was slightly startled, but then realised who it was. His damnation, "Y/n? I thought you were busy partying?" He exclaimed, hand gripping his chest as a nervous, toothy grin creeped up his cheeks. 

The girl in front of him swayed a little, hands interlocked behind her back as she looked up, "Well I was, but you were gone for so long I started to think you snuck off."

He chuckled, shaking his head in denial.

"No, I wouldn't of left you here, alone." He said quietly, looking straight into her eyes cutely, "Chad would do anything for a chance with a girl as pretty as you." Ethan continued, now shuffling closer and closer, until their torso's were just a mere inch away from touching - so close he could see that dusty pink colour decorate her cheeks. That really did do a number on him. 

"Well, luckily for you, Chad isn't my type," A small smile tugged at her soft lips, and she fought hard to contain it as she spoke, moving her hand to trail her fingers down his chest, keeping her gaze locked on it, "My type are sweet, cute, nerdy boys, with adorable brown puppy eyes and soft curly hair. Specifically, brunettes." She shifted her gaze, now looking into his wide eyes, the street lights reflecting in her pupils.

That light dusty pink colour from earlier? It now turned into a full-blown crimson blush paired with a wide smile.

"Are you embarrassed?" 

"Why do you ask?" She looked at him once more, chewing lightly on her bottom lip, her blush intensifying further as she had indeed been called out. 

"You're blushing. So much. It's quite cute actually." Ethan teased, his hand slowly moving to grip hers, sliding down to interlock their fingers together, "I think we should get out of here." At that, his heart picked up the pace, and nervosity took over him. Should he do it now? Maybe that'll be for the best.

His mind rushed as Y/n pulled him along, into the crowded streets and through dark alleys. Their breaths matching in pace and heartbeats matching in rhythms, their hands interlocked and feet moving synchronically.

Cars honked at them, street lights flickered and light rain pattered down, drowning out anything but each other's presence. Ethan kept trying to think of the right things to say, but her presence overwhelmed him, tugging painfully at his heartstrings. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her. But he had to, for her safety. And so, his mind made the unconscious choice to let her go.

Even if it hurt.

It would be like acting, he told himself. His ears could barely process the words she was saying, the blood pumping through his head deafening him. He was getting anxious and fidgety.

His footsteps came to a slow stop in an alley, his hand pulling her backwards. Her breath hitched, and she gazed lovingly into his eyes, but he could see the growing worry. How am I going to do this? He restrained a smile, and blinked away the tears that threatened to gather in his eyes, not looking at her, but rather off to the side.

"Eth? What is it?" She asked worriedly. He could hear her laboured breathing, and gulped down the lump that formed in his throat.

"I don't know if this is a good idea..." Ethan's eyes met hers, his heart beating loud against his ribcage. He fought hard against his urges to grab her hand from his shoulder, place a gentle kiss on it before embracing her and muttering sweet nothings and reassurances into her ear, that she shouldn't worry and it didn't matter. 

"You know what I mean," He continued, taking a deep breath, maintaining eye contact, "Us. This isn't working out."

He shook his head, seamlessly trying to rid his head of those thoughts, but to no avail. His heart panged with guilt at the sigh she let out, "Why are you doing this?"

"We both know this isn't working. It'll only end in us both getting hurt," He paused, taking a deep breath, an attempt to calm his racing heart before he blurted out, "I don't love you."

He put on a stoic face, letting go of her hand. Putting much needed distance between them. If he didn't, this simple task would become much harder.

"W-what do you mean? Just two days ago you were on about how you can't stand being away from me! What happened? What changed your mind?" A light smirk tugged at his lips, his nerves taking over every cell in his body - he was scared, terrified. That smirk was quickly wiped off as he saw the pain in her eyes - the one thing he never thought he'd be the cause of.

"Why are you doing this Eth?"

"I have to. It's best if we stop whatever this is."

"How do you know? Are you really thinking about what's best for me?" At that, his anger took over.

He was doing all this just to protect her. He was being selfless, and all that she was doing was making his life more difficult. He hated (loved) how she questioned his choices, never went down without a fight. His vein was visible on the side of his temple, and his teeth grinded on each other.

"Stop making this so difficult! I am doing what is best for me!" He shouted, breathing heavily, feeling his face became hot to the touch, he pointed to himself, but stuttered his words out as his hand almost slapped hers, "I-I don't give a fuck about what you want! Okay? This is over, we are over." Upon saying so, another lump formed in his throat. He wanted to take his words back so so bad. But how could he? 

She nodded her head at him, and pushed past him, bumping shoulders. His eyes caught sight of the first few tears, and his heart shred into bits. 

"Y/n! Wait!" He shouted after her, following in her footsteps, but she ignored him as though he didn't exist, "Come back!" With that, she entered the crowded streets and disappeared, from both his sight and his life. 

"No no no. What the fuck do I do? What the fuck did I do?!" He questioned himself, one hand gripping and tugging harshly at his hair, the other dragging over his face, and he wished this was all some sort of a sick dream.

He couldn't believe he just did that - abandoned the love of his life and watched her walk away. It's for the best. He shook his head, slapping himself lightly before rushing into the crowds, in hopes of catching up to her.

'She must have gone back to the party, right?' He thought, looking ahead into the crowd. Hoping to catch up. His legs carried him, they ran, and his mind pleaded whatever God was above them, whatever fate chose this. The house party wasn't too far, as the pair hadn't gotten far before he made his declaration. Within 15 minutes he was there, his height bringing an advantage to his speed. He pushed through and into the house, looking around in a panic.

"Where is she?"

Sweaty bodies and spilling drinks blocked the path, hands raised in the air and swaying to the sound of music. Ethan received a couple of (accidental) slaps to the face, which helped sober him up a little from his panicked state. He had reached the kitchen, an island decorated with red solo cups and empty bottles of all kinds of alcohol, stood in the middle. And on the other side of it was Y/n, busy talking to Tara and Chad, her lips trembling and hands shakily bringing an alcohol-filled cup up.

His heart broke into a million pieces, just at the sight of what he had caused. Was begging her for her forgiveness now a bad idea? Probably. He listened to his better judgement, swallowing the lump in his throat harshly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so. His hand wiped the forming tears away and he walked away, breaths heavy and trembling as his heart shook. He couldn't sabotage her safety - one which should have been guaranteed the moment those words left Quinn's lips. Though, his sister was renowned for being an immensely good liar - only that part seemed to escape his mind.

I just wanted to say a quick thank you, I am so grateful for anyone who has read Return, I'm thankful that you all enjoyed it and I really hope Before You is up to your guys expectations <3 For those who have read the pre-edited version, this new one has a few minor but important changes. Thank you for whoever reads this <3 - kometqh

Tags: @netey6m

[hobiebrownismygod]

I have a request :D rivals to lovers with Hobie? Basically the garage in which Hobie’s band practices is right next to another garage which the reader uses (maybe for ballet or dance but feel free to decide whatever u think is best) and she routinely goes there to fire him for being so loud and our guy is just as cocky as he possibly can be

Idk I had this idea and I love love LOVE ur writing so 😁

OMGGG I LOVE THIS REQUEST SO MUCH!! Sorry it took me so long to answer pookie 😞 but I hope you like it!! <3

It'd been a very, very long day.

So of course, you'd been looking forward to coming home and rewinding, playing some gentle music and practicing your positions. You found the repetition calming, counting through each step in your head to stay on beat.

"One, two, three, four, five and turn, one two, three, four, five and turn, one two..." you mumbled under your breath quietly, as you watched yourself in the mirror, scrutinizing each move, each step, as you inched yourself closer and closer to perfection.

You were all alone, the lights were dimmed and the only noise you could hear was the soft music playing and your quiet, deep breaths, held tightly in your diaphragm as you kept your back up straight and tight, slowly turning with grace and poise.

CRASH

You nearly stumbled back at the sudden noise, eyes shooting up towards the door and narrowing when you realized who it must've been. That familiar accent could be heard through the walls, loud and cocky as ever.

"Hobie Brown." You grumbled under your breath, grabbing your sweater and pulling it over your head to cover your ballet attire before walking towards the door.

The sweet-voiced, yet sadistic punk that lived next door never failed to get on your nerves. Him and his band were almost always blasting your eardrums with their wretched playing and loud voices. You had to admit, their music was fairly good, but you definitely did not want to hear it at the moment.

"Hobie Brown!"

The lanky man, draped across a battered couch, looked over his shoulder at you as you stood at the entrance of his garage door, fingers still playing with the strums of the guitar in his hand. "Well if it isn't my favorite lass! What're you doin' here dove?" He laughed, tilting his head back and waggling his eyebrows at you.

"I thought we had an agreement! You get from 3:00 to 6:00 and I get peace and quiet from 6:00 to 9:00." You said annoyedly, folding your arms over your chest as you glared at the other members of his band.

He sighed, shaking his head before slowly sitting up from the couch, sleepy eyes fixated on you. "What time is it?"

"It's 7:45." You hissed.

He smiled. "Might be a bit late for you then, aye? Maybe you should go to bed, dove, you look cranky." He teased. You scowled in response and his eyes widened slightly. "I'm just messing with ya, love, no need to get all pouty." he chuckled.

"God you're suck a prick!" You said angrily, eyes narrowed at him. "Is it impossible for you to play a little more quietly? Or play at someone else's home for once?" You asked, gesturing at his silent bandmates who were all awkwardly trying to ignore the two of you.

"I could..." He admitted, cocking his head to the side and shoving his hands into his pockets as he began to approach you. "But then I wouldn't get the chance to see you. You see, I quite enjoy these little squabbles." He said, leaning down slightly to meet your eyes.

You felt your face heat up slightly and immediately cleared your throat aggressively, leaning away from him. He continued to lean forward, hands clasped behind his back as he grinned mischievously at you. "What? Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"Oh shut up." you muttered, taking a step back and glaring up at him. "Just play quieter." You turned away from him as quickly as you could before you headed back towards the door.

Suddenly, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder and you shot your head back to see him raising an eyebrow at you. "You forgot the magic word."

"The magic word?" You asked confusedly.

"You know...the magic word." He grinned stupidly, folding his arms over his chest. "Maybe if you say it, I'll turn the volume down, dove."

"Oh piss off-"

"Ah, wrong word" He said, wagging a finger in your face as you attempted to leave again. "Come on, just say it once and we'll leave you alone" he winked.

You sighed, staring up at him with your hands on your hips. "Please." you mumbled.

"What was that?" He asked, leaning in with a hand cupping his ear, smiling widely.

"Please?" You asked a little louder.

"Please what?"

"Hobie, come on-"

"Please what?"

You groaned, tapping your foot on the floor. "Can you turn the volume down, please?" You asked, biting the inside of your cheek in frustration.

He chuckled deeply, standing up straight and looking down at you. "For you? Anything, dove." And with that, he took a step back, bowing you out as you practically ran out of the room in embarrassment, scrambling back to your garage and closing the door with a loud, exasperated groan.

"Cocky prick." You muttered, pulling your sweatshirt off roughly and tossing it on the floor next to your ballet bag. You noticed that the volume had decreased significantly, and although welcomed, it wasn't doing anything to help hide your flushed expression.

His taunts were infuriating and that stupid smile sent chills up your spine. Oh what you would give to wipe that smirk off his face.

But then of course, you quite liked his smirk. More than you'd ever truly admit. It was too bad you'd never tell him...at least, not yet.

Taglist: @therealloopylupin2099 @spiderrinn @l0starl @daydreaming-en-pointe @itsparis-07 @vileviale @puff-hugs @d0ubl-tr0ubl3 @lauryn2558 @sunasslut69 @ask-1610-miles @axels-garden @s6onder @eli21345

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[bambambunny]

Fatui Cat (Segment edition!) pt. 1

Warnings: like 1 swear and some fear of dottore from his segments. Oh and one of them drops the cat, dw its fine. This is more focused on the segment’s perspective but ill do cat POV next time.

Relationships: Platonic segments / cat!reader

Summary: The segments meet the cat. g/n pronouns pls lmk if i missed something.

Wc: 659 cries

Part 2

—-------------------------------------------------

The pursuit of knowledge never ends and thus, neither does the work of the segments. Each one, varying in ages and demeanors, bustles around the expansive lab with their own projects in hand. Of course, all must work to the Tzaritsa’s coup against heaven but such a large goal requires smaller tasks to build it up. 

One of the younger segments, physically he looks to be about 10, is trying to figure out a better healing formula for the hydro skirmishers (Some blond kid keeps causing trouble and their losses have been too great to ignore). That might seem like a rather complicated subject for a 10 year old, but this is a dottore segment we’re talking about, of course he can accomplish this. After all, failure at such a menial task would result in termination and we can't have that. He starts with a flask of hydro, adds some crushed up violet grass, a bit of this chemical, a bit of that, and a dash of –

Crash!

The young segment yelps and drops the vial and its contents. The other segments look up from their tasks at the sudden noise but the boy doesn’t notice. He looks down at the disturbance at his feet and finds a..cat? What in Her Majesty’s name is a cat doing here? He picks it up to the worried protest of an older segment and raises it up. The little thing does naught but blink at him. It has a belled collar so it must belong to somebody, and oh that somebody is going to be in a lot of trouble when Prime finds out it caused such a disturbance. 

“Ahem.”

The sound shoots a wretched cold up the segment’s spine as both he and the cat are shadowed by the imposing figure of Prime Dottore. He drops that cat and immediately turns to attention. He doesn’t hear the thing yelp in surprise.

“P-prime!”, shit. He’s not supposed to stutter, “Prime, sir.” Better.

“Care to explain the mess in your station?” Prime asks with a chilly calm.

“I was interrupted, sir, by that,” He points to the cat who is now rubbing itself, almost aggressively, on Dottore’s pant leg. 

“They just wandered in like they owned the place,” a segment pipes up, drawing Prime’s gaze. He is older and confident enough to insert himself into the conversation, most of the other segments wouldn’t dare. The young segment is relieved at the shift of attention away from him.

Prime chuckles. It isn’t with malice, thank god. 

“They might as well,” He picks up the cat with a surprising gentleness. Honestly, a few of the newer segments were surprised Prime didn't kick the poor thing.

“This is Zapolyarny Palace’s new royal cat - by order of Her Majesty.” Prime says with a flourish and barely restrained glee. Every segment in the room just stares at him, then at the cat, him again..is he serious? Since when was that a thing? If it has a title, does it have a job? Why then did it wander in here? Is it looking for pests? Impossible, the labs are kept meticulously – obsessively – clean (aside from the spill from earlier, must clean that up). A segment near the back raises his finger to ask a question but Prime cuts him off.

“As this cat has been blessed by the Tzaritsa, you will all treat them with respect. They may go where they please and none but the other harbingers and I may interact with it as I am now.” He puts the cat down and shoots a pointed look to the young segment, “You may return to your tasks. Oh and #7?”

“Yes, sir?” The little boy answers, slightly fearful of whatever punishment may come from dropping the cat.

“Do clean up this mess.”

And with that Prime Dottore leaves and all 7 segments stare at the now much more important feline sitting in front of the doorway

—-------------------------------------------------

A/N: hgnghgng sht im so so sorry this took like a month to write. I fell out of genshin and got obsessed with star wars and cries. I know its really short but im working on a part 2, just cant finish it cuz i have to sleep.

Taglist:

@etherisy @franc-1-s @assassinsnek101

(if you wanna be removed or added to the taglist pls comment)

[aquaquadrant]

from eden, part VII

Word count: 15,641

Warnings: Strong language, mild body horror, violence, blood/injury, mild gore, death, manipulation/deception, fictional bigotry, discussion of fictional eugenics (I guess??)

Summary: As Bravo continues working with Hels Tek to create a portal, the frequent complications and delays start to wear on his patience- not to mention the aggressive behavior of the Hels players he’s forced to associate with. But over the years, he finds himself treading deeper and deeper water to get what he wants. And after a shocking revelation is made about Tango, Bravo will have to confront exactly what kind of player he is.

A/N: I can’t believe I once thot I’d cover all of Bravo’s time in Hels in just one chapter. Holy shit. This is now the longest chapter by far, over 15k words. But I can safely say that we’re done w this mini-arc, and next time we’ll get back to the Ranchers in the Double Life times.

Disclaimer: I don’t understand a lot of redstone, and what they’re trying to do with redstone here isn’t even a thing in Minecraft irl, so just go with it. Also, mind the gore warning. There’s a death in here that isn’t super descriptive, not any more than Bravo’s various deaths in part 2, but the way it occurs is kinda disturbing. Hope y’all enjoy, please reblog if you do! - Aqua

~*~

from eden, part VII - babe, there’s something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, one player follows another through a gate.

Pistons lurch as the door closes behind them. But Bravo can hardly hear it above the sudden cacophony of noise beyond the walls of New Helington.

There’s far more life and activity here than he’d been expecting, a virtual sea of movement as players rush past each other. Mismatched buildings crowd the busy streets on either side, accented by flashing lamps and the occasional puff of steam. The air is filled with shouting and the sound of machinery; loud, chaotic, violent.

Over the years, Bravo’s grown accustomed to the various scents within Hels, from the ash-choked basalt detlas to the deep caves of sulfur. Every biome with trees in it smells like smoke, because inevitably, some part of it is always burning. Here, though, there’s a new smell added to the mix; the thick smog of coal and the metallic tang of iron. It reeks of industrialization- which might’ve been comforting, except he can see that New Helington is still very clearly uncivilized.

Much of the things being shouted between players are threats and insults. Players shove and scowl at each other as they pass. Several fist fights are currently taking place right before Bravo’s eyes, and that’s just what he can see out on the streets; the muffled sounds coming from within the ramshackle buildings are just as discouraging.

Bravo reminds himself to be careful. They may be more technologically advanced, but they’re still just as savage as the rest of Hels.

Atlas takes in the sights without comment, expression unchanging. He’s been here before, Bravo recalls. “Now,” he says lowly, “I do believe someone has been sent to collect us-”

“Hey man, how’s it going?”

Bravo jumps at the new voice, whirling around. A player is looking down at them from his perch on one of the wall’s watch towers. But it’s not his precarious position that makes Bravo’s heart jolt; he actually recognizes the player.

A well-built man, with a neatly trimmed beard and bright, teal eyes. The trident strapped to his back is further evidence- this is bXMiner, the player who killed Bravo the last time he tried to come to this city, years ago.

“Ah, Mr. bX,” Atlas says with a smile, seeming not at all surprised as bX drops to the ground in front of them. “Always a pleasure. This is my associate, Mr. Bravo.”

bX nods at him. “What’s up?”

Bravo blinks. “What’s up?” he repeats, struggling to keep his voice even as his temper flares. “That’s- that’s all I get? What, you don’t have anything else to say to the guy you murdered in cold blood?”

Rather than look taken aback, bX chuckles. “Oh man, you’re gonna have to be more specific,” he says with a rueful grin. “I kill a lot of people. Nothing personal.”

“Right,” Bravo says tersely, folding his arms. He’s not sure what stings more; that bX killed him, or that bX doesn’t even have the decency to remember killing him.

Atlas shoots him a warning look. “Of course, that’s not why we’re here.”

“Yeah, I gotta say, I was surprised to hear you were coming by.” bX’s tone is light, conversational- but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes as he studies Atlas. “Bit early for our next visit, isn’t it?”

Atlas’s grin tightens. “I assure you, Mr. bX, this is no ordinary house call. But I’d much prefer to discuss the details once we’re inside.”

“Sure, yeah.” Nodding, bX turns and starts walking towards the main street. “Follow me.”

Atlas steps in close, grabbing Bravo by the arm. “Mind yourself,” he says, still smiling.

Bravo jerks his arm away with a huff. “Fine! I’ll play nice.” As if he has a choice.

They follow bX into the street. Fortunately, it’s easy to keep track of him because the other players hasten to get out of his way. Clearly, bX holds some sort of status here. His presence must be fairly common, however, because Bravo and Atlas seem to be garnering most of the attention. Bravo tries not to bristle when he feels the weight of curious eyes on him.

He’s fully aware of how dangerous this is. Nearly every Hels player he’s met has been unpleasant at best, and outright hostile at worst. He’d once thought that a structured civilization like this could only exist due to cooperation and common decency. It’s obvious now that he was wrong. The players here must be kept in line by nothing short of brute force. The tension in the air is like a misplaced block of TNT, just waiting to explode.

Atlas, of course, doesn’t seem at all bothered by this. He keeps his chin up and his eyes forward as he walks, shoulder set and grin firmly in place. Like he has absolutely nothing to be nervous about.

Bravo desperately tries to channel that energy as they delve deeper into the city.

~*~

“Wait here,” bX says, slipping through the door.

Bravo opens his mouth to protest, but is quickly silenced by the warning look Atlas gives him. They’re in Papa Al’s house, now, he reminds himself. They must tread carefully.

bX has taken them to a lavish quartz mansion, much bigger than any other structure in the city, complete with a fenced-in, fully landscaped garden. Everything on the premises is impeccably maintained; a sharp contrast to the rest of the city. It was clearly designed with aesthetics in mind, and seems well-staffed. If Bravo had any doubts about just how powerful and wealthy Papa Al is, they’ve been thoroughly refuted.

After leading them through the mansion, bX took them up a rather impressive piston elevator, stopping at a floor that consisted of a single hallway with a single door at the end. It’s this door that they’re now waiting in front of, as bX presumably speaks with Papa Al inside.

Bravo definitely isn’t nervous. He definitely doesn’t try to listen to the conversation through the door- to no avail. And he definitely doesn’t jump out of his skin when the door suddenly swings open, almost smacking him in the face. Quickly straightening up, he takes a breath to compose himself, hoping bX didn’t notice.

bX definitely noticed. “Come on in, guys,” he says, amused.

“Thank you,” Atlas says graciously, pulling Bravo into the room behind him. “Ah, Papa Al, it’s good to see you!”

Bravo has to make a conscious effort not to let his mouth fall open. The floor and ceiling of Papa Al’s office are completely paved with solid diamond blocks. Oh, that’s so… tacky. So, so tacky. But it’s the most expensive kind of tacky Bravo’s ever seen. The fact that this guy has so many excess diamonds, he can build with them...

“Spank you, queenie,” the man sitting behind the desk tells bX. He turns to beam at them. “Doctor Sinny! Come in, come in, take a seat!”

Papa Al. He’s dressed to match the room, in an obnoxious teal suit and multiple diamond rings. His own features are rather plain, aside from the countless thin lines hatched across his face. And his voice is… not what Bravo was expecting. Strange accent aside, there’s a playful nature to it. It’s extremely unsettling, coming from a man with this kind of reputation.

bX moves to stand beside Papa Al, who reaches a hand up to caress the side of bX’s face. It’d be a possessive gesture if it weren’t so affectionate, if bX didn’t smile softly back at him. Bravo’s taken aback- seems like this crime boss is full of surprises.

“Of course,” Atlas says, “thank you for seeing us.” He takes one of the two chairs sitting in front of the desk, gesturing for Bravo to follow suit. As Bravo sits down, Papa Al gasps.

“And oh wow, look at dis beautiful face!” he coos. “Now, look into my eyes, and nufin’ but my eyes…”

Then the rest of his eyes open up.

Atlas warned him not to stare, but Bravo can’t help it. Being told that the man has a bunch of extra eyeballs on his face is one thing, but it’s another thing to see it. To see them all mismatched and misshapen, moving and blinking completely out of sync. It’s horrifying.

Rather than take offense, Papa Al almost seems pleased by Bravo’s reaction. His grin widens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Wassa matter, sweetface?” he asks innocently, cocking his head to the side. The motion makes his various eyes roll around in a dizzying manner.

A cold sweat trickles down Bravo’s neck. “Nothing,” he grits out, averting his gaze. “Uh, sorry. Sir.”

Luckily, Atlas swoops in. “Now, Papa Al, I know you’re a busy man,” he starts smoothly, “so in the interest of saving time, allow me to be brief. I believe I’ve found the solution to our Tango problem. Mr. Bravo here-”

“Ain’t from dese parts, humm?” Papa Al says thoughtfully, his eyes dragging over Bravo’s form. “Or even from dis world.”

Bravo suppresses a shudder. He’s never been scrutinized so intently before; it feels like layers of his skin are being peeled back. And how Papa Al can tell he’s from another world just by looking at him, he has no idea.

Atlas recovers quickly. “Yes, that’s correct. Mr. Bravo came to Hels by accident through a portal, the same time Tango disappeared. I know you never meet Tango, but their similarity is quite striking, too much to chalk up to mere coincidence. I believe they share a connection that we could utilize to open a portal and track Tango down, to retrieve the information he stole, and get our project back on track.”

“Is dat so?” Papa Al hums. His eyes are split between looking at Atlas and Bravo; an expression that’d almost be goofy if it weren’t so off-putting. “Den what’chu waitin’ for?”

Atlas pauses, his face twitching the way it does when he’s trying very hard not to let his annoyance show. “We’ve run into some difficulties with actually isolating this connection,” he explains carefully. “See, we still have Tango’s communicator, which we’ve been comparing to Mr. Bravo’s, but my team is sorely lacking a specialist in data analysis.”

“Ooh, I see…” Papa Al nods earnestly. “You need a real smart guy, huh?”

Atlas’s grin is so tight, it’s a miracle his teeth haven’t cracked. “This degree of analysis is a bit beyond our scope, yes,” he admits, begrudging.

Papa Al taps his chin- the eye located there quickly squeezes shut. “Hmmm… I fink I know a guy,” he says after a moment. “But he’s a vewy hard guy to track down, so it could take some time. Could be a bit scary, a bit hairy.”

Satisfaction flickers across Atlas’s expression. “Who do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Uh uh uh!” Papa Al tuts, wagging his finger. A few of his eyes close for a second- is he trying to wink? “All you need ta know is that he’s da best of da best in dis kinda fing. An’ he reaaaally likes his privacy.”

Atlas purses his lips. Clearly, he’s displeased, but isn’t willing to argue. “Well, if you think he’s the man for the job, I trust your judgement. I’d be happy to speak to him myself to explain the-”

“No, no, no, no, nooo,” Papa Al interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t you worry your purdy little head about it. If I can get him ta take da job, he’ll find you, mkay?”

“Of course. As you wish.” Atlas inclines his head. “Though I must stress that this is rather sensitive information, and the utmost care should be taken to ensure-”

“Oh, Sinny,” Papa Al sighs. He rests his head in his hands. “You really fink I got to where I am today wifout knowin’ how ta keep my mouth shut? I know what’s at stake, same as you do.”

Atlas exhales slowly. “Of course.”

“Now,” Papa Al continues, “step outside wif bX for a second, mkay? I wanna talk ta Mistah Bravo.”

Bravo jolts in his seat. What? This wasn’t part of the plan!

Atlas stiffens. “If you require any more information about the project, I’m sure I can-”

“Dat wasn’t a request, sweetface,” Papa Al says, his tone deceptively light.

Atlas falls silent. With a terse nod, he rises from his seat and follows bX out the door. As he does, he gives Bravo a look that isn’t so much reassuring as it is saying ‘don’t mess this up.’ Normally, Bravo would roll his eyes, but he’s just as worried about messing this up as Atlas is. Atlas was supposed to do all the talking, Bravo doesn’t know how to navigate Hels business like this-

“Soooo,” Papa Al drawls, “Mistah Bravo… you come from other worlds outside a’ Hels, is dat right?”

Now that they’re alone, Bravo bears the full weight of Papa Al’s gaze. He straightens his back unconsciously. “Yeah. Uh, yes sir, Papa Al.”

Papa Al hums noncommittally. “Tell me… what are da other worlds like?”

Bravo blinks. “Um- you mean like, just in general? I guess… they’re usually a lot nicer than Hels.” He scratches the back of his head. “See, other worlds have a separate nether from the overworld, and- and we travel between them using portals.”

Papa Al nods, motioning for him to go on. Evidently, he’s familiar with the concept.

Bravo swallows. “Okay so, all the biomes with ash and lava and fiery stuff, that’s- that’s nether stuff.” He counts on his fingers. “Basalt deltas, warped and crimson forests, soul sand valleys, nether wastes- that’s all pretty much the same. I mean, it’s fine if that’s what you like, but uh, I prefer the overworld.”

Papa Al’s expression is utterly unreadable, those many eyes watching him with rapt attention.

“So, the overworlds,” Bravo continues haltingly. “There are… okay, so- so overworlds have tons of different biomes, right? The biomes here are sorta like uh, hybrid biomes, so you’ve got like, netherrack veins in a stone mountain or a jungle filled with crimson fungus. But in a normal overworld, the biomes don’t have any features of the nether. And other than a few specific kinds, they all usually have some kinda grass and trees, and they’re green. Not brownish-green like the ones here.”

His tone turns wistful, despite himself. “And the sky- there’s no bedrock ceiling in the overworld, just an endless blue sky… there are clouds sometimes. The air’s clear. And the sun… it’s this giant, yellow ball of fire way up in the sky, too far to reach, and when it shines down on your skin, it’s just the most amazing feeling. Warm, but not painful. And- and at night, the sky turns black, and you can see a bunch of tiny bright lights called stars, and one big, white moon. Like a smaller sun. The moonlight isn’t warm, but it’s beautiful in its own way. I…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I uh- I didn’t realize I missed it so much…”

A gentle smile spreads across Papa Al’s face, forcing several eyes into a squint. “Oh, das alright,” he murmurs. “It must be hard, ta be away from home for sooooo long. And I bet you’d do whatever it takes ta go back, hmm?”

Bravo is immediately on edge again. “I suppose,” he says warily.

“Now tell me dis…” Papa Al leans in, his voice low. “Do you trust Atlas?”

Well. That’s not what Bravo was expecting. He knits his brows together, trying to figure out how he should answer. Is this some kind of test? “I… trust that he wants a portal opened as much as I do,” he says eventually.

Papa Al tilts his head. “Is dat so?”

It’s impossible to tell whether he approves of the answer or not. Bravo makes a frustrated noise. “I- I don’t- look, compared to how other players here have treated me- I mean, Atlas is one of the few who didn’t just kill me on sight.”

“Oh, sweetface…” Papa Al clicks his tongue. “Dere are so many fings a player can do ta you dat are worse dan killing.”

Irritation flares through Bravo. He hates being treated like he’s naive; he didn’t make it on his own here for several years through the power of friendship. “Okay, so- so what, are you sayin’ I shouldn’t trust the guy who’s working for you?” he asks, folding his arms. “I mean, what- what do you want here?”

“I want ta know dat you’re committed,” Papa Al says, holding his gaze evenly. His earlier playfulness has fallen away into the cool demeanor of a hardened businessman. “Dat you’ll uphold your end of da deal. Cuz- cuz if you don’t, den I’m wastin’ a lotta time and energy for nufin’, mhmm. You get me?”

“I- yeah, I get you,” Bravo says shortly. In his opinion, it’s a stupid question. There is so much more on the line for him than there is for them. They want to get back important research. He wants to get back his entire way of life and an infinite universe. It’s almost insulting, for Papa Al to question Bravo’s commitment.

“Good, good.” Papa Al nods. “Cuz ah, little word to da wise; I am not someone you wanna cross.”

Bravo grits his teeth. He generally considers himself a nice guy, but god, he’s so tired of all the posturing. “Yeah? Well, well maybe I am, too,” he says lowly.

For a moment, Papa Al just stares at him, as if he hasn’t fully processed the threat. Then he throws his head back and laughs, all his eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, I knew I liked ya,” he says cheerfully. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. Tell Doctor Sinny dat I’ll work on sending da specialist over pronto, mkay? And in da meantime, he should tell me if dere are any updates or probbylems. Got dat?”

“I- yeah, sure,” Bravo says, taken aback. “Uh-”

“Great! You can go, now.” Papa Al sits back in his chair, waving his fingers. “Buh bye! Spank you! See ya next time!”

Well, that’s that.

Bravo steps out of the room almost in a daze, into the hallway where Atlas and bX are waiting. bX nods at him in greeting and leads them back out of the mansion, through the city, and to the gate before bidding them farewell.

Atlas waits until they’re on the flying machine back to Hels Tek to start pestering Bravo about his meeting with Papa Al. Bravo tries to relay the odd conversation the best he can, still trying to make sense of it himself. But he leaves out the part where Papa Al asked if he trusts Atlas.

Somehow, he doesn’t think Atlas would take that well.

~*~

“What? That’s it?”

Bravo jumps a little as Tyrannicide slams his hands on the conference table. Atlas sighs, looking almost bored as he waits for the other scientist to stop shouting.

“Are you fucking kidding me? All we get is some flimsy promise that he’ll send for a specialist, without even knowing who?”

“Dr. Tyrannicide, indoor voice, if you please,” Atlas says dryly. “I understand it’s not ideal, but-”

“It’s a rip off, is what it is,” Phantonym cuts in, her arms folded as she leans back in her chair. Her shoulders are hunched, jaw set. “I thought this guy was supposed to be our top sponsor!”

The tension in the room is palpable. Bravo knew that the rest of the portal team wouldn’t be thrilled by the news of their visit with Alisker, but he’s unsettled by all the hostility. It’s like they’re going to leap over the table at Atlas any second now. Surely they wouldn’t actually attack each other here- Hels Tek is better than that, right?

“Alisker is our top sponsor,” Atlas replies, giving Phantonym a stern look. “I’m sure he has his reasons for all the secrecy. All we have to do is be patient.”

“And what if this so-called specialist never even shows up?” L8R_H8R demands. He’s tense, hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles are white.

Atlas smiles, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, in that case, I suppose we carry on as we have been.”

H8R frowns. “At the rate we’ve been going, it’ll take years just to figure this data thing out, much less build a working portal from it,” he points out. “Isn’t Alisker’s patience with us already running thin?”

Atlas’s smile widens. “Yes, yes it is. So if I were you, I’d stop wasting time throwing fits over things beyond our control and get back to work. Do I make myself clear?”

The scientists mutter their agreement, a reluctant, “Yes, sir.” The tension dissipates, and Bravo remembers to breathe again.

It’s fine. This is fine. The specialist will come, they’ll figure out how Bravo is connected to Tango, they’ll finally be able to make a portal, and this nightmare will be over. He’ll go home and forget about this horrible place. He just has to be patient for a little bit longer.

It can’t take more than a few days, right?

~*~

Several days come and go, with no news.

Atlas is starting to get annoyed by how often Bravo asks if he’s heard from Alisker. But he can’t help it; he hates feeling out of the loop like this, feeling completely and utterly powerless. He tries to keep himself busy, but progress on the portal has screeched to a halt. The rest of his team is once again trying to teach themselves how to read and analyze data, the lab covered with pages and pages of code, and all his attempts to help are met with stiff rejection. Even just being in the room with them is getting increasingly uncomfortable; tempers are short, and there’s a lot of bickering.

The other scientists seem to tolerate his presence better. His assistance on the various projects at Hels Tek isn’t always necessary, but they don’t mind him hanging around to observe and ask questions. They seem to be in higher spirits than the portal team- probably because their projects aren’t stuck on the backburner, waiting for some mysterious specialist to show up out of the blue. So long as they’re being productive, they’ve got nothing to fight about.

At least, that’s what Bravo thinks until he walks in on a scientist throwing one of the interns against the wall.

“How many times do I have to fucking tell you?” the scientist snarls, a piece of paper clenched in his first. “Double check your calculations before showing them to me. If you can’t even do basic math, you’re-” He pauses when he notices Bravo, all his fury suddenly vanishing. “Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were dropping by today.”

The intern has quickly recovered himself, standing with a carefully composed expression.

“Right,” Bravo says uncertainly, a pit forming in his stomach. “Uh, sorry- I’ll come back later.”

He leaves before the scientist can protest, his heart pounding. He’s never seen violence used so casually around Hels Tek, the way it is elsewhere in Hels. The closest time was when Atlas had to snap Clear out of a breakdown, and even that hadn’t been done so lightly.

Atlas told him that Hels Tek was different. That it was better than the rest of Hels, that he’d be safe here. 

It’s… probably not that big of a deal. Everyone loses their temper from time to time. And Bravo can’t hold them to the same standards he would normally, because they’re still from Hels. Things just… work differently here. It doesn’t matter anyways; as soon as that portal is working, he’ll be out of here for good.

He just has to be patient.

~*~

Days turn into weeks.

~*~

“-informed me that they should have the entire lexicon fully transcribed by now,” Atlas says, his quick footsteps bouncing off the empty hall.

Bravo keeps pace with him as they make their way to the portal lab. “Yeah, well, that’s what H8R said last week-”

He breaks off when he hears a sudden crash. Behind one of the doors to another lab, he can make out the sound of furious shouting- two scientists he’s vaguely familiar with- and more heavy thunks and crashes.

Bravo turns to ask Atlas about it, but he’s already slipping inside the door. The sounds immediately stop. After a minute, Atlas comes back out, smoothing down the front of his lab coat.

“Just a little work dispute,” he tells Bravo with a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Right,” Bravo says flatly. He almost lets it drop there, but something prompts him to keep going. “Y’know, I- I’m not stupid. I know you guys are trying not to be so… so Hels around me. What, do you think a- a few harsh words and fist fights are gonna scare me off?”

“Of course not,” Atlas says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s true that my staff are attempting to be more conscientious than what’s standard for the rest of Hels, but I instilled those rules even before you got here.” He looks at Bravo from over the brim of his shades. “Contrary to what you might believe, we Hels players don’t all thrive on chaos and violence. Some of us would prefer a little more civility and order.”

“Oh, okay.” Bravo glances away, almost sheepish. “Sure, yeah. Sorry.”

Atlas hums noncommittally, continuing down the hall. “Now, where were we…?”

~*~

Weeks turn into months.

~*~

“I’ve told you, I’m working on it!” Tyrannicide snaps. “Who died and made you queen?”

“Well, someone has to keep us on schedule,” Phantonym shoots back, her eyes narrowed, “and it’s clearly not you!”

Bravo pinches the bridge of his nose. The two scientists have been arguing all morning about things he can barely follow. Something something, responsibilities, something something, timelines. It’s really getting hard to bear. If this is the best redstone lab that Hels has to offer, he shudders to think about how the others must function…

“I’m sick of your shit!” Tyrannicide pushes away from the lab bench, his chair toppling over with a loud thud as he jumps to his feet. “If you don’t like the way I do things then you can just-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence; a sword suddenly appears in his chest, splattering blood across the lab bench. Instantly, he vanishes in a puff of respawn smoke, the sword dropping to the ground with a clank.

Phantonym calmly leans over to pick it up. Shock crashes over Bravo as he processes what just happened, only two feet away from him.

H8R sighs loudly. “For godsakes…” he groans, rising from his chair. He shuffles over to grab the mop leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t you have taken this outside? Papers, ruined…”

Bravo finally finds his voice. “You killed him,” he says, stunned.

Phantonym rolls her eyes. “Sorry, yeah, I know that was rude,” she huffs, putting the sword back in her inventory. “But whatever, maybe he’ll come back with a better fucking attitude.”

Bravo isn’t sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, Atlas is quick to arrive, having noticed the death message in chat. He lectures Phantonym about ‘appropriate workplace conduct’ and then pulls Bravo to the side.

“I apologize for that,” Atlas says lowly. “With respawn anchors set up, death has little consequence, and as such, players can sometimes get careless- even those who should know better. But I can assure you, no one here would even think about harming you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bravo demands. He finds that hard to believe. “Why’s that? Has- has my sparkling personality endeared me to them?”

Atlas sighs; he has little patience for Bravo’s sarcasm. “No. I’ve simply impressed upon them that, if such an unsightly event were to occur, there would be dire consequences.”

“Oh.” Bravo swallows. “Uh. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Atlas says, stepping away. “Now, all of you, get back to work.”

Bravo runs a hand through his hair, pausing as he feels a few strands stuck together with still-warm blood. A lump forms in his throat, but he forces it down.

Business as usual at Hels Tek.

~*~

“I don’t know why this couldn’t wait,” Atlas grumbles, rubbing his eyes behind his shades. “I’m all for starting work early, but this is a bit excessive.”

“Because,” Bravo says impatiently, ushering him down the hallway, “every time I try to get a straightforward explanation with the rest of the team there, it always turns into an argument. And I’m sick of being out of the loop. I- I need to know exactly where we’re at with this project, okay?”

There’s only a few more months to go before Bravo will have been at Hels Tek for two years. Not that they’ll throw him an anniversary party or anything. Most players don’t pay much attention to the yearly passage of time; the only reason he even knows how long it’s been is because he’s made a point to keep track on his communicator.

(It’s hard to tell for certain, but Bravo thinks he might’ve stopped aging at this point. He wonders if Tango’s stopped aging too, or if he’ll look younger or older than Bravo when they finally meet.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter. Since all players are immortal, they usually only keep track of age until they reach adulthood. After that, players continue to age up to a certain point that’s completely random; a player who looks twenty might actually be decades older than a player who looks forty. Socially, there’s no difference- an adult is an adult.

But privately, Bravo had been hoping to physically age at least a little bit more, to look more mature than he does currently. Maybe it’d help others take him more seriously.)

Atlas hums noncommittally. “Do you not trust your team?”

Bravo snorts. “I trust my team to get distracted by bickering, that’s what. So- so that’s why I just need you to catch me up to speed on everything, before the rest of ‘em get in this morning.”

“Very well,” Atlas sighs, fishing his keycard out of his inventory as they stop in front of the lab door. He swipes them in. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’d be happy to-” He breaks off as soon as they step through the door, blinking in confusion.

The lights in the lab are already on.

Bravo’s immediately on edge, quickly glancing around. He deliberately dragged Atlas down here at the crack of dawn so they could get here before anyone else on the team-

“Hey, everybody.”

That’s a new voice.

Bravo cranes his head up in the direction the voice came from, and his heart jolts. A player is sitting up in the metal rafters of the lab, balancing on the thin beam in a crouch. Before either of them can respond, the player drops off the side- and catches himself in a rapidly-placed block of water, which disappears back into its bucket and into his inventory just as quickly. He straightens up, standing only a few feet away from them with his hands in his pockets.

The first thought Bravo has is, ‘What a show off.’ Seriously, what kind of guy places water in a redstone lab just to pull off a silly MLG trick?

The player in question is a man with a tall, lanky frame- made even more apparent by the baggy bomber jacket he’s wearing. The gray jacket is old but well-maintained, with patches on the elbows and the collar lined with matted white fur. Complimenting it is a pair of dark cargo pants tucked into trim combat boots. A clock hangs at his hip, suspended on a delicate chain.

His white hair is in the style of an undercut; shaved around the sides and back, with only the top left long and tied into a small bun. His whole left eye is glowing bright red- artificially red, like redstone- with a white iris. The skin surrounding it is thick and mottled, like some kind of burn or chemical scar, standing out in sharp contrast against his pale complexion. It’s impossible to tell the extent of it, though, because the entire lower half of his face is covered by a black mask.

Bravo’s never seen him before. But Atlas inhales sharply, eyes widening from behind his shades.

“Well, well, well.” Atlas spreads his hands, breaking into a broad grin. “If it isn’t Mr. Patho, of Patho’s Lair!”

“Oh, you know who I am?” the player, Patho, asks. It’s difficult to read his expression with so much of his face hidden, but he almost sounds amused.

“But of course.” Atlas is practically vibrating with excitement as he approaches Patho, coming to a stop in front of him. Bravo follows him cautiously. “Any competent redstoner knows who you are, Mr. Patho. It’s an honor to have you here, I don’t know why my staff didn’t inform me of your arrival-”

“I let myself in,” Patho says casually.

It takes a second for the meaning to register; he snuck into Hels Tek completely undetected.

“Ah.” If Atlas is disturbed by this information, he doesn’t show it. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise! It’s an honor to meet you,” he says emphatically, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Atlas, the head scientist here.”

Patho just stares at him, hands still in his pockets, making no move to shake Atlas’s hand. It seems to Bravo as if the temperature in the room has dropped by ten degrees.

Atlas, to his credit, recovers quickly. “Thank you so much for coming,” he says, tucking his arms behind his back. “I wasn’t aware that Alisker knew you.”

Patho nods. “Oh yeah, me and Papa Al go way back.” 

Now that Bravo’s getting a closer look, he realizes that Patho’s red eye is mechanical; he can see the little metal plates that make up the iris, moving to change the diameter of the pupil. That, combined with the scar around Patho’s orbit, mean it’s probably a cybernetic replacement.

Injuries that kill a player are healed upon respawn, but they occasionally leave a mark, depending on the nature and severity of the wound. The likelihood of retaining some sort of damage increases the longer a player has an injury without actually dying. Bravo’s seen players with all sorts of scars in Hels, but never one that’s missing an actual body part. He wonders what sort of circumstances could lead to an entire eye being permanently lost, and shudders.

“Well, we’re happy to have you,” Atlas says. Man, he’s really laying it on thick. “I’m certain with your help we’ll be able to-”

“So, this is the overworlder?” Patho interrupts, turning his keen, mismatched gaze onto Bravo. There’s something calculating in his expression, and the intensity of his robotic eye is a little disconcerting- like it’s evaluating Bravo on some level he can’t understand.

“My name’s Bravo,” Bravo says, feeling a spike of irritation. He folds his arms. “So Alisker sent you? You know uh, we talked to him about sending a specialist months ago. Like, almost a year ago.”

Atlas shoots him a warning look. Clearly, he holds this player in very high regard- for whatever reason.

But Patho shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m a busy guy,” he says, completely unapologetic.

Bravo’s jaw tightens. He’s trying really hard not to let his annoyance show, but this guy is quickly getting on his nerves. “I just don’t- what, he- he couldn’t just send a quick whisper, asking you to drop by?”

“No, actually.” Patho finally takes his hands out of his pockets, pushing up the sleeve of his left arm. The entire limb is mechanical- a prosthetic, Bravo realizes, just like his eye- and there’s a familiar screen embedded in his forearm. “I don’t get whispers anymore. I permanently disabled chat.”

He’s built his communicator into his own arm. And disabled the chat. In a world without an admin who can just replace his communicator if something were to go wrong.

Bravo stares at him. “Wh- why would you do that?!”

Patho gives him a curious look, huffing a laugh. Like Bravo’s some kind of dumb animal that’s doing something mildly amusing. “Sorry, that’s actually none of your goddamn business,” he says, tone deceptively light. “Now let’s get to work, yeah?”

Bravo’s too stunned to respond. But Atlas swiftly intervenes, sweeping an arm out towards the lab benches. “Of course! Our set up is right over there, Mr. Patho. Feel free to take a look at our progress thus far while I call the rest of our portal development team over.”

Patho simply nods and turns away, sidling over to the lab benches. Atlas seizes Bravo by the arm and leads him aside.

“Do you remember,” Atlas asks lowly, speaking through the clenched teeth of his grin, “how I told you that a long time ago, a very smart player used data analysis to figure out that Hels is made of two distinct realms fused into one?”

Bravo quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Patho is that player.”

“What?” Bravo jolts in surprise. “But that’d make him-”

“One of the oldest players in Hels, yes,” Atlas says, nodding. “I know he doesn’t look it; he stopped aging a long time ago. But trust me when I tell you that this player is ancient, and someone you do not want to cross.”

Bravo frowns. “Seems to be a running theme here, with the sorta people you work with.”

Atlas tilts his head. “Let me put it this way. If I had to choose between having Alisker or Patho as my enemy, I’d choose Alisker any day.” His grip on Bravo’s arm tightens. “You must be on your best behavior.”

“Okay, okay, jeeze!” Bravo huffs, shaking Atlas’s hand off. Despite his annoyance, he can’t deny the concern that Atlas’s words have instilled in him. This must be serious. “Relax, I’m- I’m not gonna do anything stupid.”

“I should hope not,” Atlas responds cooly, pulling up his communicator. “We can’t afford to waste this opportunity.”

Bravo manages not to roll his eyes. “Don’t have to tell me that,” he mutters under his breath as he turns away.

~*~

It only takes a few minutes for the other three to arrive. Introductions are a rushed affair, with far too much fangirling for Bravo’s taste. Apparently, Patho is some kind of celebrity in the redstone community here. Go figure.

Once everything’s settled down again, Atlas explains the situation to Patho in excruciating detail, with frequent interjections from the other scientists. They’re all so eager to prove how much they know about the subject. The hostility between them from the last few months has been all but forgotten; clearly, they wouldn’t dream of devolving into petty bickering in front of Patho.

If nothing else, at least this visit has given them a serious attitude adjustment.

Patho listens to them with rapt attention, speaking only to ask an occasional clarifying question. There’s absolutely nothing in his expression to give away what he’s feeling about the information. Certainly not the excitement Bravo might’ve expected, from someone learning that there’s a way out of Hels.

Maybe Patho’s always suspected. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Patho also spends some time looking over Bravo’s and Tango’s communicators- which makes Bravo more than a little nervous. Patho’s inspection goes beyond a cursory glance; he actually starts digging through data logs and memory banks, reading the embedded codes.

“Lotta early deaths, huh, Bravo?” he comments at one point, making Bravo flush.

To top it all off, Patho pops open a panel on his robotic arm and tugs out a little cord. He uses this to plug into each of the communicators for a few minutes, his expression blank as his cybernetic eye rapidly scans back and forth. It’s… a little disturbing to watch. By the time he finishes up and gives Bravo his communicator back, Bravo’s practically ready to snatch it out of Patho’s hands. He quickly stows it in his inventory while simultaneously trying to look as though he isn’t at all bothered.

Jury’s still out on whether he was successful or not.

“Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” Patho announces finally, after all these minutes of information-gathering.

They’ve all settled at the chairs by the lab benches now. Tyrannicide, Phantonym, and L8R_H8R each have notepads out. Atlas doesn’t, but he can’t disguise the interest in his eyes as he leans forward slightly in his seat.

“In the worlds outside Hels,” Patho starts, “you can make portals two ways; a nether portal to travel between overworld and nether, or a portal from your communicator to travel between worlds. In Hels, we can’t do either. But um, there’s actually a difference in how these mechanisms have been blocked here. Aha.”

“You see, buried deep inside every communicator’s memory is a command for creating a new world, and a command for traveling to an existing world- like, a derivative of the ‘summon portal’ command. These commands are locked on a Hels player’s communicator, just like, completely nonfunctional. No amount of tampering can activate them again, so one of these communicator portals has never physically existed in Hels.”

“Now, a nether portal, on the other hand, can still be created in Hels. The uh, the frames just don’t ignite. This is because they were designed to travel between two distinct realms that are now fused in Hels, so the portal gets confused. It’s like, you’re asking it to teleport you somewhere, but you’re already there. So it just crashes. But, theoretically, if you gave a nether portal in Hels a new destination, outside of Hels, you could trick it into teleporting you there.” He finally pauses, gaze drifting around the table. “With me so far?”

Eager nods from the scientists as they scribble down notes.

Bravo frowns. “So why hasn’t anyone successfully done that yet?” he asks.

Patho blinks at him. “It’s a paradox,” he says slowly. “In order to make a portal out of Hels, you need to anchor it to something outside of Hels. But in order to find something outside of Hels to act as an anchor, you need to make a portal out of Hels. So um, historically, there’s been no way for anyone in Hels to access anything from other worlds.” He shrugs. “Until you showed up.”

Atlas looks pleased. “So, you’re saying Mr. Bravo is the key to interworld travel?” His tone makes it clear he already knew that, but is now having it confirmed by a top authority on the subject. It must be extremely validating.

Patho nods. “Yeah, so player data is actually influenced by the world you spawn in. Sort of like, an origin ID tag. I could tell just from reading him that he’s not from Hels. All we have to do is use his data to create an anchor point to another world and link it to a nether portal.”

There are surprised and agreeable little murmurs from the scientists.

“Oh, genius-”

“Of course!”

“-yes, I see.”

“Uh…” Bravo clears his throat. “Hey, so- so as the aforementioned ‘he’, would this uh, hypothetical scenario be in any way painful or damaging? Or permanent? I mean, it’s not gonna- it won’t turn me into a portal, right?”

Patho waves him off. “No, no, it shouldn’t be. It’d be like um, a fingerprint or retina scanner. You’d just need a setup that can read your data and feed it to the portal, and it’ll ignite inside the frame.”

That’s something, Bravo supposes. “Okay… but we aren’t trying to go to just any other world, or my homeworld, we’re trying to find Tango,” he points out. “And- and we have no idea where he is.”

“Ah, you didn’t let me finish,” Patho says good-naturedly. “Based on what I can tell from this Tango guy’s communicator compared to Bravo’s, you can use Bravo’s data to create an anchor point to Tango, too.”

Oh, that’s all kinds of strange. “But why?” Bravo asks, throwing his hands up. “How exactly are Tango and I connected? Is it like that- that thing when one chicken egg spawns in multiples? Like, twins?”

Patho shakes his head. “No, you’d be completely identical if that were the case, and I can tell from your communicators that you aren’t.” He gives Bravo a considering look. “The real answer is, um... more complicated than that. You sure you can handle it?”

Well, that’s not concerning.

Despite his sudden unease, Bravo huffs a laugh. “Uh, yeah? I mean, that’s- that’s what we’re here to find out, right?”

“Alright, then,” Patho hums. He pulls a potion out of his inventory- night vision, Bravo thinks. “So like, imagine that this bottle is Bravo. And all his data- all his code, like everything that makes Bravo who he is- is represented by the potion in the bottle. And that potion is made up of different ingredients, right?”

Bravo knits his brows together. “Where are you going with this?”

“Just stay with me.” Patho pulls another bottle out, but this one is empty. “So when Bravo was spawned, he had all these different ingredients in him. But for whatever reason, the uh, the universe took certain things out and dumped them into a second bottle, making a new potion.” To demonstrate, he tips the potion into the empty bottle, letting some of the shimmering liquid pour into it. “That’s Tango.”

Bravo balks. “Wh- so Tango’s my clone?!”

Patho gives a rueful sigh, like he’s patiently trying to teach an actual child some very simple concept. “No, not a clone. Again, you’d be identical.” He scoops up some stray redstone from the lab bench and pours it into the second potion, swirling it around until the liquid turns reddish. “He’s a derivative of you, like some part of you that has been given its own sentience and form before getting spawned here. I don’t know why. But uh, I predict this is the case for every player spawned in Hels.”

There’s a moment of silence. The redstone particles in the potion eventually settle on the surface, like blood on water.

“Mr. Patho,” Atlas ventures finally, his tone careful, “surely you don’t mean... you’re suggesting we all have doppelgängers outside of Hels?”

“That’s right,” Patho says, putting the potions away. “It’s simple inductive logic based on the construction of the data of every player I’ve ever seen.”

The scientists don’t look quite so eager anymore, pens hovering motionless over notepads.

Bravo exhales slowly, running his hands through his hair. This is… so much more than he could’ve guessed. He’d thought there was a chance the universe purposefully spawned the worst players here in Hels, as some kind of preemptive punishment. But what Patho’s suggesting… it’s different.

“But... but why would the universe do that?” Bravo asks quietly.

“Like I said, I don’t know.” Patho scratches at his jaw over his mask. “Um, I’d need Tango here to do a direct comparison in order to figure out what ‘ingredients’ he’s made of. But we can estimate. So like, what similarities does Tango share with you?”

Bravo shrugs helplessly. “I- I mean- I’ve never met him, but-”

“Their tempers,” Atlas interrupts, his eyes widening with realization. “Mr. Bravo does a fine job keeping it under control, but when Tango got truly angry, he’d fly into an uncontrollable, destructive rage.” He gives Bravo a thoughtful look. “I was never certain how much of that was solely attributed to his blaze hybrid status, but now it seems to me that he got it from you.”

Something about that sentence rankles Bravo. He shoves it to the back of his mind.

“There you go.” Patho waves a hand. “Hels players are made of the worst parts of overworld players. Aha.” He winks. “Explains a lot, right?”

Bravo can only shake his head. “I just- I don’t understand how you can know all that just by looking at me and our communicators-”

“This is what you hired me for, right?” Patho asks, inclining his head. “It’d take way too long to explain. Look, trust my expertise or don’t. I get paid either way.”

“Apologies, Mr. Patho,” Atlas says quickly, “of course we trust your expertise. It’s just… quite a lot to take in.”

“Really?” Patho sounds genuinely surprised. “Seems pretty simple to me.”

Atlas’s smile is strained. “You mean to say you aren’t at all bothered by the concept of your existence being owed to some player in another world? That you’re nothing more than the most undesirable parts of them trimmed away and given shape, locked into an inescapable prison for the simple crime of existing?”

“Nope,” Patho says easily. “So I uh, I just foot the bill to Papa Al, right?”

The sudden change in topic throws Bravo for a moment. “Uh- what do you mean?”

“My payment,” Patho says, stretching his arms above his head before standing up. “Job’s done, so…”

“What?” Bravo demands, rising from his seat. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “That’s it? You- you’re leaving, just like that?”

“Yeah?” Patho chuckles, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Like, what else do you want, a kiss on the cheek? That’ll cost extra.”

Bravo feels himself flush. He’s not sure how much of it is from embarrassment and how much is from anger. “I thought you were supposed to be helping us open a portal,” he says, stalking up to Patho.

Atlas frowns at him. “Now, Mr. Bravo-”

“Well,” Patho says, tilting his head, “I already told you everything you need to know to open a portal to Tango.”

“Yeah, well,” Bravo snarks, glaring up at Patho, “knowing and doing are two very different things. We’ve waited months for you to show up, only for you to leave after ten minutes, are you serious? I- I mean, aren’t you gonna help us actually build the portal?”

Patho scoffs at him. “I’m a consultant, not a contractor,” he says, turning away.

Rage flares inside Bravo, like his blood’s turned to lava. “Hey! Don’t you have any idea how important this is?” He grabs Patho by the arm. “You can’t-”

Pain cuts across Bravo’s stomach, before he’s even processed that Patho’s moving. He sees the briefest glint of metal in Patho’s hand- some kind of blade- and something warm presses against his legs. He looks down and- oh. Those are his intestines. He’s looking down at his intestines, spilling from a neat slice that Patho has made through his abdomen.

All the air leaves Bravo’s lungs in a strangled gasp. He has a second to look up at Patho, who stares back impassively, those mismatched eyes cold and hard as stone, before Patho reaches forward with his other arm- the robot arm, easily pulled from Bravo’s grasp- and he plunges it into Bravo’s open body, grabs a fistful of viscera, and pulls-

Bravo sees a spray of red, then everything goes black.

He wakes up on the floor of his bedroom.

Oh. So that happened. Residual adrenaline crashes over Bravo like a bucket of cold water. Quickly he glances down, finding no sign of injury. This does little to calm him. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, and his hands are shaking as he scrambles for his communicator.

Bravo was slain by Patho.

What the hell.

Putting his communicator away, Bravo forces himself to take a few slow, deep breaths. Okay. He respawned in his room. He’s fine. The respawn anchor is now missing one little wedge of light. It almost seems to mock him, like a solitary eye. That’s less fine. It’s been so long since his last death, damn it, he thought he was done with the random murder stuff!

As he gathers his composure, rising to his feet, he finds that his shock is quickly giving way to anger. He doesn’t care how smart or famous Patho is, he’s not going to take this laying down. Hels players might be fine with casually killing someone every time they get on each other’s nerves, but Bravo isn’t.

All he’s asking for is some basic fucking humanity.

Grabbing his spare sword out of his ender chest, Bravo smacks the button on the wall and darts out the door. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. His feet swiftly take him back to the lab, the route subconsciously memorized after all the time he’s spent in this damn place, and he’s so angry he almost rips his keycard up as he swipes in.

“Hey!” Bravo shouts, rushing into the lab. “What’re you…”

He trails off. Patho is standing not far from where Bravo left him, casually talking to Atlas. His hands are in his pockets, his body language totally relaxed. There’s a splatter of blood across the front of his jacket. Atlas is smiling pleasantly and nodding.

Tyrannicide and Phantonym are hunched over the lab benches, comparing notes. H8R is mopping up the blood on the floor. Bravo’s blood. They all look up at his entrance, expressions disinterested, before turning back to what they were doing.

It’d be terribly unnerving, if it weren’t so infuriating.

Bravo storms right up to Atlas and Patho. “What’s going on here?” he demands furiously.

“Ah, there you are.” Atlas turns to him with a beseeching look. “Mr. Patho has agreed to stay and help work on the portal for a bit longer,” he informs Bravo, as if this is gracious news.

“Oh, has he?” Bravo rounds on Patho with a snarl. His grip tightens around his sword.

Patho shrugs, not at all concerned by Bravo’s very clear threat. “Your friend’s very persuasive.”

“Um, excuse me?” Bravo gives an incredulous laugh, made harsh with anger. “So- so are we just not gonna address what happened?!”

Patho chuckles. “Okay, okay. Here, I’ll use my words this time.” He stares directly into Bravo’s eyes, his cybernetic pupil constricting to match his natural one. “Don’t touch me again, or I’ll fucking kill you. Got that?”

The hair on the back of Bravo’s neck stands up. He can’t even respond, his voice dying in his throat.

Atlas takes the opportunity to grab Bravo by the arm. “Mr. Bravo, a word, please,” he says, steering Bravo away.

Bravo’s too stunned to argue. But once they’re at the other side of the lab, he finally finds his voice again. “Wh- are you kidding me with this?!” he snaps, not bothering to whisper. “This guy shows up out of nowhere after months and months of waiting, sneaks in unannounced, and then decides to fucking shank me just for grabbing his arm? And- and you’re okay with this? You actually want to keep working with him?”

“I do regret that such an unfortunate incident occurred,” Atlas says somberly, as if Patho killing Bravo in cold blood was some kind of freak accident. “I meant it when I said Hels Tek strives to be better than the rest of Hels in that regard. But you must understand that this is simply the way things are here. And with certain recent… revelations… realize that it goes beyond culture or tradition or just simple crassness. It’s in our nature, our very data itself.” He gives Bravo a knowing look. “Some are better at fighting that instinctual coding than others, but none of us will ever operate at the same level as an overworlder.”

Bravo pauses, his anger starting to fade. He hadn’t thought about it like that. He’d assumed most Hels players acted the way they did just because they could get away with it. Hels is a world with no rules and no admin to keep order, so common decency falls by the wayside. But he’d thought, he’d thought, that surely they were capable of being better? That there’d be some innate sense of humanity, deep down inside them, that would guide them if only they cared enough to listen.

But now. Now, it seems as if they aren’t capable of it. Not just because they don’t know any better, but because something inside of them is actively rebelling against it, spurring them on to ever more horrible, violent deeds. Bravo’s always felt he was different from Hels players, but now he has actual scientific evidence supporting the fact.

It’s… almost comforting.

“I… I guess that’s true,” Bravo says uncertainly. He puts his sword away, folding his arms. “But I mean- come on, do we really have to keep him around?”

Atlas smiles. “Patho is one of the most brilliant minds in all of Hels. He practically invented the field of data analysis. He is likely the only player who will be able to help us open a portal in a matter of years rather than decades. With your assistance, I’m certain we can figure it out.” He puts a hand on Bravo’s shoulder, and his grin sharpens. “I’m still willing to uphold my end of our deal. Are you?”

The reality of the situation sinks in slowly, a cold dread.

Bravo’s spawn is set here via respawn anchor. He’s outnumbered and outmatched. This is a secure facility that would be near impossible to escape from. With what Patho’s learned, they don’t need Bravo’s cooperation to create a functioning portal. They just need him, his physical data. And he knows they’d be willing to hold him here against his will to get what they want, to keep him trapped like some kind of experiment, like an animal.

Atlas is offering him a chance to not do that. To work with them willingly. And to maybe, just maybe, still go home at the end of all this. He doesn’t know if the portal will require his continuous presence to work. He doesn’t know if Atlas will let him leave, if he’s their only way out of Hels. But it’s a chance.

The only chance he’s got.

“Yeah,” Bravo says, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. I mean, we’ve come this far, right?”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Atlas says, releasing his grip on Bravo’s shoulder. “Now, play nice with Mr. Patho. Without his help, you just might be stuck here forever. Understand?”

Bravo’s throat tightens. “Loud and clear.”

~*~

“So I’ve got the blueprints done,” Patho announces nonchalantly, dropping a roll of paper on the table. “Have a look.”

Atlas quickly scoops up the blueprint, moving aside cups and bowls to make space. Bravo fights back a scowl and keeps eating his lunch.

The other scientists in the cafeteria have taken notice, whispering to each other excitedly and casting not-so-subtle looks at the portal team’s table. Patho’s arrival yesterday caused quite the stir, but this is the first time many of the other scientists are actually seeing him- though Bravo’s definitely noticed a few players snooping by the door to the portal lab.

After studying the blueprint for a moment, Atlas raises his eyebrows. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting such a compact design,” he says. His tone is a bit mixed; he’s clearly impressed with Patho’s work, but is irritated that the solution has turned out to be so simple. “Is this really all it will take?”

Patho nods. He seems content just to stand by their table with his hands in his pockets, making no move to sit down with them. “For the most part, yeah. I mean, you know, I’m not sure what kind of power source this thing will need yet but the data processing itself isn’t bad.”

“Power source?” Tyrannicide chimes in, looking over the blueprint with knitted brows. “What do you mean? Isn’t opening a portal like punching open a doorway? Once it’s open, it should stay open.”

“Well, normally, yeah,” Patho says, “but this portal isn’t supposed to exist. We can force the portal to open a door for us by feeding it coordinates, but it’ll be updating every tick. And every time it updates, it’ll check its input and output coordinates, and once it tries to process the uh, the coordinates from Hels, it’ll crash. Because, you know, portals aren’t supposed to exist in Hels. But, if we keep sending our own updates to it, like in a constant stream of power, it’ll keep resetting the checker. Sort of like an update suppressor. And um, that way, it’ll remain open and stable.” He taps the side of his head. “Aha.”

Small murmurs and exclamations of realization and agreement around the table. Bravo sets his bowl of mushroom stew down with a little more force than necessary.

“You said that all we needed to open a portal was my player data,” he accuses.

“To ignite it, yeah, but not stabilize it.” Patho makes a noncommittal noise. “It’s like…imagine you’ve got this door, right? And you want the door to stay open. But there’s, like, a big windstorm on the other side, constantly trying to slam the door shut. So you have to provide your own opposing force to hold the door open. Too little, and you won’t be able to stop the door from closing. Too much, and you’ll blow the door off its hinges, and the uh, the doorway will collapse. It’s gotta be just the right strength. And uh, it’s gotta be 100% reliable, too. No stalling or malfunctions.”

Bravo exhales through his nose. “Wonderful.” 

Atlas puts a hand on Bravo’s arm. “I’m sure we’ll find a solution when we get to that point,” he says mildly. “There are plenty of options for powering redstone, should be fairly simple.”

Grumbling, Bravo shifts over on the bench so he can see the blueprints a little better. He scans the diagrams with careful attention, from the portal frame to the rows of data processors all the way down to the input chamber, where he sees what’s clearly supposed to be a player standing on-

“Is that a redstone ore block?” Bravo asks, taken aback.

“Yeah?” Patho quirks an eyebrow. “What, don’t you guys have any redstone ore in this place?”

Bravo snorts. “Uh, no. There’s like, a whole system of double chests filled with redstone blocks if you-”

“No, no good, you need the ore,” Patho says, shaking his head.

Bravo frowns. “Why?”

“There’s a neat little trick you can do with redstone ore,” Patho explains. “It like, lights up when you step on it, right? Turns out it’s actually reading your presence. Like a player detector.”

“Wait, really?” Phantonym asks, leaning forward in her seat. “I thought the particles were simply reacting to kinetic energy.”

“That’s a pretty common assumption, but there’s more to it than that.” Patho idly scratches at the side of his mask. “To keep it short, something about redstone in its raw, unmodified form allows it to, like, take in and process information at a higher level. Of course, we ruin that when we mine it into dust. So you can either use a super complex player detector that’ll take weeks to build and cover up the entire floorspace of this lab… or we can use a block of redstone ore. It’ll be able to read Bravo’s data and transform it into a signal that we can feed to the portal- after it goes through a data processor, of course.”

Bravo is begrudgingly impressed. However, he can’t help but jab, “If redstone ore is that useful, why don’t you have any?”

“Oh, I do,” Patho replies matter-of-factly. “I keep plenty in my ender chest. But like, I don’t really use my own materials on consults like this, so…”

“Right,” Bravo says flatly, less impressed. This guy won’t even give up a single block of redstone ore for a job? What a jerk.

Atlas rolls the blueprint back up into a neat scroll. “Well, this is just splendid work, Mr. Patho,” he gushes. Then he grins at the rest of them. “Anyone up for some mining?”

~*~

After a few days of work, the lab looks like a completely different place.

Several chests have been stacked up and stocked with all the materials Patho’s design requires. In the meantime, he’s laid out where everything is going to go using outlines made of redstone dust. The lab benches are littered with blueprints- Atlas had the good sense to make plenty of copies- and pages of notes.

(There’s also a new wooden platform up in the rafters, only the bottom of it visible from below. Bravo thinks that might be where Patho is actually sleeping, strangely enough. It’s not like they don’t have any spare rooms.)

Once all the preparations have been made, Patho runs the team through the details of his design. The portal is straightforward enough; just an obsidian frame with a redstone line feeding into it. But after that, the outlines quickly become more complicated.

“So, there’s a lot of information in a player’s data, right?” Patho starts. “If we tried to feed it all into the uh, the portal, it would completely overload it. Like, it might try and do some crazy things. So we’ll keep it simple by giving it only the coordinates we want it to open up at. But in order to get those coordinates, we’ve gotta take all that raw data and filter it to get what we want. Aha.” He gestures vaguely at the redstone outlines. “That’s what this is for.”

Bravo squints at the outlines. “And- and what’s this repeater circuit for?”

Patho shrugs. “Well, right now, the coordinates we get from your ID tag lead directly to Tango. Like, the coordinates would open a portal up directly on top of him. Since you guys are trying to get something back from him, I imagine you’ll wanna be able to sneak up on him, right?” A knowing look glints in his eye. “So this circuit is gonna add about fifty blocks of distance in the X axis. Just so you’re not right in front of him when you come through the portal. That way, you keep the uh, the element of surprise.”

“Oh, I see,” Atlas murmurs approvingly. “Very clever.” 

Bravo folds his arms. “Unless Tango happens to be standing fifty blocks away from a cliff,” he points out.

Patho’s eyes slant upward in what might be a grin. “Guess you’re just gonna have to take that chance,” he says simply, before moving on. “So uh, after the signal passes through this circuit, it’ll-”

The lab door flings open with a metallic clunk.

Dr. Clear sweeps into the lab, hastily shoving his ID card back in his coat pocket. He doesn’t even look over or acknowledge them at all as he beelines towards the stack of chests. Mumbling under his breath, he pops open the nearest chest and starts rummaging around in it.

Patho blinks at the unexpected interruption. Atlas looks like he might have an aneurysm.

“Excuse me, Dr. Clear?” Atlas calls, his voice and smile incredibly strained.

“Huh?” Clear pauses, glancing over his shoulder. He seems mildly surprised to see them, like he didn’t realize anyone else was there. Typical.

Atlas folds his arms behind his back. “Is there any particular reason you’re interrupting us while we work with Mr. Patho?”

Clear stares dimly at them. “Who?”

If Bravo’s not mistaken, Patho’s face twitches a little at that.

“Mr. Patho,” Atlas stresses. “You know, Patho’s Lair?”

“Patho Slair?” Clear cocks his head to the side. “Huh. Slair. Kinda sounds like stair. Anyone ever call ya that? Patho Stair?”

Bravo manages not to laugh, but it’s a near thing. Atlas looks like he could strangle Clear.

“Anyways.” Clear goes back to digging through the chest. “Don’t you worry none, just ‘ave ta grab somethin’...”

“Is your own lab not sufficiently stocked?” Atlas asks pointedly.

That gets Clear’s full attention. He steps back from the chest, letting it slam shut, and looks around. “Oh. This ain’t me lab. Right, then.” Without another word, he turns on his heel and exists just as quickly as he’d come, leaving the lab in baffled silence.

Atlas turns to Patho with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for the interruption, Mr. Patho. Dr. Clear isn’t exactly-”

“It’s fine,” Patho chuckles, waving him off. “Let’s uh, let’s get back to work.”

‘Yes sir, Mr. Stair,’ Bravo thinks to himself.

~*~

“Okay, everybody,” Patho calls. “This is gonna be a simple test.” 

Bravo sighs impatiently. Putting together the actual redstone for the portal generator took much longer than it ought to have. For someone with such an impressive reputation, Patho barely contributed to the building process, the real laying-down-blocks part. Instead, he mostly supervised and criticized. Apparently, he’s very particular about how his redstone works.

It wasn’t made any easier by the number of times random scientists would stop by the lab with flimsy excuses just to talk to Patho. They’d always end up asking him to explain the project, which he was always happy to do (because he’s a massive show off, too big for his combat boots) so everything would grind to a halt.

They haven’t even properly hooked up the portal itself yet, as Patho insisted on testing their data processing unit beforehand. And of course, Bravo would voice his complaints if it weren’t for the little issue of Atlas not-so-subtly reminding him that the only way to get what he wants is by cooperating with Patho.

So. Here they are.

“All we’re gonna do is have Bravo stand on the ore block,” Patho continues, “and see how the data reads out. Just to make sure everything’s accounted for, so like, nothing extra accidentally travels to the portal. If we’ve done everything correctly, we’ll find the coordinates properly counted in these hopper clocks.”

Tyrannicide, Phantonym, and H8r are standing by with notepads at the ready. Atlas is watching from the side with a smile that might’ve been meant to be encouraging, if Bravo didn’t know him better.

Patho glances over at Bravo. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Bravo pushes down a sudden surge of irritation (as if he’s the one they’re waiting on) and steps onto the redstone ore block. Particles gather at his feet as the veins of ore light up. He watches the signal travel along the redstone line, like a lit fuse, and enter the data processing series.

Dispenser clocks tick and observers flash. The signal makes it way through the circuit before reaching the end of the line and fizzling out. The other scientists wait with bated breath as Patho checks the input coordinate hoppers. His expression betrays nothing.

“Alright,” he says finally, “so uh, the hoppers all filled to exactly two and a half stacks before locking. Can anyone tell me where the problem is?”

All three scientists’ hands go up. Bravo groans and puts his face in his hands.

~*~

“Okay, that’s ready to go.” Patho straightens up, dusting the redstone off his hands. “Bravo, stand on the redstone ore.”

“Alright, I’m standin’,” Bravo huffs.

Patho turns to the others. “I wanna stress again, if this works, the portal that generates is not gonna be stable. No one is going in or out of it, okay? I mean, like, we might see it only for a couple seconds, if we’re lucky. Everyone ready?”

Enthusiastic nods from the sidelines.

“Alright, here goes.” Patho stoops over and hits the button.

A piston extends, pushing a redstone block out to complete the circuit. The signal from Bravo darts across the newly created path, into the data processor. They all wait with bated breath as the signal inches closer to the portal frame-

The temperature drops, a static charge filling the air. Light flashes in the portal frame for just a second, just long enough for Bravo to process the color of it (or colors, rather; an ever-changing rainbow) before there’s a loud crack, and it’s gone, leaving behind an empty frame.

For a moment, the room is filled with stunned silence.

“Amazing!”

“I can’t believe-”

“Did you see that?”

Bravo finally finds his voice. “Oh, finally.” He jumps off the redstone ore block, pumping a fist in the air. Excitement courses through him like electricity, and the relief is overwhelming. “Yes! We’ve got a portal, we’ve got a portal- oh my gosh, this is fantastic!”

Atlas shakes his head. “We’ve got the means to create a portal,” he corrects, though he can’t hide how pleased he is.

“Yup.” Patho nods, his satisfied gaze sweeping over the redstone. “Now all that’s left is to set up a sufficient power source to maintain the portal once it’s open. Can’t overdo it, though, or the whole thing will blow up.”

Bravo exhales slowly. “Right, can’t forget about that tiny little detail.”

“I have some ideas,” Atlas says with a grin. “Rest assured, we’re in the home stretch now.”

~*~

One day, they wake up to find Patho gone.

Just disappeared in the middle of night, without so much of a word to anyone. Atlas speaks with Alisker over whispers for a while, but the crime boss has no further information and insists there’s nothing he can do. Evidently, Patho’s decided that they’re far enough along as to no longer require his assistance, and whatever business he has elsewhere in Hels is more important to him than witnessing the creation of a portal.

Bravo really doesn’t get it. But he can’t say he’s not happy about it.

Good riddance.

~*~

“How’s it looking?” Bravo asks, straining to see without leaving his redstone ore block.

Phantonym makes a noncommittal noise. “Still not strong enough.”

In their search for the perfect power source, they’ve decided to start simple. Redstone torches and levers weren’t enough, so now they’ve moved on to a full redstone block, hooked up to the frame with a bit of dust. After that wasn’t sufficient, they hooked up multiple redstone blocks around the portal before finally just building a complete frame around it. But it seems even that isn’t providing the power they need to keep the portal open for more than a couple seconds.

“Alright,” Atlas says, “tear it out. Cross redstone blocks off the list.”

Bravo steps off the ore block with a sigh. “Well, what now?”

“Hey,” Tyrannicide says thoughtfully, scanning his notepad, “Patho said that redstone ore is more powerful than the mined stuff, right? What if we…?”

~*~

“Hit the deck!”

The light inside the portal frame is swirling madly now, almost violently as the air fills with an electric humming. Bravo dives behind a lab bench just as an ear-splitting boom shakes the entire lab.

Once everything is still and quiet, Bravo carefully peeks his head back out. His stomach drops.

There’s now a large crater where their entire portal machine used to be. Everything’s gone; the circuits, the data processor, the hoppers. All that’s left is the obsidian frame, floating above the newly-formed hole as concrete blocks and miscellaneous redstone items litter the ground- including the redstone ore block they used to try and power it.

“Damn it,” H8R swears. “Overloaded the circuit.”

Phantonym rounds on Tyrannicide with a furious snarl. “You idiot!”

“I was just-”

“Stop it,” Atlas interrupts sharply, glowering at them from behind his shades. “We knew this was a possibility. Go get another copy of the blueprints, we need to rebuild.”

‘I’m in hell,’ Bravo thinks. ‘I’m literally in hell.’

~*~

“And now, we- we’ve gotta do all this work to find the perfect power source to keep the portal open. Not too much, not too little, but just right. Can’t use any kinda mob power because that can fluctuate, and if we’re off by even one tick the whole thing will collapse. After all the years of research that went into this project, the last step is just to power the dang thing and it’s taking forever!”

Clear hums, attention completely focused on the flying machine he’s working on. “Mmm, yeah, sounds tricky.”

“And- and the worst part,” Bravo continues, angrily pacing back and forth, “is that I’d only need it open for a couple of seconds to get back home! But because of this stupid deal with Atlas, I have to hang around until it’s stable enough for them to track down Tango.”

“Track down Tango?” Clear repeats, quirking a brow. He snorts. “Well, that’s really quite simple. Tango Tek’s in the south wing, innit?”

Bravo stops pacing. “What?”

“The blaze farm,” Clear says, squinting at one of the observers. “S’what Atlas said, anyhow. Now uh, d’ya mind handing me that-”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold up. A blaze farm?” Bravo whirls around, kneeling beside Clear and grabbing his shoulders. “You guys don’t have a blaze farm here, Atlas said the spawning conditions weren’t right for them.”

“For who?” Clear asks absently.

“For blaze!”

“What blaze?” 

“Wh- I dunno!” Bravo pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. This is why he doesn’t often hang around Clear. “You said something about blaze, and- and Tango, and the south wing-”

“The south wing?” Clear makes a dismissive noise. “Oh, that’s under renovation.”

Bravo pauses. “... still? I… huh.”

He remembers being told the south wing was under renovation when he first got to Hels Tek, years ago. He didn’t think much of it at the time. But he can’t imagine what sort of renovations would take so long to complete, for a facility as well-supplied and well-staffed as Hels Tek.

That’s… suspicious.

Clear coughs into his sleeve. “Right. Now uh, would ya mind handin’ me that piston?”

~*~

Bravo stands in front of the door to the south wing, hesitating.

Squinting through the slats in the door, he can see the hallway beyond it entirely unchanged from the last time he stood here, years ago. The uneasy feeling in his stomach grows stronger with every passing minute. But really, he’s not the one in the wrong here; if Atlas is keeping something hidden from him, after the years they’ve spent working together, it can’t be for any innocent reason. He tightens his grip on his ID keycard, taking a steadying breath, before swiping it into the dispenser.

The keycard is quickly spat back out from under the floor, but the iron door doesn’t open.

Oh, that’s a bad sign. He doesn’t have access to this doorway. Swallowing, Bravo puts the keycard away and pulls out his pickaxe. He knows there’s redstone in the walls that’ll notify the security system if any door is broken, but he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have to be quick.

Bravo breaks down the door, hastily placing it back up behind him before darting down the hallway. There are more iron doors lining the hall on either side; he quickly peers through these only to find them empty. Moving on, he finally stops at the final door at the end of the hallway.

There’s a sign next to this one that reads, ‘Tango Tek.’

Bravo’s heart is hammering against his ribcage. This is his last chance to back out, to claim that he was just curious but didn’t see anything besides empty rooms. To go back to their tenuous partnership, rife with tension and unspoken words, fighting to keep his head above the choppy water.

He lifts his pickaxe.

The room beyond the door is dimly lit by a couple carelessly placed torches, flickering against the checkered floor. Three of the walls are completely bare. The last one, facing Bravo, is acting as a facade for some sort of redstone contraption.

It’s a small glass enclosure, just big enough for a single player to stand in. The floor is made of soul sand, from which vines of wither roses sprout and curl haphazardly within the glass chamber. Among them are two short chains, as if broken, that hang limply at either side. The glass itself is stained with a dry splatter of something dark. There’s a dispenser embedded at one side, and a drained respawn anchor on the other. Three hoppers are arranged above the chamber, presumably connected to long hopper lines hidden behind the wall.

It hits Bravo suddenly. He’s looking at a farm; a kind of farm the likes of which he’s never seen before. But Clear had said there was a blaze farm-

“Well, well, well.”

Bravo whirls around, swapping his pickaxe for his sword.

Atlas is standing in the doorway with his arms folded neatly behind him, a wide smile fixed on his face. The light from the hallway behind him reflects in his shades, obscuring his eyes from view, his shadow looming long across the floor.

“I figured it was only a matter of time before Dr. Clear let something slip. I do wish you had come to me first.” His tone is deathly calm. “Though I suppose it’s my fault for leaving the farm in this state.”

Bravo raises his sword. “What is this?” he demands, though his voice comes out more fearful than angry. “Explain, now!”

Atlas seems unbothered as he steps fully into the room. “This was the best blaze farm Hels had ever seen, powered by a single blaze hybrid.”

“What are you- oh.” Bravo inhales sharply. “You mean Tango. He- he was in the farm? You put him in a farm?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been fully honest with you, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says with a rueful grin. “You see, Tango did work here for a couple years, but he wasn’t exactly gainfully employed. It took much trial and error, but eventually we were able to construct a fully automatic and extremely efficient blaze farm, just in the space you see here. It was a work of art, really. My crowning achievement.”

Bravo’s mind is reeling. “Tango never stole anything from Hels Tek, did he?” he realizes. “He just escaped. This whole time, you’ve been trying to track him down to catch him again, to put him back in-”

“Finally putting it all together now, are we?” Atlas hums. “Yes, the plan has always been to recapture Tango. He’s a clever devil; he waited until his respawn anchor was drained, and then drowned himself in his own blood.”

Horror seizes Bravo. He glances back at the enclosure, at that dark smear on the glass-

“What we never figured out, though,” Atlas muses, “was how he created that portal. That much of the story is true. It was solely his actions, his creation of the portal to… trade places, in a sense. I haven’t the foggiest idea how he knew about you and your connection, but clearly, he was able to utilize it. And once he had the chance, he took it.”

Bravo’s breath rings shallowly in his ears. It’s so much to take in- he never really knew how to feel about his missing counterpart. Second-hand accounts from the scientists didn’t paint the kindest picture, and he always knew Tango was responsible for getting him stranded here, but… 

“You should be happy, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas tells him earnestly. “This is good news for you. I know you’ve been worried about whether or not I’ll uphold my end of the bargain, once the portal is made. You’re worried that I’ll try to keep you here, against your will. But now I can tell you for certain that you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh, really?” Bravo spits. “And- and why is that?”

Atlas holds his hands up. “All I want is to get Tango back, so I can continue my work. And my work is here. My entire life’s aspirations, my purpose, is here.” His eyes flash from behind his shades. “The rest of the universe can rot for all I care. Once I have what I want, you can go home and leave this whole mess behind you, forever. You have my word.”

Bravo narrows his eyes. “Wha- why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because once we have a stable portal, you are of no further use to me,” Atlas answers cooly. “I have no reason to keep you here.”

That throws Bravo for a moment. He frowns, doubtful. “Not even as insurance? I mean, in case something happens to the portal?”

Atlas tilts his head. “To keep you here against your will is to risk you breaking out and causing further damage in retaliation. We’d also have to put in the time and effort to sustain you with virtually no benefit. No, better to let you go on your way. And in any case, I only need it open long enough to recapture Tango.”

Bravo swallows. “But if I help you catch him, he… he’ll be in that farm because of me.”

Atlas shrugs. “What does it matter? Tango is a mob hybrid- not a true player like us. Before we captured him, all he ever did was cause chaos and suffering wherever he went. At least at Hels Tek he was good for something.”

Bravo hesitates. “I don’t-”

“Besides,” Atlas continues smoothly, “it’s evident he didn’t give the same consideration to you. He took the first chance he had to switch places. For all he knew, you might’ve been a blaze hybrid as well. He had no issue sentencing you to his fate.”

It’s like a knife twisting in Bravo’s side. “You… you don’t know that,” he says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Atlas gives a bitter laugh. “Oh, come now,” he says harshly. “Do you really think he’d feel any sort of loyalty to you? Why, because you happen to have some data in common? From everything you’ve seen and experienced at the hands of Hels players, do you really think we’re capable of feeling anything besides greed and spite and hatred? Oh, you are lost. You’re letting your overworld sensibilities get the better of your sound judgement.”

Atlas spreads his arms wide, black lab coat swishing around him, his grin manic. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here, Mr. Bravo,” he declares. “This is the nature of Hels. It always has been, and always will be. We were always going to hurt each other, to use each other- it’s how we were fucking made. There is nothing you can do to change that. Tango belongs here, and you don’t. Whatever else happens is none of your fault or concern.”

Bravo’s grip on his sword wavers. He knows he shouldn’t help Atlas. Deep down, he knows. Living in a farm must be a miserable existence for a player, one that he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.

Except…

Is it really the same if the player isn’t really human? If the player is hardly more than a monster? Hels players are different, and mob hybrids even more so. Tango didn’t care about what would happen to Bravo when he swapped their places, didn’t care that he’d be stranding Bravo in this terrible prison forever. If he cared, he would’ve come for Bravo by now. But he wouldn’t risk his own safety, his own freedom, in order to save Bravo.

So why should Bravo? Why should he risk his one chance to go home just to protect an evil doppelgänger who couldn’t care less about him? Why should he have to keep suffering in this world as punishment for crimes he didn’t commit?

Tango’s had nearly ten years outside of Hels- ten years that he stole from Bravo. There’s no getting those back. But Bravo can make sure it ends here; he can finally right this wrong and get back to his life.

“Now,” Atlas says lowly, having once again regained his composure. He looks at Bravo over the brim of his shades. “Are you going to help me open a portal, or not?”

Bravo takes a final look at the empty farm. Then he puts his sword away.

“I’m in.”

~*~

Bravo stares at the portal in shocked silence.

It’d only taken a few more days of testing for them to find the right power source. Blaze powder, of all things. Now that they aren’t hiding the existence of their nearly-infinite blaze rod stockpile from Bravo, Atlas suggested they try it. And lo and behold, it turned out to give off the perfect amount of power.

They’ve set up a circuit of glass tubing around the portal frame, inside of which the blaze powder flows along in a steady stream. The constant movement provides endless updates to the portal, preventing it from ever catching up to the fact that it shouldn’t exist.

The portal ignited right away, lighting up with a mixture of red, yellow, and green. The colors are holding constant rather than shifting and changing like they did in prior attempts, and Bravo can feel with certainty that Tango lies somewhere beyond it.

“Okay, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas murmurs, watching the portal intently. “Go ahead.”

Holding his breath, Bravo steps off the redstone ore block. The portal doesn’t change, colors still lazily swirling about in its frame. He lets out a sigh of relief.

Atlas nods. “Alright, shut it off.”

Tyrannicide gawks at him. “But it’s stable-”

“Now.”

He quickly shuts the portal off, hitting the button that pulls the redstone block back out of the circuit. The signal dies, and the portal extinguishes.

Atlas rounds on Tyrannicide with a tight grin. “Need I remind you that we don’t know who else is in the world that Tango’s currently inhabiting? The last thing we need is one of them to discover the portal sitting idly. We’d completely lose our advantage.”

“Right. Sorry, sir,” Tyrannicide mutters.

Bravo stares longingly at the unlit portal frame. It was right there. He could’ve reached out and touched it…

“Chin up, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says mildly, putting a hand on Bravo’s shoulder. “Now the final preparations can begin. Everyone, take the rest of the night off. Meet me in the conference room first thing tomorrow morning to discuss our plan of attack.”

“Yes, sir.”

Atlas looks at Bravo out of the corner of his eye, smiling. “You’ll be home soon.”

Bravo nods. “Yeah, I know.”

~*~

“Are you ready?” Atlas asks, his quiet voice almost lost in the anxious chatter of the lab.

Bravo exhales slowly. “Yeah.”

“Have everything?”

“Yup.” Bravo’s checked his inventory no less than five times in the last three minutes.

“Remember the plan?”

“In my sleep.” Like they haven’t run through it enough times over the last few days.

“Good. Said your goodbyes?”

Bravo snorts. “Oh, yeah, sure. It was super heartfelt. Tears were shed.”

“Mmm.” Atlas is unamused. “You know, I recall a certain blaze hybrid liked to use sarcasm, too…”

“Not helping.”

“Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine. Once you step through this portal, you never have to return to this place ever again. Help us with this one thing, and we’ll be out of your hair forever.”

“I know. Let’s- let’s get a move on, huh?” 

“Very well.” Atlas lifts his voice to address the rest of the room. “Attention, everyone. We’re activating the portal now. Everyone in formation. Yes, yes, you too- no, you’re following Dr. Tyrannicide in, remember? No, not you- you’re all with Dr. Phantonym. There you go.”

Bravo makes a noncommittal noise. “Not instilling a lotta confidence…”

Atlas gives him a dry look. “Alisker didn’t select them for their intelligence, but they’ll serve us well when it comes to dealing with Tango.”

“Right.”

Atlas turns away. “Dr. H8R, start the countdown, if you please.”

“Yes, sir. Portal launch in ten… nine… eight-”

“Oh shit. Oh fuck.” It’s starting to sink in. Bravo’s leaving- he’s really, really leaving Hels.

“-seven… six-”

“Having second thoughts?” Atlas asks, his tone almost teasing.

“- five…”

Bravo scoffs. “What, you kidding? I can’t-”

“... four… three-”

“-wait to get out of here.”

“- two…” 

Atlas hums. “About time, isn’t it?”

“... one.”

“You’re telling me,” Bravo breathes.

“Initiate.”

H8R presses the button. The piston extends, pushing the redstone block into the circuit. Bravo’s signal courses along the redstone line like it has every other time they tested this, filtering through the data processor and sending coordinates to the portal.

The frame ignites. A familiar tricolor light floods the room; swirls of red, yellow, and green. A hushed silence falls over the room as Bravo slowly, carefully, steps off the redstone ore block. The portal holds- of course it does, they’ve tested it enough. He faces the portal, heart pounding, tears inexplicably gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Good luck, Mr. Bravo,” Atlas says with a smile.

Bravo takes a deep breath and steps into the portal.

~*~

Somewhere in Double Life, a player steps out of a portal.

The sunlight is nearly blinding. For a second all he can do is stand there, blinking, one arm braced on the obsidian frame behind him as his eyes slowly adjust. The portal’s still stable, he notes absently; on this side, the light inside the frame is blood red.

He takes in his surroundings. He’s standing in some kind of field- wheat, he realizes belatedly. It’s been so long since he’s seen this much wheat. It’s growing along rolling hills that are otherwise covered in lush green grass, occasionally dotted with great big oak trees. The blue sky above him is peppered with fluffy white clouds. A gentle breeze plays with his hair, and the sun is shining high above him.

It’s beautiful.

He can hear animals nearby; he turns his head and sees a pasture filled with cows, another with sheep and goats. There’s one with pigs, and a little coop with clucking coming from inside. Somewhere nearby, a horse neighs loudly. He scans the horizon and sees a winding path that cuts through the wheat field, leading up to a house- some kind of modest, rustic farmhouse. A ranch, maybe.

Taking a shaky breath, he pulls out his communicator to check which world he’s on. As he does, he catches the last message just as it fades from chat.

Bravo has joined the game.

~*~

[in-death-we-fall]

Aesthetics of Hate

This is the House of Nine. There is a horror that echoes through its walls. There is a horror that shifts and broods. A horror that coils itself into a moment of truth. This is our house. We have heard it sing.

It’s started again, hasn’t it? That’s why we’re back. That’s why we’ve… changed.

Back? Listen.

We never left.

Slipknot’s drug, alcohol and ego problems are history. No longer at war with each other, the only struggle now is finding a way to finish it.

Words: Ken McIntyre. Pics: Steve Brown.

Aka the one that aged like milk. Many thanks to @incredizort for sharing your collection. (docs link)

The are the village people of the damned, a psychedelic terror circus populated by depressed clowns, obsessive-compulsives, misanthropes, cyborgs, droogs, ghouls, and goblins. Their sound is a barrage of noise and confusion, a bundle of hiss and the dynamiting of mountains. They look like escaped mental patients on Halloween, and their demeanor vacillates between grandiose and openly hostile. They are Slipknot, and they are legion.

Since 1995, these nine creatures of latex and bone from the fertile plains of Des Moines, Iowa, have lorded over their dysfunctional kingdom of maggots and problem children with shaky hands that have often succumbed to their own wretched excesses. As the band went from strength to strength, from the runaway freight train of their 1999 self-titled debut album to the embittered, embattled success of 2001’s Iowa and their surprisingly tuneful comeback, 2004’s Vol. 3: (The Subliminal Verses), Slipknot scaled unheard-of heights for an extreme metal band, snapping up Gold and Platinum albums, winning Grammy awards, infiltrating the mainstream like sinister double agents.

But none of it came easy, and lurking behind the mask was a band at war with itself; a band riddled with drug, alcohol, and ego problems. In 2005, the levy finally broke, and Sipknot took a much-needed break, the various members healing, mending fences, and exploring other creative avenues. Singer Corey Taylor and guitarist Jim Root returned to Stone Sour, drummer Joey Jordison played with a myriad of bands, from Korn to Metallica, and drummer and visual artist Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan produced the revealing ‘Knot-doc Voliminal: Inside The Nine, among other projects.

But they could not avoid their fates forever, and so Slipknot return with a roaring new album, All Hope Is Gone, which pits a burgeoning retro-thrash metal obsession and their recent flirtations with melody against their original vision of pure, bloodlusting aggression and brutality. And with this latest dispatch from the abyss comes the expected media saturation, as well as an endless arc of tours and festivals and television performances. It is during the brief calm before the storm that Metal Hammer catches up with Slipknot, rehearsing their new set at Wells fargo Arena in downtown Des Moines.

Slipknot (left to right): Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan, Chris Fehn, Craig Jones, Joey Jordison, Paul Gray, Mick Thomson, James Root, Sid Wilson Corey Taylor

They say it’s what’s inside you that counts.

That’s what scares me.

It’s in all of us

It’s what binds us that makes us clash. It will happen again.

We’re twisted pieces of the same puzzle. Nine faces that speak with one voice.

The voice of madness…?

Is it normal to be practising in an arena? Shawn ‘Clown’ Crahan (percussion): “It’s not normal, but it’s not surprising at the level we’re at. It was my idea to do this, to practise in the small room and get it tight, and then to come out here and get the feeling of the arena again. Otherwise, you’re practising in people’s houses, and we’re nine brothers. Imagine nine brothers with nine families and everybody running with different crews, and all having different morals and standards and spiritualities. Imagine that fuckin’ insanity. So this makes sense.”

Des Moines had a series of floods recently. Did they affect the band at all? Corey Taylor (vocals): “Not really. I spent a couple days running around saving my friends. Everybody I knew with the exception of just a couple people lived on the flood plain, so I was just going out and helping people get the fuck out of there. I had a house full of people for a week.”

For years now, there have been allegations that you guys all hate each other. Is the band still dysfunctional? Joey Jordison (drums): “Yeah, we are dysfunctional. But I mean, we all grew up together. Me and Mick [Thompson (sic), guitar] are like, best friends, and I used to detest that guy. We fuckin’ hated each other, man. And Shawn, me and him are probably the closest brothers in the whole band, but we probably get along the least because we love each other so much, and we control a lot of what goes on in Slipknot. We’re constantly butting heads. I remember right before Ozzfest, you could just cut the tension between me and him with a knife, it was so thick, and one day I left practice (sic) all pissed off, and I was saying, ‘Fuck off, I think I’m quitting.’ There we were, we just got the ticket, we were on our way to making it. That’s how fuckin’ stressed out we were. And literally – he’s a lot bigger than I am – Shawn flipped his kit over, came over to my drumset, ripped my stuff down and held me by the fuckin’ throat, and I grabbed his throat and went to punch him, and then the whole band dogpiled us. We’ve had lots of fights like that, real fistfights. But even though we still get into fights, we don’t let them last that long anymore. The band is just so intense. I mean, we’ve got nine extreme personalities here.”

That reminds me, on a scale on (sic) one to 10, how nuts is your DJ, Sid? He just told me that he’s a cyborg, and I think he really means it. Joey: “One to 10? Like, 13. Yeah, he’s crazy. You take 72 hits of acid in one weekend, it’s gonna fry your brain up a little bit.”

How do you guys balance all the side-projects with Slipknot? Joey: “It’s fuckin’ simple. Slipknot comes first.”

So it didn’t take any convincing to get everybody back to do a new album? Joey: “Well, it usually happens when the other bands sorta run their course. Certain people in the band decide not to do anything, they just chill out until the next Slipknot record. Me, I do a lot of work with other bands, but Slipknot’s my priority, and I’m glad to be back playing with these guys. The first day when we started rehearsal, usually people are laidback (sic), it was like headbang city man, and we were like, ‘Let’s just get out metal necks, let’s get that shit out of the way.’ It feels great, man. I’m happy.” Corey: “ I was completely stoked to do it. I’d actually started thinking of it and preparing for it on the Stone Sour tour. I just started filling notebooks with ideas. It got to the point where I had two notebooks full of stuff, and I was just ready to go. So as soon as the music was written and the demos started floating around, I was just like, ‘OK, this fits here and this fits here.’ I wasn’t rushing around to write lyrics, which a lot of guys do. I was very prepared and not only was I saying everything I wanted to say, but I was doing it in a way I was ecstatic about. I knew I wanted to go heavier, and I knew at the same time that I wanted to balance that with this melodic side that we had really tapped into. And the proof is there. I think this album is the best thing we’ve ever done, to be honest. I think it really shows the growth of the band and the maturity. But it’s still chaotic and heavy, but it’s still got those moments where you just go, ‘Holy fucking shit!’ Not only is it good, but the more you listen to it, the more you find. There’s a lot of layers, and that’s something that gets lost on a lot of people. There’s just so much thought and so much meaning behind everything we do. It’s not just shock for shock’s sake.”

What’s the theme for All Hope Is Lost (sic)? Umm, hopelessness by any chance? Corey: “It’s not a blatantly political or social album, and it’s not a blatantly angry album. I think the overwhelming theme, for me, is that none of us are the same, but none of us are different. We may change as people, but if we use the same energy to try and solve different problems, nothing is going to get accomplished. And that’s something that I think is lost on a lot of people.”

What was it like having Dave Fortman as a producer for this one? Joey: “Dave was great. It’s not like when we were recording with Rick Rubin – he was like an oracle. He would make these little tweaks from his house. He’d sit in this little library in his house, he’d sit there cross-legged with these prayer beads and he’d get a vibe, and he’d tell the engineer what to do. That was a weird way to record. But Dave, he was there every hour, every day. When we write songs, we tend to write really long like, [Metallica’s] …And Justice For All- type songs, nine or 10 minutes long. So we’d record the song like that, and Dave would help us chop it down. The thing with Dave is, that guy knows his tones. I finally got the best drum sound in my life. The guitar sound, the bass, the percussion… finally, we’ve got the Slipknot sound I’ve been wanting to hear my whole life.”

You’ve got new masks and new outfits, do you feel constrained at all by them? Corey: “No. We don’t only have these, but we have actual outfits that we put together ourselves. They’re still cohesive, but they’re a little more individualistic. We had started doing that on the last album. It’s part of our evolution. If you’re not evolving, you’re dying. No matter what the fucking fans on the websites say, nobody wants to see the same fucking shit over and over again. This time around, we felt it was very important that we are represented as individuals and not just as a band, as pieces of a puzzle. The new mask and outfits range from outrageous to very subtle. It’s a reflection of who we are. But we also kept the boiler suits, because we like to appear as a unit.”

You guys got saddled with the ‘nu metal’ tag early on. Obviously at this point you’ve overcome it… Corey: “There were a couple of bands that were good and that had a really good attitude. Snot comes to mind. That was an amazing band; I loved Snot. (hed)P.E. – their first couple of albums were amazing, because they had so much attitude, and it was so different. But then you had bands like Limp Wristed and all that crap, where it just got so watered down; the P.O.D.s, fuckin’ bands like that, where there was zero talent going on. It was frustrating being caught up in that, but at the same time, people don’t want to think outside of what they already know. They want their opinions forcefed (sic) to them. So if a magazine comes out and says we’re nu metal, than (sic) that’s what they’re going to say. It took us a long time to change people’s minds. We’re just a metal band. The people that wanted to write us off as a nu metal band weren’t our fans, they just didn’t know what to call us. We just got stronger and stronger and more willing to experiment and so they just didn’t know what we were. In that respect, we sort of created our own genre, and there’s a lot of bands that kinda take cues from us now. It’s kinda weird.”

Slipknot broke the ceiling for extreme metal bands making it in the mainstream. Did it shock you when it was happening? Corey: “At the time we didn’t even think about it, we were just real busy working. We were literally on the road for 18 months and saw home for maybe three weeks in that entire time. We were gone forever. But we knew that was going to happen, so we just put our heads down and did what we had to do, because we just refused to lose. So once we got that done we had time to take a breath. We were getting ready to start on the Iowa tour, and we just turned around and were like, ‘Woah! Look what we did. We’re fucking huge!’ We were playing this place that’s not even there anymore, it was called the Bronco Bowl in Dallas. It was set up like a mini-arena and it was just fucking gagged, fucking jammed with people. I remember walking out on stage and thinking, ‘Are we opening up for somebody? Where did all these fucking people come from?’ They knew every word, they knew everything, I remember coming off stage and just having this amazing smile on my face. I was like, ‘Something’s different. We’re not an opening band anymore.’ And I don’t think we’d ever be again, unless we were opening for somebody like Metallica. It was insane, it was probably the best feeling I’ve ever felt in my life.” Joey: “It didn’t happen overnight, because we had to work so hard for it but… it happened overnight. We went on Ozzfest, and three weeks into it we’d sold 150,000 records. Every time we played, everybody – every fucking band, Black Sabbath included – was out there watching us. And we’re out for blood, we fucking hate everybody, just ‘Fuck you!’ That’s always been the Slipknot mentality. We love a lot of other bands, we love a lot of different music, but when it comes to us playing, we just don’t care. It’s your ass. People think it’s arrogant, and it is. We believe in our craft. We believe in Slipknot.”

The voice of the madness perhaps

It’s the nature of madness – it’s always searching for a brave face.

Always changing…

…always the same

It seeks its own martyrdom…

…and to be reborn

Yeah, very fucking profound. Don’t get mad, get eaten.

You want to give food for thought?

It’s just for the food for the maggots.

Th-that’s all, folks.

Is it tough accepting the fact that you have to wear a mask for the next year? Joey: “No, not at all. I’m ecstatic to be back and playing with the guys again. It’s home, man. We take breaks because Slipknot is not just music, it’s a force, it’s a lifestyle. It’s also like being in jail. You’re constricted. You have to be on your game every night to be in this band. The stuff is not easy to play anyway, but we’ve got the whole stage performance, playing in masks, it’s what every band goes through, but with nine guys it’s very intense. I mean, look at this – all nine guys are still together. All nine original guys are still here. What other band can say that?”

So, has anybody ever tried to get out? Joey: “No, no one ever has. That’s why at the end of a 15-month tour cycle, we’re just like, let’s take a break, work on some other projects, just relieve a little stress. But when we come back to Slipknot, it’s on, man. There’s no fucking around.”

So what can we expect from this next tour? Clown: “For one thing, we’re musical, man. I play the fucking drums, so get used to it. I’ve earned the right, I’ve done the time, I’ve been on the mountain with the kung fu masters, learning. If you can’t accept that, go play with the kids’ toys. I’ve worked really hard on my art for this one. I got my boy-scout medals and I’m in the deep woods with no tools, no tent, no nothing, and we’re playing survival, man. Just know that I’m the guy who eats the fucking shit raw, man. If there’s an animal, I’ll fucking eat it. This is fucking Slipknot. That’s what you can fucking expect.”

Is Slipknot meant to last forever, or do you have to write the end of this story? Clown: “You nailed it, man. I am in more pain than anyone could possibly ever know, because I have to find a way to finish this.” Joey: “I don’t think it’s our last record at all, but there’s something seriously going on with this record, that’s for sure. It’s like Friday the 13th Part IV: The Final Chapter. It’s a climax.”

Is Slipknot like Kiss, where you could lose a member and just find somebody else to wear his mask? Clown: “No. If I left this band, we’d be done. If Joey Jordison left this band, we’d be done. All of us, if any of the guys in this band leave… See, it’s been out of our hands for a long time, since 1998. The world is just too dumb, too anti-art, to realise how important this is, to actually accept the truth that yes, if I left the band it’d be over. There could never be a drummer to replace me, man. We are The Nine. There is no one else.”

Nine long, tense, and occasionally violent hours later, Slipknot begin to slink out into the inky-black, dead-still Des Moines night. It’s a mere week until they begin headlining the Mayhem tour in the States, and that’s just the beginning. Once this album hits the streets, it is unlikely that any of them will see their homes again for at least a year, and probably longer. Although the band harbours the expected anxieties about their long-awaited return to the metal arena, the sprawling expansive All Hope Is Gone will probably be their biggest album ever. At this point the eldest members of the band are now approaching 40, while their fanbase still hovers around 18, and that’s the same sort of 18 Alice Cooper once sang about: the confused, angry, half-a-boy, half-a-man kind.

If any of The Nine hoped to escape their fates as the ringleaders of the tormented, those hopes are now dashed.

“Man, it’s fucking embarrassing,” Clown admitted earlier, when we asked him how it felt to be a dad playing teen-rage anthems.

“I’m just glad I’m not alone in this, with this fucking-metal-fucking-arena-rock-fucking-stage-pass-interview-fucking-photoshoot shit. I don’t care about it. Yes, my art has grown into a way of life, yes, there’s a lot of people that live their lives by it, but I’ve always told people, I don’t want to be on the cover of Metal Hammer, I want to be on the cover of National Geographic. I’ve always said that. I’m gonna be on the cover of Metal Hammer anyway, because that’s just what I fucking do. But I want to take you all on another journey, a fucking life journey, a painful journey. There’s a reason why Slipknot gets the people we get: because they’re lost. They’re lost, and they find their way to us. It’s like a cult, man,” he says, staring a hole right through us.

“A cult of fucking pain.”

There are those who say hope springs eternal. They have obviously never spent a day with Slipknot.

A Stitch In Time

A bluffer’s guide to The Nine.

92: Drummer Shawn Crahan and bassist Paul Gray begin playing in a band together.

95: Joey Jordison joins Shawn and Paul, form Meld with guitarists Donnie Steele and Josh Brainard, and singer Anders Colsefini.

96: Donnie leaves the band due to religious beliefs and is replaced by Craig Jones. Meld change their name to Slipknot and begin wearing grotesque make-up and costumes. Craig Jons switches to sampler and Mick Thomson joins on guitar. Slipknot release their first self-released album, Mate.Feel.Kill.Repeat., on Halloween.

97: Corey Taylor replaces Anders on vocals. Chris Fehn joins the band as percussionist. Slipknot start wearing their trademark boiler suits and numbers.

98: DJ Sid Wilson joins the band. They sign to Roadrunner Records.

99: On June 29, the band releases Slipknot, their ‘official’ debut album, and join the Ozzfest tour.

00: Slipknot is certified Platinum.

01: Slipknot release their second album, Iowa, and do the Ozzfest tour again.

02: The band take a break, Corey Taylor revives Stone Sour, Joey Jordison forms Murderdolls. Slipknot attempt to write a follow-up to Iowa, but struggle with inner-band conflicts. Rumours of the band’s imminent break-up start to circulate in the media.

03: Slipknot rally and begin recording new album with producer Rick Rubin.

04: Vol. 3: (The Subliminal Verses) is released. It quickly goes Platinum. Yet another Ozzfest tour follows.

06: Slipknot win their first Grammy award in the category of Best Metal Performance for Before I Forget. Voliminal: Inside The Nine, a self-produced DVD documentary, is released.

08: All Hope Is Gone released. Chaos ensues.

Project Revolution

Slipknot members are known for their many side projects. Here’s a crib sheet.

Stone Sour

Corey Taylor (vocals) Jim Root (guitar Stone Sour were formed back in 1992 by Corey Taylor and have existed in one form or another ever since. The alt-metal/grunge band have released two albums on Roadrunner Records (Stone Sour in 2002 and Come What(ever) May in 2006), and have been nominated for a Grammy award three times. The band are currently on hold in light of the new Slipknot record, but plans for a third album are in the works.

Murderdolls

Joey Jordison (drums (sic)) A horror-themed glam-punk band with a penchant for fishnet tights and make-up formed in 2002 by Joey Jordison, the Murderdolls also featured former Frankenstein Drag Queens frontman Wednesday 13. The band released their debut album, Beyond The Valley Of The Murderdolls in 2002 and played together sporadically over the next two years. The band are currently on hiatus, and when asked about the possibility of further recordings, Joey stated: “There might be another album. We’re thinking about it.”

Ministry, etc

Joey Jordison (drums) During his off-hours, Joey keeps busy by filling in on drums for several notable acts, including nu metal pioneers Korn, who he played with at the 2007 Download Festival, Metallica, (Download 2004), and Ministry, who he toured with in the summer of 2006.

DJ Starscream

Sid Wilson Sid Wilson’s day job is as a leading Jungle musician. As Starscream he’s released a host of singles and remixes on the Japanese label N20.

Dirty Little Rabbits

Shawn Crahan (drums) Shawn’s other side-project is a swirly mix of psychedelia and 90s style alt-rock. The band has yet to release an album. Dirty Little Rabbits supported Stone Sour on their 2006-07 US tour.

Dum Fux

Corey Taylor (guitar, vocals) A tongue-in-cheek cover band that plays everything from Flock Of Seagulls to The Stooges. Current status: active.

Audacious P

Corey Taylor (vocals, guitar) Perhaps the world’s only Tenacious D cover band. Currently on hiatus.

To My Surprise

Shawn Crahan (drums) A sun-dappled 60s rock-style band, To My Surprise were signed to Roadrunner Records and released their debut, self-titled album in 2003. It was executive produced by Rick Rubin. The band are on hiatus.

Roadrunner United

Joey Jordison (drums) Paul Gray (bass) Jim Root (guitar) This was a one-off album project put together to celebrate Roadrunner Records’ 25th anniversary. Roadrunner United featured 18 ‘supergroups’ made up of various Roadrunner alumni. Slipknot’s Joey, Jim and Paul played on several of the tracks, along with Type O Negative’s Pete Steele, King Diamond guitarist Andy LaRocque, and Cradle Of Filth bassist Dave Pybus, among others. The Roadrunner United album was released in 2005.

[dross-the-fish]

They had located the laboratory of the still missing and presumed dead Doctor Henry Jekyll only to find it completely stripped down to the four walls and floorboards.

“Someone’s cleaned house,” Watson remarked, stooping to examine a spot on the floor, “Recently too, look here. There’s a bare spot in the dust from where furniture was moved. Whoever packed this place up knew we’d be coming.”

“Who do you think it was?” Larry asked, trying to keep the dismay from his voice.

“My money’s on that Hyde fellow,” Quincey replied sullenly, “He’s a nasty piece of work. Did you see his face when we mentioned Jekyll? He knows a lot more than he’s telling us. I can’t believe we gave him a room…”

“But what would he gain from stringing us along?” Watson was too tired to keep irritation from creeping into his voice as he righted himself, wincing at the cracking of his knees and spine.

Larry and Quincey both shrugged in unison. Edward Hyde was an unpleasant mystery to all of them but they had little choice except to trust him as he was the beneficiary of Jekyll's will and the only person who seemed to know anything about him. For lack of other alternatives the group busied themselves giving the room a thorough search. The three probed about for roughly an hour before they returned to Talbot Manor, empty handed and dispirited.

Upon their return they had found their newest lodger, Edward Hyde, waiting for them in the kitchens, perched on the counter and scarfing down a large, cold, pork pie which he washed down noisily with a bottle of fine wine from the Talbot’s cellars.

Like a Gods damned animal… Watson thought to himself as he passed through on his way to the dining room. When Hyde drained the first bottle, he bit the cork from a second and spat it to the floor. Watson had not the strength of body or will to admonish him and he merely shook his head in disgust and blustered out of the kitchens in search of hot tea and peace and quiet.

Hyde made a rude noise and turned back to Quincey and Lawrence, “Find anything?” he asked with a grin as he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

“No, the lab was empty,” Larry replied.

“Figures. Looks like whoever is hiding Jekyll’s secrets is two steps ahead of you,” Hyde replied holding out his hand where the mangled contents of the pie sat in a sad and crumbled heap, “Want some?” he offered.

Larry and Quincey both grimaced and shook their heads. Hyde shrugged and shoved the last fistful of pie into his mouth and emptied his second bottle of wine. He brushed the crumbs from his mutton chops and the front of his shirt and hopped down from the counter.

“How do we know it wasn’t you? How do we know you haven’t just been running us on a wild goose chase this whole time? Do you know where the rest of Jekyll’s notes on the serum are or not?!” Quincey demanded sharply, he was not usually inclined to be so forward or so aggressive but he was finding himself increasingly sick of Hyde’s presence at Talbot manor and he was beginning to suspect the wretch was toying with them just as a means of prolonging his stay and keeping himself out of the hands of the police.

“Watch your tone!” Hyde hissed aggressively although there was an unmistakable cast of fear in it. He clutched for his cane, previously resting against the kitchen table, grasped it in his fist and shook it at Quincey, “I’ll not stand for accusations! No one knows Jekyll like I do so I’m the only chance you’ve got!”

It dawned on Quincey then that his previous suspicions of Hyde being closer to the missing Doctor than he’d let on had been correct. He scanned back his memories of what Jekyll had written in the partial journal he’d presented to Watson when they’d hired him to take on the case. Jekyll’s quest had been, supposedly, to separate from himself his evil nature.

For some reason this quest had ended with the doctor killing himself and hiding away the notes to his formula in some unknown location. It occurred now to Quincey that there was one detail that the three had overlooked in their assessment of the case. One thing that neither Watson, nor Larry, nor himself had considered when they’d discovered Mr. Hyde lurking around Jekyll’s old apartment.

That Henry Jekyll’s formula had worked.

Hyde noticed that Quincey had fallen silent and was staring at him with an odd, searching, look. As though he were noticing something for the first time. The hair on the back of his neck stood up under the presence of the sudden scrutiny. It was rare, for Edward, that anyone looked at him for very long. So unpleasant was his countenance that most people were driven to anger or fear from looking at him for any length of time but Quincey Harker was staring, very nakedly, at him in a way that was markedly not fear or anger. It was comprehension.

Hyde’s face contorted in a series of grimaces and he fidgeted as the tension rose higher and higher until he could bear it no longer. It finally burst and he lashed out. Plunging a thick fist as hard as he could into Quincey’s stomach.

Quincey doubled over, wheezing as the wind was knocked from his lungs. Larry caught him before he could hit the ground.

“What’s the big idea?” Larry cried indignantly.

But Hyde was already bounding away, hurdling over the kitchen sink and sending a stack of plates toppling across the counter as he shot out of the open window and into the garden outside. Larry watched him rocket across the grounds and scramble over the hedge with frightful speed and agility.

Quincey struggled to steady himself and took a large gulp of air, coughing and rubbing his abdomen, “H-he’s J-! He’s Juh-huh! He’s Jekyll!” he sputtered.

“What? What do you mean?” Larry squinted at him, keeping a hand on his elbow in case he needed the support.

“At least he’s part of Jekyll,” Quincey explained as he caught his breath, “He’s the evil part that Jekyll removed from himself. It must have split off into another person and now that Jekyll’s dead it’s running amok and leading us around by the nose!” he righted his glasses, which had been knocked askew, and sucked in another breath.

“So, the serum does work?” Larry asked, his eyes hopeful for the first time in weeks.

“It must have worked! We need to find the rest of those notes and fast. It’s almost six o’clock. Go fill Doctor Watson in and start strapping yourself down for the night! I’m going to raid Edward’s room before he comes back. I’ll bet you one hundred pounds that he has the notes and he’s been hanging on to them to make sure we don’t find them before he wants us too!”

“Are you sure you want to do that? What if he’s on his way out to destroy the notes? What if he comes back and finds out you raided his room? For god’s sake Quin, what if you’re just plain wrong about all of it?”

“We’ll have to risk it,” Quincey muttered, “Right now his things are unguarded and I’m not wasting my chance or any more time!”

“Quin, Stop! Don’t be rash! He’s going to come back and if he catches you-“

But Quincey was beyond listening. With grim determination he rushed into the hall and bolted up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him. He arrived at the third floor, sprinted down the corridor and forced open the door to Hyde’s bedroom. To his surprise the room was only moderately cluttered.

 Quincey had rather expected to find the room in shambles and reeking of filth from wall to wall. That was the kind of domicile one would expect of Edward Hyde, after all. To a point there were clothes carelessly tossed into a corner, the bed was unmade and some books were scattered around the desk, yes, but on the whole this unremarkable bedroom could have belonged to any average gentleman. The shelves were in tidy order and in between the expected lurid erotic tomes were very practical and well-maintained encyclopedias and medical texts. Even a Bible, of all things, though this was battered and much abused, rested among the contents of the bookshelf.

Quincey searched the shelves first, pulling each book down and flipping its pages and shaking it to see if anything fell loose. Once he’d grown frustrated searching individual books he made for the desk, rifling though the papers. He found nothing of note save for some letters of blackmail Hyde was composing, addressed to some prominent members of the church. These Quincey tore in a fit of petty spite, save for one who’s listed crimes were so appalling that Quincey felt being blackmailed by Edward Hyde was the least the recipient deserved.

Red-faced from his efforts and still empty-handed Quincey abandoned the desk in favor of a handsome and expensive looking bureau. He yanked open the bottom drawer, beheld its contents, turned white as a sheet, and then closed it with a grimace. The second drawer had nothing but socks, the third held a veritable treasure trove of money clips, pocket watches, jewelry and other sundry baubles that Hyde had no doubt stolen or kept as trophies. The fourth and final drawer held papers.

“Yes! It must be here!” Quincey cheered to himself as he began to rummage through the contents. He searched every sheet, every stack and even the smallest of torn scraps for some sign of Dr. Jekyll’s notes until he realized, to his dismay, that they were not there. Closing the drawer and trying his best to leave the room as he had found it Quincey, dejectedly, returned his own quarters.

…

Once in his room he bent over his journal, diligently logging the day’s events. Though his father had often advised him of the usefulness of a journal this was the first time Quincey truly understood the necessity of organizing one’s thoughts and having a solid, written account of events to reference in a world that seemed to grow increasingly unstable.

He had nearly filled an entire page when he heard the first crash.

The second crash was closer, coming down the hallway.

The third sent the door of Quincey’s bedroom bursting into splinters.

There he was, the fiend had returned from his flight and his face wore such a deeply joyful and malevolent anger that Quincey could not suppress a shudder.

“What a lot of pretty things you have in your room, Mr. Harker,” he snarled, his voice chilling Quincey to his core. It was as high and grating as ever, roughened with cruelty and glee. An unholy mixture of giddy schoolboy and rabid hound.

The fourth crash sent Quincey’s lamp scattering shards in all directions.

"It would be a shame-" the cane arced up above Hyde’s head and swung towards the young man’s face

"-If I took to smashing every-" the swing lost momentum and the tap landed benignly against Quincey’s cheek, "-pretty-" his other cheek, "-thing-" a hard press against his lips, "-in this room."

The gleeful malice that had painted his face moments before vanished and he turned suddenly serious, eyes narrowing into furious slits "I know you managed to work something out in that thick skull of yours boy and I’ll give you that you have some balls ransacking my room for Jekyll’s notes, but what made you think that I’d simply let you get away with that?" he demanded putting enough pressure on the cane that the cold, diamond topper was forced between Quincey’s lips and scrapped uncomfortably against his front teeth.

 “Now, tell me what idea came to you in that kitchen,” Hyde demanded, his tone indicating that it would be very unwise to lie to him.

Quincey moved his head back to give himself room to speak, “The formula worked!” he said accusingly, “You’re the part of Dr. Jekyll he was trying to get rid of. The formula works and you must have it! Why won’t you give it to us?!”

Hyde paused for a moment tapping the top of the cane against his own chin, “You could say that, but you’ve got, by far, the wrong idea of it. Why are you so desperate for the formula. You’re as good as they come, any evil that sprouted off you would be no bigger than tom thumb and Larry’s not much worse. Has old Watson got some demons he’s looking to purge? To many years playing the role of good doctor and doddering sidekick turned him barmy?”

An ear rending howl echoed through the manor. Hyde hissed and tensed, clutching the cane in both hands with his teeth bared.

“You know I can’t figure it,” he said slowly as he began to pace the room, occasionally stopping to smash some of Quincey’s more breakable possessions. “How every night I hear a wolf, so loud it sounds like it’s coming from inside the manor, but there’s no reports of dead sheep in the area, no sign of paw prints on the grounds and even dogs won’t answer that howl. There’s something awfully strange going on around here and if you tell me the truth maybe I’ll come clean with you too.”

Quincey’s shoulders dropped and he sank down onto his bed.

“You may as well sit then… it’s a long story.”

[kimetsu-chan]

I feel bad for requesting something considering how busy you are with all the art. There’s absolutely no rush for you to do this and I encourage you to wait until you get all the art done before you even think about this.

Can you do TanjMilo angst to fluff where maybe they get into a lil argument about Milo constantly overworking herself? She’s never told him about how Sanemi treats her and overworks her when they train together and she forces herself to overwork herself just because she wants Sanemi’s approval as an older, more experienced hashira. Maybe Tanjiro catches this happening one day and right as he goes to help Milo passes out?

You can ignore this if you want to:) there’s no rush for you to get this done and if you don’t want to do it just let me know!:3 I love you Kimmie! Take care of yourself!<33

~Overworked~

A/N: Hey, don’t feel bad! I feel bad because you had to wait so long to get this— thank you for your patience Larz! And thank you hun for the detailed request— (pls ignore the awkward beginning, and the fact I made Sanemi real dislikeable-)

Also, I know, I’m so creative with the names for this fics 🤩

Edit: I’ve just realized I have forgotten the argument you asked for, I am so so sorry, please let me know if you want me to add it (Me? Lazy? Never-)

It was a nice peaceful day for Tanjiro Kamado.

Well, it was peaceful for the most part. Milo had informed him that she was training with the wind hashira today. Now, normally this wouldn’t be that big of a deal, except for the hashira’s very aggressive and violent behavior. Tanjiro knew he’d be pushing Milo further than she could go. He always did. Not only did he feel frustration and anger at Shinazugawa, he also felt concern for Milo. He knew that she wouldn’t defend herself from the scary man, and that worried him.

Shinazugawa’s harsh words would also often affect her way of thinking. She would often push herself to train harder, even when she was training by herself, which always resulted in her getting violently sick. Then she’d feel guilty for having someone care for her and being out of commission.

Tanjiro felt frustrated because he needed her to see that she was good enough as is. That she didn’t need Shinazugawa’s approval to be a good hashira. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t realized he had arrived at the Suzuki estate. Because he was there so often, the few kakushi that were actually there didn’t bat an eye at his presence. He slipped past them with a small bow of the head and made his way to the back garden, a small plate of food in hand.

He didn’t hear any yelling from the wind hashira, had their training ended early? He cautiously listened for any noise. None. Not even the swing of a sword. He then sniffed for a scent. Shinazugawa’s wretched smell was absent, so at least there was that.

His relief was cut short when he finally reached the normally serene and calming garden. His eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. His hands forgot he was supposed to be holding something and glass shattered on the stone below him as he saw Milo’s unconscious body laying on the pebbly ground.

He rushed towards her in a panicked frenzy. His first instinct was to check for a pulse. Phew, there was one. He quickly got to work in picking her up. He carried the unconscious girl bridal style all the way to her small room. He laid her down on the futon and rushed for a washcloth. Once he got the washcloth, he ran it under cold water and went to drape it over her burning forehead. He had no idea how long she had been out like that for, but the idea she’d been outside under the beaming sun for hours upset him greatly.

Tanjiro always loved being around her. But now, he felt a sense of urgency to be with her 24/7. How could Shinazugawa have just left her there? What if she got heat stroke! His thoughts were, once again, interrupted when he heard a small, weak voice calling out to him.

“T-Tanji…? W-Why aren’t I outside? I-I’m supposed to be training-!”

Tanjiro placed a hand over hers and gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Angel, you need rest. I don’t want you getting sick. Nor do I want you to pass out again.”

Milo started to protest, but Tanjiro shushed her with a finger over her lips.

“Before you even start, you’re not any less competent because you don’t live up to Shinazugawa’s unrealistic standards. You’re perfect the way you are, I don’t need you to be any better than you already are. No one does. And I can promise you that we all prefer a happy healthy Milo over a Milo who is draining herself.”

Milo started to tear up. She didn’t think she deserved such loving and comforting words. But she knew better than to deny them. She sat up shakily and buried her face in his shoulder.

“T-Thank you, Tanji. Thank you for loving me so much.”

Tanjiro smiled and returned her hug.

“Of course Angel, now please rest.”

A/N: kshdjdbdjsbdj they’re so cute, I love TanjMilo (I got the name right this time 😎) once again, I apologize you had to wait almost two weeks for this. I hope it was worth the wait! (I’d love to see/read Milo’s reaction to this btw, only if you’re up for it tho :3)

[staybabblingbaby]

Fan Experience with SKZ a2 d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Reader wins a contest to have dinner with SKZ and they become friends :D (and maybe more? 0w0)

Word Count: 1,399

Notes: I kind of went for a sillier sort of vibe for this (bc I am a silly person) but I wonder if it makes Reader seem too childish? This one is shaping up to be a one-shot, or maybe one-shot series, idk. I sort of feel like I need more lead up or environment descriptions, it just seems like it's moving pretty fast. I do have a car scene sort of outlined in my head as well as part of the dinner scene, but it'll probably be a bit before I write it lol I have once more accidentally avoided pronouns, unsure how I've done so. Might try to keep it up.

Warnings: None that I know of? It's just silly fluff idk what u want from me.

Masterlist Link :D

"I can't do this." you whine pathetically. Ha-Yun, your best friend and the sacrifice you'd dragged to this fan opportunity, wraps a comforting arm around your shoulder.

"You're doing it." she says firmly. Maybe the arm wasn't a comfort after all, maybe you were her captive now. Turnabout is fair play you suppose.

"We're already here, and the guard has already left to get someone. It's too late to back out now." She finishes reasonably. She’s made several good points, but the day you admit that is the day you marry her. Unfortunately, Ha-Yun happened to be very straight.

"You don't know that!" You insist, "We could run right back out the doors, just poof! Gone." You speak like some sort of madness had taken over you. Quite honestly, it probably had.

Ha-Yun turns to face you properly now. She knows you well enough to know that you were genuinely freaking out, no matter how silly you were about it. She gives you a sympathetic smile, and tugs you closer. Presumably to keep you from running off (and maybe to actually comfort you, just a bit).

"It'll be fine. You adore those boys, just be chill and respectful and it'll all go well." Once again, Ha-Yun appeals to your reason. Too bad you weren't feeling very reasonable at the moment.

You turn yourself to hide your face in her neck and make a sound not dissimilar to a boiling kettle.

"What if they hate me?" You desperately question, "What if they think I'm weird, or ugly, or annoying, or, or, or!" You trail off breathlessly, on the verge of hyperventilating, and feel Ha-Yun gently pat your head.

She makes soft seal noises to mock you and then says, "Well if they do its not like you'll ever know."

Another keening whine leaves you as you slide down to crouch on the floor, arms sliding down with you to wrap around Ha-Yun's knees. She stumbles a bit, but regains her balance by using your head as a cane. She lets you stay there, blessed saint that she is, and continues to speak, wretched devil that she is.

"I mean, really, they're not gonna tell you to your face, and you're not gonna see them again after today." She points out. You'd like to argue, but it's not like she's wrong.

You'd ended up couched on the floor of the JYP building, clutching your best friend's pant leg, on a random Tuesday, about to meet Stray Kids AND eat dinner with them, by pure dumb luck. Actual, literal, luck. Like, won-a-raffle sort of luck. You may as well have won the lottery for everything this opportunity means to you.

Once-in-a-lifetime was an understatement.

"Just have fun with it," Ha-Yun finishes her mini-speech, heedless of your internal (and external) freak-out.

"I think I'll die, actually." You mutter petulantly into her thigh.

She snorts at you, ruffling your hair aggressively and disregarding your half-hearted attempts to swipe at her for it.

"C'mon, what happened to the person who was bouncing off the walls excited about this?" She cajoles, shaking you around but not dislodging you.

"They're dead and buried." You deadpan. It wasn’t like you weren't excited, really! You were just going to perish from sheer anxiety, that was all. Could anyone really blame you? You were about to meet your idols. It was kind of a big deal!

Ha-Yun does nothing but pat your head twice. "Well unbury them," She commands, "the guard is coming back."

Your head snaps up to see, not only the beefy security guard who'd checked both of your I.Ds and passes with great suspicion a few minutes ago, but also the Bang Christopher Chan.

Your brain stalls for a second seeing him dressed head-to-toe in casual black, barefaced and smiling beautifully at you. And then you realize the position you're in and scramble to stand properly, far too late for either of them to have missed your bout of insanity.

You attempt to slide yourself behind Ha-Yun in your humiliation, but the cruel woman snags your elbow with one hand, and your opposite shoulder with the other, and holds you in place in front of her. You take back anything nice you've ever said about Ha-Yun, she's pure evil and out to get you.

Before you can panic too hard, Bangchan and the security guard are in front of you. Though Bangchan is all warm eyes and kind smiles, you can't help but feel small in front of him. You shrink back into Ha-Yun, but she doesn't allow you to retreat. You promise to yourself to only make foods she doesn't like for a whole month when this is over.

"Hi, good to meet you!" Bangchan greets cheerfully. You do your best to match his smile despite your fear and return his greeting, introducing yourself before motioning to Ha-Yun, who was still holding you hostage.

"And this is Ha-Yun, she's my emotional support human today." You're not sure how she's as functional as she is as she both bows respectfully and shakes Bangchan's hand, prompting you to do the same. This was one of the many reasons you'd chosen to bring her over any of your friends who were actually Stray Kids fans. Functional emotional support summed her up nicely.

As greetings wrap up, Ha-Yun turns to you with mischief to dramatically interrogate you.

"Is Emotional support all I am to you?" She demands, "I thought we were more than that! I thought we had something special!" She places a hand over her heart as you'd shot her, dipping back way too far in her dramatics because she knows your hand will catch her whether you want it to or not.

Supporting most of her weight with your fist dug into her upper back, you retort, "You thought wrong."

Bangchan's snicker reminds you of your audience and you tuck your hands behind your back with an embarrassed flush. Ha-Yun is treated to a heated glare when all she does is laugh at you, but you may as well have been air for all it affects her. Two months. No yummy home cooked meals for Ha-Yun. You swore it.

Bangchan begins to speak and your attention is immediately back on him instead of your comedy act of a best friend.

"So, the company actually picked out the place for dinner, so we don't get to choose, sorry." And he really does seem apologetic, despite this seeming like a very reasonable thing to you. "It's this barbecue place down the road, we'll be meeting the others there, if that's alright?" Again he asks like he genuinely values your opinion in this, and the prospect of being in even one (1) of this man's thoughts as an individual causes you a bit of a crisis.

Luckily this is exactly what you'd bright Ha-Yun along for, and she easily agrees for the two of you, guiding you along with the experience of having born witness to more than one blue-screen brain moment in your life.

She strikes up an easy conversation with Bangchan as he leads the three of you deeper into the building towards a different door, leaving the security guard behind. You're a bit jealous of her comfort, since you sort of feel like you're simultaneously walking on air and suffocating on that same air, but she keeps her hand on your back to keep you walking and rubs little comforting circles there. So. She's forgiven. A little bit. Back down to one month of no yummies.

Bangchan leads the three of you back, explaining that there was a company car waiting for you all outside, but that it was closer to a more private entrance for security reasons. He catches you looking around curiously as you walk, and generously explains the types of rooms and offices you walk past like some sort of tour guide. In fact, he apologizes for not being able to give you a more thorough tour and you frantically assure him that this was more than you'd ever expected in the first place.

You don't catch the pleased look he has as you crawl out of your shell a bit to ask him more questions, but Ha‐Yun shoots him a grateful look over your head. If you see the tiny nod they exchange, you just assume they're using their listening skills as you speak.

[thecopynin-kakashi]

Soothe or nightmare?

// Both

After reluctantly accepting the bed, Kakashi settles down with the covers half drawn over his face. It's a habit of his to be buried, to be embraced by something as he tries to will his mind and body to rest. His sleep is often disturbed, either by memories or worries of failure, but being back within Konoha seems to have triggered these images a bit more aggressively.

The night grows late and the noises outside die down.

As his sleep deepens, the familiar scenario flashes before his eyes...

His right hand drenched in blood, fingers curled loosely as his arm supports the stunned body of Rin. Her eyes are wide, haunting, void of life yet piercing him all the same. He hears his name in her dying breath, but as he tries to wretch himself free, he finds that he can not.

Other hands seem to come from nowhere, appearing around Rin's corpse and erupting from the ground. They're clawing at him, trying to drag him down to his knees.

His body is twitching in his sleep, brow furrowing in distress as his heart begins to race. He seems to be trying to wake up, trying to escape the depths of the nightmare tormenting him.

[mslanna]

Arguments

Chapter 3 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

Enrichment? In this enclosure? I think not. Still, it can't hurt to be a little soft.

"You will not enter the kitchen again." Raphael's verdict is final and Tav fumes.

They have been doing good work there. The Feast Hall is always packed with food that nobody eats. It makes sense to have the pieces nobody can reach replaced by dummies. It also makes sense to swap some items for stuff Tav likes and let them eat it at the end of the day before it goes bad. Not that anybody talks about the eating bit.

I to do in your presumptuous opinion?" Tav puts their hands on their hips, rising to full height. "You are dashing to and fro in your little war and I can't even change the menu?"

"It is not a little war." The devil's patience strains; he has more important things to do than argue with an unhappy human. Unfortunately, that human enabled his current sweep through Avernus. Zariel will fall first. And then – then the other rulers of hell would find themselves at his mercy. The future looks bright.

Raphael forces his thoughts back to the unpleasant present. The human still glares at him as if it was his fault they are stuck. Fury flares for a second. Two deals that irrelevant pup made, and neither with him. He feels a snarl rise, even though he knows that won't improve the situation any. But really, who is to blame?

"None of this would have happened, if you had just taken my deal."

"I didn't need your deal. I did great on my own."

"You broke into my House."

"You could just have let me go!"

"Have you listened to yourself recently?" Raphael spits. "Let me do whatever I please and then let me go scot-free and all will be fine."

"Oh no." Tav presses a hand to their heart. "I sound exactly like you. Don't like it? Better get rid of every mirror in this place."

"Be glad I do not cast you out," the devil growls. "The Crown of Karsus is mine. There is no changing that. The crusade against Zariel goes exceedingly well. Soon the other devils will fall in line. Isn't that what you counted on?"

"I am bored out of my skull here!"

"Well, leave," Raphael returns. "I am sure you won't have a thought to spare once my dear father gets his claws into you."

To his surprise, Tav actually turns on their heels and leaves. He watches them until they are out of sight. But the human is making a bee-line for the foyer. Raphael rumbles to himself. It is none of his business if the foolish mortal wants to risk their soul. Better Mephistopheles have theirs than his.

Memories from his short interlude at his father's mercy crash into Raphael like a wave. Yeah, definitely better anybody than him. Another memory stabs through the desperate pain. Tav. Standing before his father as if it meant nothing, negotiating for his life.

A frustrated grunt falls from his lips as he turns to follow the foolish human. Mephistopheles' whims are not something to wish on your worst enemy, much less somewhat of an ally.

He finds the foyer undisturbed. The circle into Baldur's Gate is not active. Maybe he is too late. Raphael takes a deep breath. And in the silence of the room, a small sob squeaks from behind one of the soul pillars. He tilts his head but there is no other sound. Just as Raphael turns to leave, the tiny noise repeats. High, and constricted as if somebody worked very hard on not letting it escape.

For a moment Raphael considers getting Haarlep and let the incubus deal with the problem. With a snap of his fingers, he turns into his human form. Less threatening, less aggressive. It may help to keep things calm. Raphael walks around the first pillar to finds the space behind it empty.

Tav wouldn't chose a place close to the doors to hide so he turns to the pillars framing the windows. Of course, the first he chooses to inspect is not hiding his paladin.

He finds them curled up around their knees behind the last pillar. Tav ’s body shakes violently and it looks eerie without any sound coming form the wretched creature. Tav doesn't notice the spectator, caught up completely in their misery.

"Listen."

Tav's head shoots up. They stare at the devil glaring down at them and try to scoot around the pillar.

"None of that now." Raphael crouches and ends their scrabbling with a firm grip on Tav's shoulder. "You didn't leave and I am grateful for that. You deserve better than eternal suffering at my father's hands."

Red rimmed eyes look at him. The whole face is red and somewhat soggy. But Tav's hands stay clutched around their ankles, a desperate attempt to protect themself. Raphael wants nothing more than to send them to clean up. Some bodily fluids are exquisite, but tears and snot are not. At least not when they don't come form some delicate from of torture.

"What do you want, Tav," he finally asks with a sigh. Deals are the easiest form to deal with people after all.

"I don't know." The words are small and despondent. "But there is nothing I can occupy myself with here. I am going crazy, Raphael. I am ready to bite the walls. I need something to do or I might just deliver myself to Mephistopheles out of desperation."

"And Haarlep is not a solution?" Raphael puts as much persuasion into the words as he can. Still Tav shakes their head.

"Haarlep is very single-minded and the one thing on their mind is sex." Tav sighs and releases their legs. "I need something to occupy my mind. And you are gone more often than here." A dry laugh wrings free from their lips.

"I have a war to lead," Raphael says softly. "What time I have is yours already."

"It is nothing."

"It is all there is." His words are firm.

"My day has so many hours. ” Tav leans back against the pillar and closes their red eyes. "So many hours, Raphael. I considered helping out your debtors."

"Please don't." The words come without thinking. But it gives the devil an idea. Somehow, some way he needs to find a way to utilise Tav. Anything within theses walls is a welcome change. He regards the paladin for a moment. "I will find you distractions if you will hold it together."

Tav sends him a tired look. "Deal."

Raphael smiles and stands. "Deal. Now get up and-" he trails off uncertain what the proper procedure is.

Tav helps out by reaching up with their hands. The devil takes them and pulls the human upright. For a moment, Tav simply regards their hands, not showing any signs of letting go. "I thought it would be easier," they admit without looking up.

"Noting is easy when devils are involved." Raphael raises Tav's chin with a finger. At least they try to smile. "A lesson you may want to learn quickly."

For a moment it seems as if Tav will lean into his chest. Raphael finds himself strangely disappointed when they pull back instead. But he rolls with it putting one hand on the small of their back to guide them back towards the house.

"Maybe I should just stop dealing with devils." Tav smiles lopsided. "When this is all over."

"I will hate to lose m favourite house guest. But am very open to welcoming my new favourite client."

Tav laughs. From the tear-streaked face it's a sad outburst. "You wish." The smile morphs into something more genuine.

"I plan," Raphael counters. "And that you brought me the Crown of Karsus from your own free will tells me that there is something to work with in here." He puts his index fingers against Tav's temple.

"Heh." For a moment Tav leans into the touch. “I thought you'd like me if I did that."

Tav doesn't notice that the devil, rooted to the spot, doesn't follow as they return into the House of Hope.

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 28 - "No... not like this"

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 751

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

The halls are empty as Katsuki sprints through them, almost eating shit around the last corner trying to shortcut it. 

The classroom door is shut, which means Aizawa is already inside and probably already lecturing. 

He pauses in front of the door, taking a breath. 

He’s in the final month of his final year at UA and he slept through his alarm. He didn’t even know he could do that. 

Only a handful of days has he not made it to class, and for most of them, he was either kidnapped or in the hospital. Plus the few months when there was no school during the war, but that doesn’t matter. 

Steeling himself, he slides the door open, lowering his head in apology. 

The room is silent, which is unacceptable, so he starts rambling like a loser. 

“Sorry, won’t happen again.”

“Get out.” A loud, stern voice booms at him. 

His head shoots up, nostrils flaring in anger and surprise, “What-!”

Voice catching in his throat, he stops cold. His classmates were nowhere to be found, only a handful of police officers and several of the pro-hero teachers. 

Aizawa seems to be the one who spoke, quirk activated and hair levitating partially off his shoulder. His capture weapon is drawn in one hand as he stomps forward aggressively, crowding Katsuki back against the door. ”How did you-?“ He growls, shaking his head, “You need to leave.”

“Eh?!” Katsuki pushes forward, skirting around his teacher, “We’re supposed to have class. What the hell is going on?”

The police officers are all looking at him, some with their hands resting on their weapons. 

“Young Bakugo-“ All Might calls, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. His sunken eyes are noticeably red and puffy, and he has a crumpled tissue clutched at his chest. 

“That’s Bakugo?” One of the officers mutters, stepping forward. 

Midnight glares at the man, “You know there’s nothing you can do. Do not engage.” She spits. 

“But-“ Another one pipes up, quickly shut down like the other. 

”Bakugo, you need to leave. Your classmates are at Ground Beta.” Aizawa repeats, pressing a solid hand on his shoulder. Not asking, but commanding. 

Katsuki flinches back, so thrown off and confused beyond belief. 

Why do they have the fucking cops here? It’s a school full of pros…

His eyes dart around and catch on a strange sheet-covered lump in one of the chairs. 

“What’s that?” He asks aloud, stepping unconsciously toward it. 

It looks like a person is sitting under it, head slumped to the side. 

He counts the chairs. 

Third from the back, right behind his own chair. 

That’s… 

“Is that-?” He jerks his shoulder out of Aizawa’s grip, ignoring the capture weapon that wraps around his waist and tugs. 

He shoots his quirk at it, ignoring the burning feeling on his own torso, and stumbles forward. 

Pushing the last desk in his way, he grabs the edge of the strange plastic material and pulls. 

The figure in the desk slumps over as well, Katsuki catching it at the last second and pushing it back upright. 

Green curls spring into their normal form when the fabric is removed. 

Deku’s dumbass tie is sticking to the side at a weird angle. His white shirt is stained red with blood. 

Katsuki physically recoils, acid gathering in his throat as he makes a horrible gasping noise and wretches to his side. 

“Fuck- get him out of here,” Aizawa calls, letting Mic grab him bodily and drag him to the other side of the room away from his friend. 

“Come on, Listener.” He says softly, voice thick. 

“No- NO!” Katsuki shouts, scrabbling against the hero. He manages to knee the guy in the gut hard enough to escape. 

Izuku’s glassy eyes are staring blankly towards the desk. A dull glint of silver metal tells Katsuki all he needs to know. 

“He- he fuckin… No, he wouldn’t!” He cries, reaching out for Izuku’s face. 

In his peripheral, he sees a purple mist seep into the air. 

“Not like this, Izuku, not like this!” He lets the exhaustion take control of his body and falls forward, burying his face into Deku’s chest. 

There’s a distressed noise from the other side of the room, which is quickly shushed. 

As he drifts off, he hears Aizawa speak. 

“He won’t have another opportunity. Leave him.”

Katsuki sobs into Izuku’s shirt, mumbling whispered pleas and apologies as he lets sleep take him over. 

And when he wakes up, Izuku will be gone forever.

[amber-lucca44]

Album tier list (top 25 favorite artists) ❤️

S ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

(These are all my favorites!)

Casually Dressed & Deep In Conversation

Cry Baby

Dear Love: A Beautiful Discord

Disgusting

From Under The Cork Tree

K-12

On Frail Wings Of Wax And Vanity

Reach

Speak Now

Stand Up And Scream

Steady Damage

Take This To Your Grave

They're Only Chasing Safety

Too Bad You're Beautiful

We Stitch These Wounds

A ⭐⭐⭐⭐

(Not quite my favorites, but almost!)

1989

Abandon Your Friends

The Act

Aggressive

All We Know Is Falling

All We Know Of Heaven, All We Need Of Hell

The Black

Black Veil Brides

Brand New Eyes

Broken Frames

The Changing Of Times

Christ Illusion

Confessions

DAMN.

Define The Great Line

Disease

Downtown Battle Mountain

The Downward Spiral

Dying Is Your Latest Fashion

Erase Me

Escape The Fate

evermore

Eyes Set To Kill

Fearless

The Fiction We Live

Folie Á Deux

folklore

Freak Machine

God Hates Us All

Good Kid, m.A.A.d City

Hesitation Marks

Hours

I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love

If There Is Light, It Will Find You

Infamous

Infinity On High

Let It Enfold You

Masks

Midnights

Mongrel

Mothership

Nuclear. Sad. Nuclear

Plagues

Put On Your Rosey Red Glasses

Reckless & Relentless

Red

Reign In Blood

RIOT!

Set The World On Fire

Still Searching

Suicide Season

That's The Spirit

This War Is Ours

Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge

To Pimp A Butterfly

Ungrateful

Use Me

White Lotus

White Noise

Wild Gods

With Roots Above And Branches Below

With Teeth

B ⭐⭐⭐

(I like them, just not as much as others)

After Laughter

Afterburner

Artificial Selection

Asking Alexandria

The Black Parade

Color Decay

Conduit

Count Your Blessings

Creatures

Dance Gavin Dance

Diabolus In Musica

Disguise

Downtown Battle Mountain II

The Emptiness

The Fragile

From Death To Destiny

Graveyard Shift

Hurt Me

Life Is Not A Waiting Room

Memory And Humanity

Mr. Morale and The Big Steppers

Ø (Disambiguation)

The Phantom Tomorrow

A Place Where The Sun Is Silent

Portals

Post Human: Survival Horror

Reincarnate

Repentless

Reputation

Scoring The End Of The World

Seasons In The Abyss

See What's On The Inside

So Much (For) Stardust

Tales Don't Tell Themselves

There Is A Hell, Believe Me I've Seen It. There Is A Heaven, Let's Keep It A Secret

Vale

Welcome Home Armaggedon

Where Myth Fades To Legend

The World Outside

World Painted Blood

Year Zero

C ⭐⭐

(Definitely not my faves / Haven't paid much attention to them)

8:18

Acceptance Speech

Act Of Depression

amo

Bad Witch

Below

Chapter And Verse

Chemical Warfare

Cries Of The Past

Danger Days: The True Lives Of The Fabulous Killjoys

Dead Throne

Divine Intervention

The Fire

Ghosts V: Together

Ghosts VI: Locusts

Happiness

Hell Awaits

Hell Is In Your Head

Holding A Wolf By The Ears

I Am Human

Instant Gratification

Jackpot Juicer

Like A House On Fire

Lost In The Sound Of Separation

Lover

M A N I A

Paramore

Pretty Hate Machine

Pull The Thorns From Your Heart

Renacer

Save Rock And Roll

Section.80

Sempiternal

Show No Mercy

The Slip

South Of Heaven

Taylor Swift

This Is Why

Transit Blues

Voyeurist

Worse Than Alone

Wretched And Divine: The Story Of The Wild Ones

D ⭐

(Don't really like)

American Beauty / American Psycho

Ghosts I-IV

Undisputed Attitude

[ladyof1000masks]

You Give Love A Bad Name

I HAVE BA in Creative Writing for fuck's sake. I even graduated salutatorian yet there's this annoying bitchy voice screaming negativity in my brain.

"Maybe my entire class was composed of poor writers." I doubt it. A lot of my classmates have found a measure of success.

Maybe my professors were too lenient and the classes too easy. Then I remember the time my screenwriting professor, a stern passionate man made me cry over a fuck up. Is this imposter syndrome?

Please read the finished rough draft. I don't expect you to pepper my alabaster cheeks with sweet comforting kisses. I accept critiques so long as said critique is constructively given to me. In other words, don't be a cunty fuck nugget. Give me suggestions. I need a cute nickname befitting of Scarecrow.

Without further stalling here's my edited "finished" draft inspired by "Shot Through the Heart." (I'm a perfectionist, this bitch will never truly be finished in a way that satisfies me

*************************************************************

Int. Arkham Asylum - Night (Post Arkham Knight)

DARK WOMAN, 5'0 wreathed in dancing shadows watches the cell block below. Her orange eyes aglow like Jack-o-lanterns stalk the patrolling guards with predatory keenness. A palpable anger emanates from the figure as her eyes land on the cell at the far end of the block. The bodies of fallen guards lay at her feet.

SCARECROW/JONATHAN CRANE cowers in the corner of his cell jabbering to himself. His milky blue eyes dart fearfully to the minutest movement outside his cell.

SCARECROW: Bat... Ashes... Piano.

Guard 1: (bangs his fist on the glass of Crane's cell.) Shut up in there!

SCARECROW: (Screams.)

Guard 1: Not so scary now are you?

Guard 2: Batman really did a number on him. Not much left of the poor bastard now. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Guard 1: (Laughs.) Poor bastard? He's lucky Waller doesn't let us beat him more.

Guard 2: It was fun making Crane shit himself for a change. Speaking of which has he had his share for today?

Guard 1: Haha! I love my job! Nothing like unleashing my aggression on these psychos.

The two guards approach SCARECROW's cell. Guard 1 withdraws his baton and smacks it against his open hand. SCARECROW shrinks into the furthest corner of his cell, shielding his already disfigured face.

A cadaver plunges from the catwalk, landing behind the two guards with a wet crack. The two whirl around to confront the source of the noise. A shattered face stares back at them with melted eyes.

Guard 1: What the fuck?

Guard 2: Who did this!?

Two more bodies fall from above landing in a twisted heap at their feet. Drawn by the commotion more guards investigate, gathering around the corpses. GUARD 3, wielding a flamethrower, followed by the more conventionally armed GUARD 4 and GUARD 5 study the scene.

Guard 4: *wretches .* God! What happened to them?

Guard 5: Ugh. Definitely closed casket viewings.

Guard 5 nudges one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. As soon as he does the body erupts in a cloud of green chemicals and gore, triggering a chain reaction among the other corpses.

Covered in viscera and the mysterious chemical their armor sizzles and bubbles.

Guard 3: (Screams)

A dark veil of orange smoke envelopes the hall as the woman leaps down in front of the guards. Her silhouette can barely be seen through the thick, acrid smog.

Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

Darlin', you give love a bad name

The guards blindly rush the woman through the smog, coughing violently. She parries their blows with elegant ballet-like movements. Her flexibility and dancelike manner of motion give her an uncanny and inhuman quality.

An angel's smile is what you sell

You promise me Heaven, then put me through hell

Chains of love got a hold on me

When passion's a prison, you can't break free

Frigid terror takes grasp of the guards, wracking their limbs with tremors and causing them to jump at shadows. The woman materializes from the smoke behind Guard 1 and plunges her needled fingers into his exposed eyes.

Oh, you're a loaded gun, yeah

Oh, there's nowhere to run

No one can save me

The damage is done

Guard 1: (screams in agony clutching his bleeding sockets.)

Guard 3 unleashes a gout of flames upon the woman. The woman calmly stares down the fire and casually tosses a powder bomb at his feet, consuming him and his colleagues in flame. The surviving guards attack each other as a new contingent of guards pours in.

Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

You give love a bad name (bad name)

I play my part and you play your game

You give love a bad name (bad name)

Hey, you give love, a bad name

Paint your smile on your lips

Blood red nails on your fingertips

A school boy's dream, you act so shy

Your very first kiss was your first kiss goodbye

The woman walks down the block tossing small bombs at each passing cell. Inmates join the firefight, throwing the Asylum into chaos. She closes in on Scarecrow's cell pausing to sadly gaze upon him.

Woman: (In a soft southern accent, think Southern Belle) What have they done to you?

Whoa, you're a loaded gun

Whoa, there's nowhere to run

No one can save me

The damage is done

Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

You give love a bad name (bad name)

I play my part and you play your game

You give love a bad name (bad name)

You give love, oh

She produces a bloodstained keycard from her garter. The cell door slides open as she swipes the card and punches in the number (or uses a severed finger for a fingerprint recognition scan)

Scarecrow jumps at the footfall of boots clicking against the cell floor, his milky eyes darting toward the noise. A flash of familiarity warms his gaze.

Scarecrow: Rag... doll... Bat... hurt...Flame

The woman kneels next to the slender, much taller man and gently grabs his chin. Their eyes meet. He flinches when she strokes his cheek.

Woman: (Shushes him) It's okay darlin'. You remember me, don't you?

He relaxes as she briefly examines his face. Deep death black bruises paint his cadaverous face and sinewy arms. Her eyes narrow dangerously.

Scarecrow: Home... Ragdoll... Safe.

Woman (Ragdoll): Yes, Jonny *she pats hands.* You're safe with me. Nobody's going to hurt you ever again.

Ragdoll helps him to his feet, draping one of his long arms over her shoulders. The two use the chaos to escape the asylum.

Ragdoll: I'll make you better, I promise you, Jonny.

Oh, shot through the heart

And you're to blame

You give love a bad name

I play my part and you play your game

You give love a bad name (bad name)

Shot through the heart

And you're to blame

You give love a bad name (bad name)

I play my part and you play your game

You give love a bad name (bad name)

You give love

You give love (bad name)

You give love

You give love (bad name)

You give love

You give love (bad name)

You give love

You give love

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 2: Spirits in the Lake

Narrated by no one.

Narrator: He tread on, the soft path underneath his feet swallowing the sound of his steps.

Narrator: Back at the lake, the hole remained visible, water flowing around it in a stilted manner.

Narrator: The silent passageway was filled with broken whispers, sometimes giving way into wretched sobs, sometimes turning into shrieks of rage.

Narrator: Condensed by the pressure of the water and the stifling darkness, the voices became increasingly twisted, gradually forming dark mist in front of Mercury.

Narrator: It's said that remnants of Arionus' power could be found in the abyss... at Arionus' altar. If these rumors were true, could it be where these voices are coming from?

Narrator: The waters of the lake closed up over the path behind Mercury's back as soon as he reached the dilapidated altar at the end of the passageway

Narrator: The dark, enclosed space was now empty save for the never-ending whispers.

Narrator: The air was damp, clinging to the hair of clothes of the visitor, seeping into his skin with his every breath, as if in an attempt to figure him out.

Narrator: The blue thread on Mercury's hand dissipated into foam. All around him, the waterlogged particles in the air trembled at his arrival.

Narrator: The vapor condensed in front of Mercury, forming an opaque mist.

Narrator: The mist drifted closer, fading in and out of existence. As if in sync, the countless voices seemed to thrum along to it... yet the mist was not what's producing them.

Mercury: ...

Narrator: The mist swirled gently around the gleaming New Moon gem, as if attracted.

Narrator: And then, bit by bit, a sleek, finned silhouette of a body appeared within the mist.

Narrator: Mercury recognized it as the shape of the Elves of Water who inhabit the deep seas under the New Moon. But there were slight differences, too...

Mercury: Are you an Elf of Water?

Narrator: As if triggered by his question, the person-shaped vapor attempted to reply... yet all it managed to produce was a cascade of small sparkles in the mist.

Narrator: The whispers faded away to silence in an instant.

Mist: Elves... curse... lake... war...

Narrator: The shattered sparkles surrounded the New Moon gem, and the swirling vapor emitted tuneless syllables in the form of an indistinguishable ancient Elven language.

Mercury: Is this what you're seeking?

Narrator: The mist did not reply and simply continued to swirl and caress the dark blue gem, all the while emitting vague noises. What was it searching for?

Mercury: ...

Narrator: Mercury decided to stop wasting time after the failed attempt to communicate.

Narrator: He continued on to the Water Elven altar standing in the center, its faded patterns telling stories of the olden days.

Narrator: He crouched down to see cracked stone slabs scattered all around the altar.

Narrator: The inscriptions on them were still somewhat legible, perhaps due to them having been stored underwater.

Narrator: He recognized the words "Arionus" and "abyss." As for the rest, he would need to consult Alan.

Narrator: The mist had approached from behind without his noticing. It didn't circle the mark this time, and instead wrapped itself around the inscriptions...

Narrator: ...as if in a prayer towards an ancient spirit that was no longer around.

Mercury: ...

Mist: The great... God of Water...

Mercury: Are you a believer of Arionus?

Narrator: The mist seemed to suddenly gain a distinct form at the mention of this name. It released an anguished shriek that seemed to penetrate not only space but also time.

Narrator: The thick melancholy and despair in the voice surged like the tide as the desolate wail became a shrill scream.

Narrator: As if in response, the soft whispers were stirred up once more.

Narrator: The voices, released from the binding currents, formed countless sharp blades that devoured the misty form and came flying towards Mercury, shrilly, aggressively.

Narrator: Instead of backing up, Mercury simply studied the advancing shadows, a rare hint of excitement in his eyes.

Narrator: The voices and the dark mist seemed to him a certain chaotic power, not much different from the force in the rift of the Royal City of Ninir.

Narrator: As the dark mist surged closer, bright light flooded in from behind Mercury, forming both a protective barrier and a sharp blade pointing towards his adversary.

Narrator: The burst of light met the menacing dark mist halfway, freezing it instantly in the air. The mist screamed, shrieked, but could not move an inch.

Narrator: More dark mist continued to pour in, but with every forward step Mercury took, his blinding light left a scorching mark on the shadows.

Mercury: It's over.

Narrator: Following his words, the thick dark mist finally dissipated into nothingness, along with the ear-piercing shrieks.

Narrator: The floating vapor form appeared once more. It didn't seem to comprehend any of these extraordinary powers and simply stared at Mercury in confusion...

Narrator: ...as if seeking protection... as if seeking an explanation.

Narrator: But Mercury was not here to protect nor explain.

Narrator: He merely gazed at the vapor figure in silence, like a just, emotionless god.

Narrator: The vapor figure finally accepted the situation. It drifted towards Mercury and sighed, long and despondent.

Mist: I am Flo, a subordinate of Arionus, the God of Water.

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[studentofetherium]

and now for some criticism of a 50 year old book that none of my followers have read

The Monkey Wrench Gang is such a problematic text because while i love parts of its messaging, particularly the fact that people who care about the environment should rise up and protect it themselves, it's also wretched in many other ways, including the very message i like

so the point of the book is that a dam is being built, and it will kill the local ecosystem to do so. this is bad, so the protagonists, the titular monkey wrench gang, set out to stop it through the use of everyday common tools to sabotage industrial equipment. namely, a monkeywrench to loosen the screws. that's a beautiful message to send. we already have the tools to make the world a better place, we just need to use them

the problem is that the book is deeply, deeply libertarian. this exists in two forms. the first is the classical definition, the bottom half of the political compass. the book is deeply anti-authoritarian and anti-government. cool! i am too! but while it doesn't resemble the "sell cocaine to the child sex slaves" brand of capital L Libertarianism that would come to be known over the next 50 years, the book is still very much right-wing in nature. while the characters want to protect the environment, they do so because it's something they like, not because of some greater good. it's a selfish form of environmentalism. on its own, that might be fine, but the selfishness affects the text. the earliest act of monkeywrenching the characters engage in is blowing up billboards in the desert. are billboards a problem to natural beauty? yes, definitely. is anything gained by destroying them? no. if you have an issue with them, you can lobby with the local government to ban or limit them. except the book is so deeply libertarian that it sees the individual solution as the only one

also, the book is really sexist. i never finished it because the single female character is treated like shit, and the male characters aren't any more pleasant

but the book doesn't exist in isolation. The Monkey Wrench Gang formed a political movement, Earth First! who saw it as their bible to protect the world. with the understanding that the key to saving the world was in their hand, they set forth to protect the natural beauty of the US. i love Earth First! they are a cornerstone of my political ideology. but The Monkey Wrench Gang casts a dark shadow over the history of the group

Earth First! was founded by men who saw themselves in the protagonists of the book. rude, aggressive men. Libertarians. Dave Foreman (who i just delightfully learned is dead) in particular was outspoken about what the group should be, which was gruff, libertarian men who did things on their own. and for many years, that's what Earth First! was

but in the late 80s, Earth First! began to experience a cultural shift as they focused their attention away from the American Southwest and towards the Pacific Northwest, where extreme logging threatened to completely strip the region of its forests. a lot of the people who participated in Earth First! events in the PNW were young women (such as my mom), and importantly, left-wing. by the end of this cultural shift in the early 90s, Earth First! had a notably anarchist lean, and David Foreman had left (he was mad about this until his death. lol)

Redwood Summer was a months-long event where Earth First! had thousands of volunteers show up. the summer was preceded by an attempted FBI assassination too. between the bombing and the loud noise they were able to make, the movement caught national attention. Redwood Summer remains the event that the group is most known for, and once they got what they were trying for, aka local governments limiting the amount of logging that companies were able to do, there was a noticeable decline in activity

i love Earth First! but their origins are deeply problematic because it's so much rooted in The Monkey Wrench Gang and the budding libertarian ideology of the 70s. other texts were used as inspiration, such as Silent Spring by Rachel Carson or A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold, but The Monkey Wrench Gang and the individualism it espoused were always a core part of the group, especially in its early days. it's also hard to separate The Monkey Wrench Gang from the practice of tree spiking, which is putting metal spikes in trees to prevent logging. this doesn't harm the tree, so theoretically a forest can be spiked, and the company logging it informed of such, meaning that they have to leave it alone, as if a spiked tree is logged, it will destroy equipment such as saws. the problem is that this can easily lead to loggers being hurt or killed, such as if a chainsaw's band breaks and strikes them. for advocates of the rugged individualism, this is fine, because it's their fault for logging in the first place, but any reasonable view will see this as unacceptable, because the loggers themselves are not the ones at fault. tree spiking was controversial for many years and Earth First! pamphlets would come with guilds for how to effectively tree spike. it was eventually banned, but it's a black mark on the group's history

i've lost the point here, a bit. all of this is the legacy of The Monkey Wrench Gang. i respect it for starting this movement which would go on to be so important, but at the same time, the text itself is rather vile and the worst aspects of Earth First! all lay in this and similar texts. i wish i could find more personal value in it, but it's a case where everything of value to do with it is what came after. people don't talk about the book much anymore except in the context of Earth First! but i think it has a fascinating history and despite all the Problems i just spent a thousand words talking about, i think it would do the world some good to have it and similar texts be apart of the discourse again