#Build and Poi

[timetravelstudies]

this crazy ass toxic city has done some cocomelon shit to me bc why do i instantly feel safer and calmer to be here

[oh-yeah-ants]

Rewatching person of interest while I do some work and I forgot how funny some things are. John’s dry humor is so great.

Also it’s not slipping my notice how purposeful Finch is with EVERYTHING. Like he had tabs on John for who knows how long. Probably envisioned working with him for forever. I wonder what he felt when he was finally talking to him face to face

[aria0fgold]

Playing minecraft singleplayer isn't usually this fun but as a system it got really fun in a way where it also simultaneously fixes my horrendous sleep sched by being so lenient with the use of creative mode from time to time.

[rynfinity]

I’ve said it before, but I feel like it’s time to say it again.

Two people - and two people alone - really know what transpired between Build and Poi. I’m reasonably certain neither is reading this post.

Outside of that, and armed with very few actual, confirmed facts, the rest of us just have opinions. Our opinions are colored by so many things - our personal experiences and those of our friends and families, the prevailing cultures in which we grew up and/or now reside, our religious/spiritual beliefs, our ethics and viewpoints on right and wrong, our capacity for empathy, our personalities, etc. - that it’s not at all surprising we start from the same (few) facts and reach completely different conclusions.

Still, just opinions. We can speculate all we want, but we don’t actually know:

what happened

who is in the right, and to what degree

who deserves what outcome

who has already gotten what they deserve, be that reward and/or punishment, v. who still has it coming

what others’ stated opinions really say about them as people

We don’t know. We may never know.

Ripping each other to shreds on social media doesn’t help Build. It doesn’t help Poi. It doesn’t help their former colleagues.

It certainly doesn’t help us, either. :(

[magerymishaps]

The 7th Day in & Days To Day

Others: Prepare their kill bases. Me: Get on my bike and drive to a random large structure to have a party in.

[callme-adam-iguess]

I HAVE A fab idea

WHAT IF YOU MAKE A RED POISONER ASKBLOG AND I MAKE A BLU THIEF ASKBLOG???

OOOO MAYBE..

[d-targaryenshoe]

Affectionate Travels - Benedict Bridgerton

Word count: 1469

Summary: Newlyweds may find it hard to keep their hands to themselves, i'm not wrong am I not?

Warnings: S M U T

As the carriage rumbled along the muddy country road, you gazed out the window, lost in thought.

 The honeymoon had been lovely, of course, a whirlwind of devotion and pleasure, as you and Benedict had explored the lush vineyards of Burgundy and the cobblestone streets of Paris.

 But now that you were on your way back home to England, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension. 

You wondered what life would be like now that you were truly married, and if your love would be able to withstand the trials and tribulations that were sure to come your way.

A gust of wind swept through the open window, carrying with it the scent of damp soil and the distant sound of laughter.

 You turned your head to glance at your husband, who was buried deep in conversation with your coachman. 

He looked handsome, even with his hair disheveled and his jacket unbuttoned.

 A small smile played at the corners of your lips as you remembered your wedding day, when he'd first seen you in your wedding dress, his eyes widening with surprise and admiration.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, the leather upholstery creaking beneath you.

The ride back home was going to be long and arduous, but you were determined to make the best of it. 

Maybe you could simply lean back against the squabs and close your eyes, relishing the gentle sway of the carriage and the feeling of being wrapped up in his arms.

You let out a contented sigh as you snuggled closer to your husband, your cheek resting against his broad shoulder. 

You could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and his muscles tensed as you ran your fingers through his hair.

The rhythmic clickety-clack of the horse's hooves on the road soon lulled you into a peaceful sleep, and you didn't stir even when the carriage came to a stop.

It wasn't until you felt Benedict's lips pressed against your neck that you awoke with a start.

"What are you doing?" you murmured, your voice hoarse from sleep.

"Just making sure you're pleased," he replied with a chuckle, his breath warm against your skin.

You let out a small laugh, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "I am now."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Good. Because I was thinking we could pass the time more...entertainingly."

You felt a shiver of anticipation run down your spine.

 "Oh?" you breathed, your heart racing.

Benedict slipped his hand beneath your dress, his fingers tracing a path up your thigh. "Yes. Why don't we relish our last few moments to ourselves, in this carriage?"

You gasped, your body responding instinctively to his touch. 

You arched your back, pressing yourself against his hand. 

"Here?" you whispered, your voice trembling with desire. "Now?"

Benedict smiled, his eyes darkening as he gazed down at you. "Yes, my love. Right here."

With practiced ease, he shifted your positions, maneuvering you so that you were straddling his lap.

 His other hand found its way to your breast, cupping it through your chemise.

 You moaned, your hips moving in time with his thrusts as he guided his erection to your entrance.

The carriage rocked and swayed with the movement, but neither of you cared. 

You were lost in the heat of the moment, the thrill of being caught in the act.

 Your nails dug into his shoulders, your back arching as you felt the familiar pressure building within you.

As your lovemaking intensified, the sounds of the horses and the creaking of the carriage seemed to fade away, leaving you in a world of your own. 

The leather upholstery beneath you groaned in protest, the carriage rocking wildly with each thrust.

Benedict buried his face in your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to control his desire.

 Your body trembled with each thrust, your muscles tensing as you neared the point.

 The carriage rocked wildly, the horses whinnied in protest, but you were oblivious to anything but your own need.

Your movements became more frantic, more urgent, as the pleasure built within you. 

You threw your head back, letting out a shuddering cry of release, your body arching tight against your husband's. 

He followed soon after, his breath hot on your ear as he groaned out his release.

Your hearts pounded wildly, your skin flushed as you clung to each other, trying to catch your breath.

 The carriage finally came to a halt, the horses' harnesses creaking and groaning from their exertion.

 The air inside was thick with the scent of your sweat and the tang of your lovemaking.

You leaned back against the squabs, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. 

You looked up at your husband, your eyes locked, and felt a rush of affection and contentment wash over you.

 "I think," you whispered, "we should do that more often."

Benedict smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

"Yes," he agreed, "I think you're correct." 

He reached up to straighten your hair, his fingers brushing against your cheek. 

"Perhaps," he continued, his voice low and husky, "when we get home, we could find a more comfortable spot to continue our celebration."

You felt a shiver of anticipation run down your spine. 

"I think that's a wonderful idea." you glanced out the window, taking in the familiar scenery as you pulled into the driveway.

 "It's good to be married to you, Benedict."

He smiled, leaning in to kiss you. "Likewise, my love."

As the carriage came to a halt, the driver opened the door and stepped down, coming around to help you descend. 

You took Benedict's hand, allowing him to help you down from the carriage. 

The air was cool and crisp, carrying with it the scent of autumn leaves and wood smoke. 

You made your way up the steps to the front door, your hands still clasped together.

The butler, Mr. Jenkins, opened the door at your approach, bowing slightly. "Welcome home, my lord, my lady."

Benedict nodded in reply, his eyes never leaving your face. 

"Thank you, Jenkins." He glanced around, taking in the grand entrance hall with its marble floors and ornate ceiling. "I trust all is in order?"

"Yes, my lord. Everything is just as you left it."

You continued through the hall, the servants falling into step behind you.

 You felt a sense of contentment wash over you as you walked hand-in-hand with your husband, the warmth from your lovemaking still lingering between them. 

You couldn't help but wonder what other adventures you would share, what other memories you would create together.

As you entered the grand sitting room, you were struck by its cozy atmosphere. 

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the rich wood paneling and softly lit sconces. 

A plush rug covered the floor, the furniture arranged invitingly around it. 

You could almost imagine curling up on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea, spending the afternoon lost in the pages.

"Would you like something to drink, my lady?" Mr. Jenkins asked, interrupting your thoughts. 

"Perhaps some tea or a glass of wine?"

"Wine sounds lovely, thank you, Jenkins," you replied. 

You glanced at Benedict, who nodded in agreement. 

You exchanged a smile before the servants withdrew, giving you a moment of privacy.

You moved closer to the fireplace, warming your hands by the dancing flames. 

The room was beautiful, but it was the feeling of being with Benedict that truly made it special. 

You looked up at him as he stood at the window, gazing out at the garden beyond.

 There was a distant look in his eyes as if he were lost in thought.

"Are you alright, dearest?" you asked softly.

He turned to you, a small smile on his lips. 

"I was just thinking about the future, my dear. All the possibilities that lie before us." He walked over to you, taking your hands in his. 

"I can't wait to see what we'll accomplish together."

You felt a surge of affection for your husband. Despite your differences, you complemented each other perfectly. 

You knew that your partnership would only continue to grow stronger with time.

"I'm looking forward to finding out, Mr. Bridgerton," you said, leaning into him. 

"And I think we should start by finding that comfortable spot we were talking about earlier." you winked, your lips curving into a mischievous grin.

Benedict chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"I believe I remember what you had in mind. Very well, my lady. Lead the way." He took your hand, entwining your fingers as you began to wander through the sitting room, searching for the perfect spot to continue your celebration.

[dolusectus]

INNOGEN THE LAPDOG [DOL PC/POI]

You are in an alleyway in the commercial district. You can hear the commotion of the high street, a figure once leaning on a wall straightens up into view. They're young—maybe nineteen—but built solidly under loose, baggy clothing. Their buzz-cut hair is a creamy tone of blonde, it's hard to discern the design slapped on it. You think you've seen them before, but the thought leaves you when they finally look up. The alley’s dim lighting catches on sharp teeth, glinting just slightly as they speak. "Yo," they greet, voice unbothered, almost bored. "Hold up a sec, you free to talk with a stranger?"

⥼║ False name: Innogen (Innoi)

⥼║ Real name: Eógan Ó Beline

⥼║ Pronouns: They/she/he

⥼║ Age: 19 years old

⥼║ Height: 5’8” (172 cm)

⥼║ Role: Lapdog

Innogen is a “questionably” trusted asset of Bailey, working as one of his goons despite being a ward of the orphanage themself. Often found collecting dues from other orphans, loitering around the nursery, or lending added muscle when needed. They attend school and live in the orphanage like you and the rest, but few can say they've actually seen them around. Their face, however, feels oddly familiar—like someone you've seen before but can't quite place.

[ UNLOCKING INNOGEN POI ]

Innogen is an unlockable POI when having an outstanding amount of missed payments owed to Bailey—precisely unlockable if the player has been staying at the orphanage (not other safehouses) and fighting off Bailey and his goons every Sunday. They're an added scale to the challenge of avoiding payment and making money. All first meetings engage into an encounter where the player can either agree to hand over the payment or not. Payment asked is small but will gradually increase with added 'interest' until the missed payments are completely paid for. When declining to pay, Innogen will reaffirm—once again asking, increasing stress. Declining once more, Innogen will leave, ending the encounter with the following line: "Okay, cool. See you at home."

Returning back to the orphanage, the player will find their room completely ransacked—any stored clothes in the wardrobe torn, all (bought) furniture damaged, and the bed hardly damaged but covered in a substance you're not willing to unknowingly touch bare-handed. A note will be posted on the now ruined mirror: on it, a cute cat face—eyes and mouth—is scratched in the middle. The words below are just as messy but readable: "Should have paid him. Hope you weren't attached to any of this."

This increases stress, lowers control, and greatly reduces any positive effects brought furniture could provide. You can either clean the mess, building up fatigue and stress, or simply buy new furniture—though with either choice, your room and items is at risk of being damaged again.

From then on, giving overdue payments to Innogen or Bailey will help lower your missed payments. Continuing to miss your payments, Innogen’s punishments will gradually worsen into more creative methods.

[yuh13lo]

⚝ Just move in M.S.

It had been a hellish week.

Matt’s girlfriend had barely slept, her nerves pulled taut like a violin string. Her apartment complex had slapped an eviction notice on her door on Monday — not for lack of payment, but because the building was being sold. Converted into luxury condos. She had thirty days to find somewhere new. Thirty days to uproot the life she had painstakingly built in Los Angeles.

She hadn’t told Matt yet. He had enough on his plate — editing deadlines, brand calls, and his usual habit of overthinking every small thing. She didn’t want to be one of them.

But Nick? Nick always noticed when something was off. Maybe because they’d become close over the past few months. Maybe because he just… saw people, really saw them.

That’s why on Wednesday afternoon, when she showed up at the triplets’ house with coffee and a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes, Nick pulled her aside.

“You okay?” he asked lowly, barely above the hum of the dishwasher in the background. Matt was out front shooting B-roll, Chris was in the shower, and she was this close to holding it together.

Until Nick looked at her like that — calm, serious, soft around the edges.

“I’m getting evicted,” she blurted, blinking fast. “Well — not evicted evicted. My building’s being sold. I have to be out in less than a month, and I haven’t told Matt yet because I didn’t want to stress him out—”

“Whoa, hey, slow down,” Nick said, setting his mug down and turning to face her completely. “You’re seriously being kicked out?”

She nodded and leaned against the counter. “I don’t even know where I’m gonna go. LA rent is insane, and it’s not like I have family out here or anything. I just… I didn’t want to dump it all on Matt.”

Nick frowned. “You should tell him.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I just needed to say it out loud first.”

“Okay.” Nick gave her a small nod. “You said it out loud. Now you’re not alone in it anymore.”

She didn’t realize how badly she needed to hear that until the words settled in her chest like a weight finally being redistributed. She reached for Nick’s hand and squeezed it.

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t until two nights later — over a pasta dinner she had helped make — that everything unraveled.

They were all crowded around the table at the triplets’ house. Matt on her right, hand casually resting on her thigh under the table. Chris across from them, eating like he hadn’t seen food in three days. Nick at the head of the table, refilling his lemonade like it was an Olympic sport.

Conversation flowed easily. Tour memories, TikTok trends, one chaotic debate about whether or not pineapples belonged on pizza.

But then Matt leaned toward her and asked, “Did your landlord ever fix your heater, by the way?”

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth.

Nick — sweet, sometimes obliviously loud Nick — answered before she could.

“They’re not fixing anything. They’re kicking her out.”

The table went silent.

Matt blinked. “What?”

Chris stopped chewing. “Wait. What do you mean, kicking her out?”

She stared at Nick like he’d just committed war crimes. “Nick—”

He winced. “I thought you told him.”

“You knew she was getting evicted and didn’t say anything?” Matt’s voice dropped, confused and hurt.

Chris looked between all of them, eyebrows raised. “Can someone please explain what the hell’s going on?”

She took a breath, cheeks flushing with frustration and embarrassment. “My building’s being sold. Everyone’s getting evicted. I have until the end of the month to find a new place.”

Matt turned to her fully now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to stress you out,” she said quietly. “I thought I could handle it.”

“You don’t have to handle everything alone,” Matt said, voice softening.

Nick, now clearly shrinking in his chair, mumbled, “Sorry for spilling.”

She waved him off. “It’s fine. I mean, now it’s out there.”

Chris suddenly stood, grabbed his plate, walked around the table, and dropped into the empty seat beside her.

“Okay, listen,” he said, pointing his fork like a general commanding an army. “You’re not going to find some sketchy overpriced shoebox with moldy walls and a toilet that doesn’t flush.”

“Chris—”

“No. Seriously. Just move in here.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, perking up. “That actually makes sense.”

Matt looked between them, then back at her, his hand finding hers under the table. “You could.”

“You guys are insane,” she said, but her heart was thudding a little harder in her chest.

“We’ve got the space,” Chris continued. “You’re already here half the time. You know where everything is. You make food for all of us. What more do we need?”

She looked to Matt, who just gave her that smile — the quiet, boyish one that always made her knees weak. “You wouldn’t be stressing about rent. You’d be with people who actually care. I’d love having you here all the time.”

She looked around the table. Three boys who had slowly become her whole world. One who held her heart. And two who had chosen her like family.

The thought of packing up her apartment still made her chest ache, but this?

This felt like home.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Chris raised his fork triumphantly. “She’s in!”

Nick clapped.

Matt leaned in and kissed her cheek.

And just like that, dinner resumed — like nothing had happened — except she wasn’t alone anymore. Not even a little bit.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Ink & Needle // Chapter Twenty-Two

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, canon-typical violence, flashback, blood and injury, swearing

Word Count: 3.2k

Simon relives the past. Evie goes to Simon for help. Price and 141 come for another visit.

Chapter Twenty-One // Chapter Twenty-Three

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

It’s raining.

Simon can hear it pattering against the steel roof. He stands on the edge of a fractured concrete slab, staring down into darkness. Even the rain collects here, falling from the opening in the roof several stories up.

This is the only light Simon has. The rest of the building is utterly dark.

Walsh is here. Somewhere. Slinking through the inky blackness like a tentacled beast awaiting its next meal.

The fucker is cornered, and he knows it. Walsh blew the goddamn fuse box, shoving the abandoned construction site into complete darkness. It’s not ideal—but Simon has worked in far harsher conditions.

Simon had the advantage—the element of surprise. He seized it, only for Walsh to run when one of his conspirators shot off at Simon suddenly and without warning. The bullet only grazed Simon’s upper arm. Nothing more.

They’re all dead now.

All but Walsh.

Simon made sure of it. He did it slowly, using the shadows to his advantage, becoming a violent mist that struck with sharpened blade. Those men are just puddles of blood and vacant eyes.

Twirling his knife end-over-end, Simon considers his next move. Walsh’s only escape is on foot, and even in that the man is fucked. Simon managed to nick the back of Walsh’s leg just before he disappeared. Best case scenario, Simon struck a tendon. Unlikely—but Walsh isn’t going to make it far on foot, not with this rain and an injured leg.

Simon’s cold gaze surveys the building around him.

It’s just one of many properties Walsh owns, but knowing which was always the hard part. The man hides behind fake companies and even faker names. Connecting them back to him took the most effort. This place is just storage—a building to conceal what you don’t want found.

“Where are you?” murmurs Simon, cleaning the blood off his blade against his pant leg.

Walsh is unpredictable when he’s cornered. The man turns into a wild animal. All raised fur and sharpened teeth. This is the Walsh that’s dangerous. The one that will do anything to escape.

Stepping away from the edge, Simon submerges himself into the shadows. He backtracks, stepping over bodies along the way, boots silent as he walks. The rain picks up as Simon enters a partially completed stairwell. There are walls and stairs, but no roof or railings.

He is unprotected from the rain, and the water soaks into his clothes, the fabric sticking to his skin. Most of his body is unprotected, but this isn’t an infiltration, and backup is far away. The opportunity appeared suddenly, and Simon seized it with both hands, ready to choke. Simon made himself a false friend to Walsh, and that is the only reason Simon is this close to victory.

Three years.

Three fucking years since Simon started tracking this fucker.

Three years of endless searching. Endless infiltrations. Endless missions. Simon got close. Moved in. And now he’s fucking here, ready to finish the job.

And he will.

He fucking will.

Simon exits the stairwell and returns to the slim light trailing in from the hole in the roof. There’s a sharp illumination, a flash of white, followed by the cracking boom of thunder. The metal around him lights up, soaking up and reflecting the lightning.

Simon inhales, the scent of rain seeping through the soaked balaclava.

He glances upward, and squints just as another flash of lightning illuminates the space.

Above him—four levels up—is a shadow of a man.

Simon doesn’t wait for the next bolt of lightning. He turns back into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. His heart pounds in his chest—adrenaline spiking. Blood rushes through his limbs, muscles tense and poised for action.

The next flash of lightning comes, but—no. Not white. Not bright.

This is hot. This is heat.

This is flame.

The building shakes and Simon slips, sliding down the stairs, eventually landing on his knee as a resounding boom vibrates his bones.

“Fuck!” cries Simon as his knee strikes concrete. It’s a sharp crack that shoots up his leg and goes right to his head.

Rolling to the side, Simon presses himself against the wall, protecting his head as everything shudders around him. The rattling tapers out—and the moment Simon’s teeth aren’t rattling around in his head—he pushes to an upright position.

The first step is agony. He can hardly bend his fucking knee.

Hissing sharply with every step, Simon continues to climb, emerging onto the fourth level as a rising wave of nausea hits him.

The wispy tendrils of smoke come first before the heat. Simon cautiously walks forward, circumventing a slab of slanted concrete.

Behind it is fire. There is so much of it. Climbing the walls, complete undampened by the rain.

What the fuck did Walsh set off?

Simon’s intelligence said that this place might be storing chemicals, not weapons. But it didn’t say what kinds of chemicals.

A nearby beam falls from its mooring and crashes to the floor. Simon takes a step back, and then the world is tipping. Spinning.

Simon didn’t hear him. Didn’t see Walsh coming.

There are strong arms around him, shoving him down.

Simon’s training clicks into place, and he surrenders to the push, falling into it. When Simon’s back hits the ground, he rolls with the momentum, shoving Walsh off of him. Walsh tumbles away, rolling through a small patch of fire, before skidding to a stop on his side.

Simon pushes up to standing just as Walsh regains his footing. His black hair is a soaked mess, lips a snarl. Simon always thought that Walsh looked like a crow. All sharpness and talon.

“You fucking betrayed me,” screams Walsh, spittle flying from his lips.

He takes a step, staggering slightly. The sleeve of Walsh’s jacket smokes. In his right fist is a crowbar.

“Always planned on it,” replies Simon coldly.

The crowbar gently swings with Walsh’s swaying form. He hefts the metal up, pointing the bent end at Simon. “I’m gonna kill you. Take your eyes. Feed them to my fucking dogs.”

Simon says nothing. He remains still, knife clutched in his fist. It’s the only true protection he has.

“And then I’m going to kill every person you love,” continues Walsh, eyes widening slightly as he talks. “Everyone you’ve ever cared about.” Walsh lowers the crowbar. “Even the dead ones.” He laughs, the sound manic and high. “What’s a bit of graverobbing, yeah?” Walsh grins. “You can add it to the fucking list of grievances.”

“You’re not walking out of here alive,” says Simon, keeping his tone calm.

Price and the rest of the team are on their way with additional forces. Simon can kill the man, but it’ll be much easier once everyone else arrives. He just needs to play this right, to keep Walsh occupied for a bit or until the wanker tires himself out.

Either way, Walsh is a dead man.

Walsh shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate.” He starts walking forward, the crowbar swinging. Walsh twists his wrist and the metal bar comes upward for him to grasp it like a bat. “I always fucking win.”

Simon steps to the side as Walsh brings the bar down. The man grunts. Staggers. Turns back in Simon’s direction.

Pushing the advantage, Simon shoves the knife forward with a quick slashing gesture. Walsh dodges, the metal of the blade harshly sliding against the crowbar. Sparks fly as the two metals meet.

Walsh swings again. Simon grabs the crowbar just above Walsh’s hands, holding it at bay.

“Fuck you!” screams Walsh, kicking out.

He connects with Simon’s injured knee. Simon staggers. His hand slips a bit on the crowbar.

“Fucking bastard,” spits Walsh, kicking out again, striking Simon in the chest.

Simon’s hold on the crowbar remains but he goes down, the two men stumbling to the concrete floor.

They are a tangle of limbs. Walsh gnashes his teeth, chomping at Simon as if to tear away flesh. Simon’s elbow connects with Walsh’s jaw. The man’s head snaps back and Simon slices the knife through the air.

The blade tears up Walsh’s neck, drawing blood. It isn’t much. Not nearly enough.

Walsh pushes off Simon, clutching his throat as he takes up the crowbar and swings again.

This time, the bent end connects, digging into Simon’s leg. Screaming, Simon lunges for it, intending to rip it out of his leg.

“No you fucking don’t,” snarls Walsh, yanking on the crowbar.

Simon scream again. Muscle and tendon are tearing. Nerves severing as Walsh drags Simon’s by his leg across the floor.

“I’m not done with you,” growls Walsh, yanking again.

Simon growls and lunges forward, grabbing onto the crowbar. The two men fight for dominance and control.

Walsh lashes out with his fist. Simon jerks to the side, and then thrusts his head forward, cracking his forehead against Walsh’s nose.

Blood bursts across Walsh’s face. The man stumbles back, falling on his ass.

With a guttural cry, Simon changes his angle on the crowbar, tugging it free. A black pool begins to form beneath Simon’s leg.

Groaning, Simon turns onto his side, pushes up to sitting with both hands. Grabbing his knife, Simon staggers to his feet just as Walsh steadies himself.

Simon charges, knocking into Walsh, blade pointed forward.

The knife goes in clean. Perfectly slips between ribs, missing bone, and meeting tender flesh.

Walsh screams, and then laughs—fucking laughs. The sound is choked. Garbled. But it’s not just Walsh who screams. They’re both screaming, staring into each other’s eyes as all that pent up rage and anger emerges like a storm.

A knee shoves into Simon’s stomach, and then the two men are up again. Simon’s knife is still lodged in Walsh’s chest.

The rest is all fists. Blurry. Bloody.

At some point Simon’s back and arms burn, the clothes singed and partially melted. He’s not sure when it happens. Everything is growing fuzzy, and his leg doesn’t want to move. It drags behind Simon with every swing of his fist.

Walsh’s hands slide around Simon’s throat. Using his weight, Simon drives forward, moving like a rugby player, pushing Walsh closer and closer to the edge.

Walsh’s mouth is moving, but there are no words.

It’s a buzzing. Like an alarm.

Like—

Simon’s eyes snap open. He’s greeted by the ceiling. The burns beneath the tattoos are warm as if the dream renewed the long-forgotten pain.

And that buzzing.

“Fucking hell,” groans Simon, sitting up, and grabbing his phone off the bedside table.

Bravo whines and places his head on Simon’s leg, his large dark eyes tinged with worry.

Simon opens up the doorbell app on his phone, checking to see who is out on the street wanting entrance. He checks the time and balks.

“Shit,” mutters Simon, swinging his legs out of bed. Bravo grumbles his annoyance but doesn’t move from his spot.

The quality isn’t great but there’s a woman standing outside. All he can see is a coat and her figure. He can’t tell if it’s you, but it might be.

Simon hits the button that unlocks the downstairs door and shuts off his phone. Standing, his bad knee stretches, resisting movement. He stretches a bit, and then heads for the front door.

Someone is banging on it before Simon even makes it across the living room.

He unlocks the deadbolts, and swings the door wide, expecting that it might be you and you’ve simply lost your key.

But it’s not you. It’s—

“Evie?” breathes Simon, his sudden excitement dimming to an extinguished flame.

She is rain-soaked. Trembling. Her brown eyes are large and round. Simon tastes fear and desperation in the air.

Something is wrong.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know it’s late. But I have no one else to turn to. The police aren’t doing anything and I—”

“Come inside,” says Simon, softly, taking a step back.

Evie swallows hard, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she takes a hesitant step into Simon’s flat. He shuts the door behind her, locking the deadbolts.

“Sit here,” he instructs, gesturing toward the kitchen table. “I’ll make tea.”

“Simon,” she starts.

“Tea first, and then we’ll talk.”

Evie only nods, removing her coat to hang on the back of the chair. Simon fills the electric kettle and turns it on. Striding into the living room, he snags a blanket off the couch, and offers it to Evie.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, unfolding it slowly to drape over her shoulders.

Simon returns to the kitchen, preparing what he can for the tea. This concerns you. He knows it deep in his bones. But as much as Simon wants answers—craves them like a cigarette after sex—he needs to be fucking calm about this. He needs to be the clear-headed one.

When the kettle goes off, Simon makes each of them tea, spooning the perfect amount of milk and sugar into both. Simon sets a mug down in front of Evie and then decides to settle in the seat across from her.

“What happened?” he asks.

Evie’s mouth opens. Closes. She bites her lips and stares down into her cup.

“Start wherever you need,” says Simon. “Take your time.”

Time is never on anyone’s side. He is fully aware that time is your greatest friend and enemy. Even a few seconds are crucial.

Evie takes a deep, shuddering breath. “She should have been home yesterday. It’s not like her to not call if she’s running late.” She pauses, taking a moment to drink some tea. “I called. Texted. Nothing. Would go out to the house but I have Lillian to think of.”

“What time was she supposed to be home?”

“Around dinner,” answers Evie after a few seconds. “Still no word. No phone calls. No texts.” Evie sighs. “I went to the police station this morning but they shrugged it off. Said it’s too soon to file a missing person’s report.”

“Have you tried contacting anyone else?” asks Simon. His grip on his cup is the only thing grounding him right now.

Evie nods. “I contacted the estate agent. She said she’s go out there and check.” Tears begin to form in the corners of Evie’s eyes. “Haven’t heard anything. When I call her it goes straight to voicemail.”

Evie glances up from staring into her mug. “I’m worried. That’s why I came.”

“You did the right thing,” replies Simon. “I’ll go check.”

Her sigh of relief is palpable, as if the burden of it is a physical thing. “Thank you, Simon. I—”

“Finish your tea,” interrupts Simon. “I need to make a few calls.”

Glass crunches under Simon’s boots. Some of it shines in the morning light. Other pieces shine red.

The patio door is completely shattered, the glass strewn over the living room and lawn. In the middle of the floor is a deep pool of dark red liquid. And in that pool are two bodies.

Neither of them is you—thank fuck, but it’s hardly reassuring.

You are not here. You are—wherever you are.

Simon stares down at the two dead women. There’s a hammer near the blonde, the bludgeoning end covered in brain matter and gore. This is the estate agent and her assistant. They came to check after all at Evie’s request.

And they walked right into their deaths.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Captain Price, bending at the knees, observing the two lifeless women.

Kyle and Johnny are near the kitchen. Gaz is slowly shuffling through the paperwork on the kitchen counter while Johnny slowly walks the entryway with a torch. Simon doesn’t think they’ll find anything important.

This doesn’t have to do with Evie at all. Or Archie.

Not at the moment anyway.

This is about Simon. This is about Walsh.

It is about revenge, and the spirit of the chase in pursuit of that excellent vengeance.

Simon walks the perimeter of the dark pool, coming to a stop next to Price. He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze downward.

“Good thing you called us,” says Price, voice gruff. He comes to a standing position, a frown on his face. He turns to Gaz and Johnny. “Found anything?”

“Nope,” comes Soap’s response as he shines his torch up and down the staircase.

Gaz shrugs. “Not sure,” he replies. “This is mostly paperwork about selling the house. Don’t think Walsh is after that.”

“He’s not after the house,” growls Simon.

Price glances at him. “Simon.”

He’s trying to remind Simon to be calm—to chill the fuck out. But Simon is anything but calm. He’s fucking fuming.

“Walsh is after me,” says Simon, gaze locking with Price’s.

“Then why didn’t he come after you?” counters Price, shrugging. “You’re a civilian now. Why not surprise you in your home?”

Simon snorts but it’s not with amusement. “Think Walsh wants to make this quick?” He gestures toward the dead women.

Price doesn’t even glance at them. “These two were in the way. Likely surprised them.”

“Sure,” agrees Simon. “But he wants to hurt me first. To cause pain before he strikes.”

“We’ll find her,” sighs Price. “Maybe she escaped?”

“She would have turned up somewhere. Made contact with someone.” Simon shakes his head. “Walsh has her.”

“We don’t know that, Simon.”

Simon is ready to snap a reply, to show some teeth. This is about him, but it’s also about you. Walsh can have anything, but he can’t have you. You are the only thing Simon has ever truly wanted. The only person he’s craved to the point of obsession.

Life does not seem complete without you.

Letting you go is not an option.

“Captain!” calls Johnny.

Simon and Price snap to attention, their bodies shifting in Soap’s direction. There are solid footsteps, and then Johnny appears around the corner, coming to a stop next to Kyle. He clicks off the torch and places it on the kitchen counter. In his other hand is a large stack of mail. He gently sets the mail down, and spreads them out, making sure each envelope is on full display.

Simon takes a step forward. He’s not sure why he’s moving. Something is telling him to, wrapping around him like a string, and tugging.

Johnny lifts an envelope and holds it up. Frowning, he turns it around. “It’s addressed to Simon.”

He closes the distance in seconds, snatching the letter out of Johnny’s hand. It’s simple parchment. Slightly faded and weather-worn. There is no postage. No address. Just Simon’s full name.

“Simon,” says Price, almost cautiously, as if he doesn’t want Simon to open it.

He ignores Price, tearing it open.

There is a single piece of paper inside. It’s thin—nearly translucent. With slightly shaking fingers, Simon withdraws it from the envelope.

Come and find her. – KW.

[imagine-darksiders]

Old Habits.

Nick Valentine X Sole Survivor. Set during Get a Clue.

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

There are a lot of things Nick Valentine can’t help about himself.

He can’t help the way he looks, all peeled apart at the seams, and full of holes like a cadaver stuck in a state of perpetual decomposition.

He can’t help the way people react to him when they get their first glimpse of his big, ugly mug, be it with contempt, aggression, or simple curiosity.

And perhaps above all else, he can’t help but worry.

Ellie says it’ll be the death of him, that he’ll worry about the wrong person one day and wind up six feet under. And Hell, she was half right, wasn’t she? Went and worried himself straight into an ambush, and an Overseer’s office with a shoddy lock that he couldn’t pick from the inside.

And now, here he is, doing it all over again as if he’s never been burned a day in his life.

But the woman sitting across from him on the other side of his desk - all beleaguered and owly-eyed – is currently stoking whatever mechanisms cause his brow to furl and his empty chest to give a slow, hollow squeeze.

Belatedly, he realises he’s lifted his metal hand to prod a few, curious fingertips against the front of his shirt, as if he might find something there that’s amiss.

Echoes, he supposes, from a bygone life he never technically lived.

Ah well.

Maybe he’s softer than he realises, softer than Ellie accuses him of being all the damn time. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t be so worried if his fresh-faced new friend wasn’t giving him every reason to be.  

---------

The warm inner wall of your cheek tastes like iron between clenched teeth, and you realise distractedly that there’s going to be a nasty ulcer there in a few days if you don’t stop chewing on it. But worrying at the spongey flesh is currently the subtlest way you can think of to distract yourself from that old, familiar sting building behind your eyelids.

You have to be subtle. Because there’s a luminous, golden gaze scrutinising you from beneath the brim of a tattered fedora, and you’d really rather not let on that you’re teetering on the World’s thinnest tight-rope – composure if you fall one way, hysteria the other.

With rigid fingertips, you’ve been clinging to that pre-war poise you used to pride yourself on, actively benumbing yourself to the tragedy of losing far more than your family. You very much abhor the notion of letting your guard down now, all too aware that even the smallest slip might cause a crack in the dam that’s been keeping you upright and placing one foot in front of the other for the last few days.

And so, here you sit, perched politely in the hard, plastic chair on one side of an untidy desk, whilst on the other, leaning forwards attentively in his own seat, is Diamond City’s resident Detective. Nick Valentine.

He had been…. a surprise.

A synth. Strange and uncanny and human and alien all at the same time.

You’d damn near let out an undignified shriek when he stepped from the shadows of his makeshift cell in Vault 114, and it was only thanks to years of practicing how to most effectively bite your own tongue in the court room that you managed to wrestle the sound back down your throat.

Awkwardly, you even thrust a hand out at him in greeting to try and cover your almost faux-pax, and he’d blinked those inhuman eyes at you, uttered the gentlest chuckle you’ve ever heard from a man, and taken your hand in his.

For a synth who seemed only too pleased to trade quips during your escape from the vault, he’s been awfully quiet since he brought you to the agency, evidently content to sit back and allow you some time to gather your thoughts.

Save for the near-undetectable ‘clicks’ and ‘whirs’ of his internal mechanisms, and the ceiling fan whooshing overhead, the office is deafeningly silent.

The girl – Ellie, you seem to recall – has opted to stand at his side, a clipboard tucked against her stomach and a pen balanced delicately at the top of the page. She’s very pointedly trying to keep her eyes on the paper, a direct contrast to Mr Valentine, whose stare is as dogged as a bloodhound’s nose, searching your face for… something.

You’re making a concerted effort to level your expression so that it mirrors his.

Neutral. Safe.

You’re concentrating so hard on controlling the rise and fall of your chest that you flinch when he finally shifts in the chair. Privately, you reprimand yourself for jumping. He’d only raised an arm, moving it from his lap to drape it on top of the desk, but he pauses at your response, holding the limb perfectly still in the air as he studies you, the strange, malleable ‘skin’ on his forrid creasing little by little.

Finally, for the first time since you entered his agency, you clear your bone-dry throat and speak.

“Sorry,” you croak, offering him the sheepish tilt of cracked lips, “Suppose I’m still a bit jumpy.”

An easy hum rumbles up from somewhere deep inside his chest, and you wonder if whoever made him took the time to fashion synthetic lungs in there, or if they just stuck a couple of speakers in his gullet and called it a day. You don’t miss the way those eerie, amber eyes wander down to the collar of your blue jumpsuit either, as if he knows only too well how jumpy you’re bound to be.

Ellie is the first to come to your defence.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes, her voice light and friendly, breaking through the room’s stagnant atmosphere, “Heck, anyone would be in your situation.”

Situation…

That’s one word for it.

The smile pulling at your lips is starting to strain the muscles.

“Speaking of….”

At the sound of his voice, your gaze drifts back over to the mechanical man.

Beneath the rim of his tatty fedora, he meets your eye and ducks to give you a searching look. “You sure you’re feeling up to this?” he asks, reading between the lines of your reticence. Before you can reply, he raises his metal hand and pinches the brim of his hat, tugging it down to half cover his eyes.

It only occurs to you later that he might have done so to try and offer you some reprieve from his unnatural stare.

“Look, if you need another few minutes to collect yourself-“

“-No!”

Now it’s his turn to recoil, and Ellie’s.

The pair of them tilt backwards at your outburst, the latter’s eyes wide and uncertain while Nick simply cocks a brow, and you’re immediately mortified to find that you’ve risen halfway from the chair, not angry, but desperate.

“Sorry!” you blurt, blinking in surprise at yourself, “Sorry – I… I’m just-“

Sucking in a deep breath, you let yourself sink down to the seat beneath you once more, making a show of folding your hands neatly over one another on the desk. “I just… can’t afford to waste any more time coming to terms with what’s happened,” you explain diplomatically, avoiding the piercing stare of the Detective as it bears down on you all over again.

Instead, you try to focus on the faded, black tie dangling from his neck. It’s obviously been tugged loose by his idle hands, sloppily folded to hang below the open collar of his shirt. Your fingers twitch at the memory of helping Nate with his own tie, sliding it up to fit snugly against his throat so as to avoid a reprimand from old Mrs Parker at the neighbourhood parties.

A mist starts to descend over your eyes, so you give them a harsh blink and force your head up again, aiming another smile at Mr Valentine whose downturned mouth is halfway open, on the cusp of saying something before you bulldoze over his response.

“Please,” you gesture loosely towards him, “Ask away. I’m all right.”

You’re not the most convincing liar, and if the Detective’s ever-deepening frown is any indication, you’re not fooling anyone.

But if he has sniffed out what might be the biggest exaggeration of the century, he’s at least decent enough to keep it to himself.

“Well… If you say so,” he concedes, giving you a final once over before he sighs, leaning his elbows on the desk and subjecting you to a businesslike stare, “Now then, why don’t you start from the beginning. Back at the Vault, you said you’re looking for a missing kid?”

“My kid,” you nod solemnly, fighting to keep your voice even, “My baby boy, Shaun. He was… kidnapped right in front of me. I… couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

“Oh, Hon,” Ellie utters, her tone soft even as she scribbles something down on the clipboard.

Nick’s gaze wanders to the side, and he lets out a gentle sigh, or what constitutes for a sigh from someone without lungs. Then, roving his eyes back to yours, he murmurs something that causes your breath to hitch.

“I’m sorry, Doll.”

A chip in the dam… Your lip starts to quiver, so you stuff the flesh of your cheek back between your teeth and clamp down. Hard.

“I just… don’t understand,” you breathe after a moment, slowly releasing the tender sore, “He’s barely a year old. Why would someone steal him?”

“Good question,” Mr Valentine appraises, “They’d be taking on all of his care. And a baby needs a lot of it… Were they after anything else?”

With a shake of your head, you reply, “No, I… I’m pretty sure they were only there for him… We were, um, in a vault when it happened.” Letting out a humourless laugh, you gesture at yourself, more specifically at the suit you’re wearing – have been wearing for centuries. “Obviously.”

Ellie purses her lips, another note scribbled on the clipboard.

“Yeah, figured as much,” the Detective says, “Even without the suit, you got that fish-out-of-water look about you.” Catching himself, he shoots you an apologetic grimace. “Ah, hope you don’t mind me saying. Kept staring at the world around you like it was your first time seeing it.”

“First time seeing it like this,” you admit, waving his apology aside with a flap of your hand.

At that, both he and Ellie perk up, undoubtedly curious.

Seeing the shift, you rub your temple and blow a noisy breath through puckered lips. “Wanna know what year it was when we went into the Vault?” you ask flatly

The Detective’s eyes narrow as he starts to survey your face, calculating your age through looks alone. Deciding to spare him the effort, you heave a worn sigh and say, “Twenty-seventy-seven.”

“……”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensues.

“Excuse me?” Ellie blurts out at last, forgetting about the notes on her clipboard in favour of gawking openly at you instead.

“The year the bombs fell…��� Nick realises as his expression opens up in awe. The glow of his eyes seems brighter when he darts them all over what he can see of you, giving his head a slow shake. “But how is that possible?”

It’s remarkably touching that he doesn’t call your claim into doubt straight away.

“Vault Tec,” you try not to spit the name from your lips, “They were running some kind of experiment down there… They had these… cryo pods ready for us all, told us we had to go in them to get ‘decontaminated.”

Huffing out a breath, you give a hard sniff and snatch your eyes from the Detective’s, hoping he hadn’t seen the tell-tale gleam of tears behind your lashes. “I was so stupid… I didn’t even....Huh. Guess they were banking that we’d be too shocked about the bombs to ask questions.”

“Bombs?” Ellie pipes up, swallowing roughly, “You mean they’d only just…?”

Neither she nor Nick miss the haunted shadow that passes across your face.

“Skin of our teeth doesn’t even begin to describe how close it was,” you whisper.

“That’s…” Unable to come up with a suitable word, her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish for a moment before her expression turns grim and she finally settles on, “That’s awful.”

“It is,” Nick agrees distastefully, “Everyone knows Vault Tec's hands ain't exactly squeaky clean but that's.... Well. It explains a few things. Twenty-seventy-seven, huh?”

A gear in his neck spins audibly as he leans more weight against the desk, propping his chin on sharp knuckles and giving a thoughtful hum. “So, you’ve been on ice for over two centuries-"

A pill that never gets easier to swallow, no matter how often you hear it.

"But more importantly," he continues, "You were underground. Most vaults’re sealed up tight. It’s hard enough breaking out of one.” He nods at you indicatively. “Let alone breaking in. That’s a lot of obstacles to go through just to take one person. What else can you tell us about the kidnappers?”

“They weren’t just kidnappers,” you croak, “They were murderers.”

There’s a catch in your voice on the last word, and while you try to swallow, Ellie once again steps in to fill the silence.

“Take your time,” she says, prompting an agreeable nod from the Detective.

It’s hard not to scoff at that. You’ve been taking your time. Every second spent ‘taking your time’ is another second that Shaun isn’t safe at home in your arms. Once you’ve found him, then you can worry about taking your time to breathe, to start building a life here in the Commonwealth. But trying to build that life without your son, without Nate…?

“My husband…” you utter, idly picking at a loose bit of skin on the side of your thumb, “Nate. He was holding Shaun when we were put in the pods. He was the one still holding him when that… that man came in and opened it. Nate tried to stop them from taking our baby, and they… they just…”

A gunshot echoes somewhere at the back of your mind, so clearly that you dart a glance between Nick and Ellie, wondering if they’d heard it too. You know it’s in your head when the latter only pinches her eyebrows together and cuts in, “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else…”

Catching her lip between her teeth, she worries at it for a second, looking you up and down before she adds, “You’ve really been through the ringer, huh?”

Your gaze lingers on her, then moves over to Nick, then up at the room around you, taking in the cracks in the walls and the general rundown state of things that seems to be so par for the course in this wild new Commonwealth you've woken up in.

“No more than anyone else has in this place, I’m sure,” you reply quietly.

The Detective’s amber stare hardens, though you’re too busy looking at the empty mug on his desk to notice.

‘Downplayer, huh?’ he muses, ‘Oh, kid.’

“So,” he says out loud, “We’re talking about a group of cold-blooded killers, but they waited until something went wrong to resort to violence.”

Placing the tip of her pen back on the clipboard, Ellie asks, “What’re you thinking, Nick?”

For a few moments, he just sits in contemplative silence, mulling over the information you’ve been all too forthcoming with. Until at last, he gives his head a tiny nod and glances up, meeting your gaze across the desk and holding it tightly, unwilling to let it go.

“I’m thinking…” he starts, “That this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. Whoever took your baby had an agenda. And I don’t want to jump to any conclusions yet, but my caps are on the Institute.”

The tiniest flicker of recognition sparks in your eyes, a far more subdued reaction than he’s used to when people are brave or blasé enough to bring up the Institute.

“I’ve heard them mentioned,” you say, “Uh, the news lady… Piper? She said if people go missing, it’s because of the Institute.”

“Well, they are the Boogeyman of the Commonwealth,” Nick responds darkly, “Something goes wrong, everyone blames them.”

Suddenly, your stomach flips, and for a split second, you dare to let yourself hope.

A name. You have a name, and a new lead. It isn’t much, but it’s a Hell of a lot more than you had to go on five minutes ago.

“Do you know where I can find them?” you bleat, eagerly lifting yourself halfway out of your seat again. A little too eagerly, judging by Valentine’s grunt of disapproval and the very pointed way he flicks his chin down at the chair, wordlessly asking you to sit.

“Now, just hold your horses, Doll,” he tells you sternly, eyeing you until you’re seated once more, “I’m afraid it’s not that easy.”

“Nobody knows where they are,” Ellie chimes in, “I don’t think anyone has ever found their headquarters. We don’t know who’s running things, why they’re doing it, or what they do with the people they… take.”

“Well, somebody must know something,” you stress, trying so hard to ignore the uninvited burn in your chest where the flutter of hope had just gone to die, “The trail can’t go cold here! I need to find Shaun.”

That’s all there is. That’s all you have. Anything beyond that is so hard to think about, you’ll probably have an aneurism if you let your mind stray from the Goal.

Mr Valentine is staring at you again with those ever-probing eyes, yet his tone maintains its low and easing lilt as he nods and says, “You’re right. Someone knows where they are, and I’m betting that if we can identify the perps you saw, we’ll be one step closer to finding your kid.”

You don’t pick up on the emphasis he packs behind the word ‘we,’ but he sure as shit took note that you’ve been using ‘I’ far too much for his liking.

It’s a tough job to toe the line between being patronising and being rational, and Nick has learned to walk that line with the grace of a seasoned acrobat. He learned fairly quickly after catching hell from Ellie when she realised he'd been doing background checks on the men she’d taken an interest in.

But he’s not about to outright tell you that he doesn’t want you doing this alone, so he simply won’t present it as an option. He’d have to be some kind of cad to turn a wet-behind-the-ears, prewar woman out into the Wasteland all alone to hunt down the shadiest, most unscrupulous organisation the Commonwealth has ever churned out.

He already figured you weren’t a fighter, even before you managed to sweet-talk Darla into going home. By your own admission, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with any type of firearm, so you have no choice but to be an up-close-and-personal kind of gal.

The old, mahogany baseball bat normally slung over your shoulder now rests on its end at your side, leaning against Nick’s desk within easy grabbing distance. There’s dried blood seeped into much of the wood, harder to see against the darker grain.

And yet despite the amount of crimson liquid you knocked from the skulls of Malone's goons, Nick had instantly noticed something quite peculiar as he watched you fight.

You’d pulled every single one of your punches, even when the thugs tried to swing their submachine guns around in time to riddle you with bullets.

It seemed only by sheer, dumb luck that you beat them to the kill every time with one hard crack across the cranium, sending them all down like sacks of bricks.

And yet, he also noted that you never did it, not once, without a frantic grimace tugging the muscles of your face back, like you hated doing it. Hated having to hurt someone who wouldn’t think twice about killing you.

He remembers the heaving sigh you let out when Skinny gave the pair of you ten seconds to walk, remembers the way you’d all but shoved Nick in front of yourself to get him moving, not harshly, but urgently, your warm palm trembling against his back for those brief seconds before you withdrew it, and he lead you from the vault’s entrance and back through the station.

He knew then that you weren’t built for the Commonwealth Wasteland, even had the suit not been a dead giveaway, he’d have known. So, why then, he’d asked himself, was this frazzled young dame cavorting through a subterranean vault to rescue him?

Seems the answer just became obvious.

You’re a woman quite literally out of time, fixated on one noble yet do-or-die goal.

To save your boy, you’ll dive into ominous vaults to follow a lead, you’ll take on raiders, super mutants and feral ghouls, you’ll face the wasteland and all of its horrors. And the tragedy, he realises, is that you’ll do it because right now, you think it’s all you have left to live for. He doesn’t need to be a detective to work that out.

Guilty recognises guilty, and all that.

But he’s beginning to wonder if you’re not going to dig yourself into an early grave before you even get to see Shaun again.

You’ve been so focused on finding the kid that you haven’t done much of anything else. Don’t even have a cap to your name.

Nick only discovered that sad fact when you both got back to Diamond City and he asked if you wanted to grab some noodles from Takahashi before going to the agency. He didn’t say anything at the time, but he’d noticed the quaver of your hands, your unsteady footfalls and, more pressingly, the numerous gurgles from your stomach that had been complaining at you all the way back from the vault.

‘When was the last time you ate, kid?’ he’d fretted privately, uncertain whether voicing the question aloud would be received well by a near total stranger.

He watched as you stood there and turned out the shallow pockets of your jumpsuit in search of something of value. He saw your carefully placid expression quiver for just a second before you clenched your jaw and looked up at him, offering him a shrug and a half-cocked smile. Then he saw that smile vanish from your face when he marched over to Takahashi and tried to buy the noodles for you.

‘Tried’ being the optimum word.

Short of slapping the caps out of his hand, you did everything you could to deter him, nearly screamed in his face when he waved Takahashi over. And it was that crack in your frightened voice that gave him pause. Were you afraid of owing someone? An understandable concern in this world. Owing a favour to the wrong sort can get a person killed out here.

Nick knows he isn’t the wrong sort, but you don’t. Not yet anyway.

He can’t be sure why you’d rather stay hungry than take his caps, but he’s damned determined to find out. So, against his better judgement, he pocketed the measly change and elected to try again at a later date, perhaps after you’ve had a moment to collect yourself in his office and get your head clear enough to remember that you need to eat.

And sleep, now that he thinks about it. Those eyelids of yours have been drooping more and more with each passing minute, lashes fluttering against your cheeks only to spring open again as if you've been startled.

Right, back to business then, before you conk out on him and he has to find a way to get you horizontal without Ellie waggling her eyebrows at him.

“Really, Nick?” he can already hear her sly teasing, “Always been a sucker for a damsel, haven’t’chya?”

With a grunt, he scrubs the image of her smirking face from the forefront of his processor and zeroes in on the face right in front of him instead.

“Okay,” he begins, “Let’s talk about those kidnappers. Is there anything you can tell us about ‘em? Distinguishing features? Even if you don’t think it’s important, the smallest detail can crack a case wide open.”

It’s like watching a radstorm sweep in and smother lovely, clear skies, the way your eyes darken underneath testily-furrowed eyebrows.

If he had flesh, he might have shuddered at the out-of-place glower aimed at him by a woman like you, but he doesn’t and he knows the expression isn’t meant for him anyway.

If he had to guess, you’ve got the faces of those villains seared like a brand in your mind’s eye.

And sure enough…

“One of them came right up to me,” you bristle, mouth twisting at the edges, “A man. Middle-aged, I guess. Had some stubble but was otherwise bald, and there was this scar - big and nasty – went right down through one of his eyes.”

Recognition sparks like a bolt of lightening through Nick’s wires. He sits up straight, hands moving to brace against the edge of his desk like he means to push himself away from it.

From the corner of an eye, he sees Ellie twist quickly to face him.

“Couldn’t be…” he murmurs softly, raising his voice to ask, “You didn’t happen to hear the name ‘Kellogg’ at all, did you?”

In the blink of an eye, that overcast storm swirling around your face suddenly lifts, and you’re back to looking lost.

“I… don’t think so?” you say, screwing up your face in a way that reminds him of little Natalie when he nags her to wear a coat, “Everything was so muffled after the gunshot…”

Nick pretends he doesn’t see those soft, uncalloused hands of yours curl into fists on top of his desk.

Once again, he mumbles under his breath before addressing his assistant directly. “Say, we still have those notes on Kellogg?”

Ellie has already spun around and marched for the old filing cabinet sitting flush against the far wall, her clipboard abandoned on top of it. With practiced ease, she rifles through the middle drawer, muttering, “Kellogg… Kellogg… Ah! Here.”

Almost of its own accord, Nick’s gaze drifts back towards you, and he finds you suddenly looking far more awake. Alert even, staring hard at the back of Ellie’s head with sharp, unblinking eyes, not unlike a shark that’s just smelled blood in the water.

‘Easy, kid,’ he tries to convey through a slight furl of his brows, tapping a fingertip on the desk, but there’s no pulling those eyes of yours off his assistant’s hands when she finally extracts a worn, manilla folder from the drawers and turns back, leafing through the flimsy papers with her index finger.

“Well, the description certainly fits,” she hums, pulling one from the bunch, “Bald... Scar... Reputation for dangerous mercenary work. But nobody knows who his employer is.”

“He bought a house here in town, right?” Nick ponders aloud, “And he had a kid with him? Quiet, never let ‘im outside to play with the others.”

The last word is barely out of his mouth when there’s the screeching scrape of chair legs against the floor, and before he can even turn towards you, you’re already out of your seat again and slinging your bat over a shoulder.

“Where?” is all you ask in a surprisingly even voice despite how you teeter sideways as the blood rushes to your head.

Nick hardly registers that he’s vacated his own seat and is halfway around the desk with his arms held aloft to steady you by the time his words catch up to him.

“Now, just hang on a second,” he reprimands gently, pulling up short of grabbing your elbow, “I can tell you right now, he hasn’t lived in that house for about months now, and the kid wasn’t an infant. Gotta’ve been at least ten years old.”

“So he kidnapped someone else’s kid!” you exclaim, letting your carefully curated composure slip a few inches, “All the more reason for me to get out there and find this place!”

Snapping your gaze to Ellie, you only manage to keep yourself from barking sharply at her when you see the conflict in her expression. You have to make yourself take a breath that doesn’t feel like it’s enough to fill even half of your lungs.

“Please, Miss Perkins,” you implore, sad eyes drooping with exhaustion as you tip one palm up towards the ceiling, “… Where do I go from here…?”

Valentine tries not to read too much into that, how such a simple question can make a person sound so lost, adrift, unwittingly sending an SOS and wondering if there’s anyone out there who will receive the signal.

Christ. Maybe he is a sucker.

Conflicted, Ellie presses her lips into a thin line and shoots him a look.

And ‘okay,’ he nods to her. He’ll take the helm, try and steer this wayward ship safely back into port.

Because from the looks of things, you’re going out there whether he’s with you or not, and you’re going now. And Nick would much rather be with you when you do.

“Alright,” he appeases, garnering your attention again as he jerks his head towards the door, “Alright. Why don’t you and I take a walk over to Kellogg��s last known address? See if we can't snoop out where he went.”

There’s the tiniest huff from his assistant, who regards him knowingly as he leans past you and pushes the agency’s door open, gesturing for you to go ahead with a sweep of his arm.

“Security doesn’t really go to that part of town,” Ellie calls after him, biting back a comment about ‘old men’ and ‘chivalry,’ “But still… you should be careful.”

And Nick, ever concerned with everyone’s safety except his own, turns to flash her that signature smile over his shoulder, the same one he gave her two weeks ago before he up and vanished on her and made her sick with worry.

“I always am,” he tells her gently.

And then he’s gone, chasing after the footfalls of the unlucky lady with a kind face but eyes that are plagued by seeing too much, too quickly.

Shit, at least the pre-war ghouls had two hundred years to adapt to the world as it shifted around them.

Thankfully for Ellie, the door has already swung shut, deafening the grizzled synth to her muttered, “My ass you are.”

She doesn’t think he’d really wash her mouth out with soap, precious as that resource is, but… well….

She wouldn’t put it past him.

[mikimakiboo]

Time Travelers AU - The Knight's House

Hi

So uhh

It's been almost two months ?

Anyway back on track for now, @ancha-aus guess what the mandatory tag is back

I swear I love this AU I've just been struggling to write :') and do stuff in general- mental health yey

Also ! Time Travelers is now available on AO3 :)

First

Prev

Next

Cross turned around, making sure everyone was still following him as they left the town to the countryside where his house was. Blue didn't come with them, he had work to do after all, but he promised to be accessible if they ever needed anything or just wanted to hang out somewhere. Cross would never thank him enough for the help he gave them taking everyone to the inn, even if the night hadn't been so great for one of the two groups, they still were able to sleep inside with full stomachs and clean clothes.

Blue had explained to him what happened with Horror and Nightmare, that Nightmare seemed very stressed and scared of Horror and that made him sad. Cross had frowned at that, not understanding why Nightmare would be scared of Horror after all the time they spent in Dust's small house. He would surely have to ask him. He would have to ask him a lot of things, and judging by the noble's staying in retreat of the group, he wasn't sure he would get a satisfying answer, if he even get an answer at all...

He sighed, he would have preferred his time period to be peaceful and easy, not a game of survival followed by an awkward walk to his much too small for five persons house... where would they sleep ? He only had one bed and it was for one person. Horror couldn't even fit on it alone. Maybe he could improvise more beds with some straw, blankets and wooden planks ? He really wished he had a bigger house, he almost felt ashamed to welcome his friends in such a pathetic home... knights usually had nice homes or castles even, but knights also usually were nobles, and Cross wasn't, his family were peasants and he didn't have enough money to build a better house, so all he had was a peasant house with one room only. Was it too late to turn around and beg Ccino to let them stay in the inn a little longer ?

He felt someone tap his shoulder and turned his head to see Killer smiling at him.

- Quid cogitas ? He asked with his usual curiosity.

Cross frowned, looking around to see if Nightmare was in hearing range but he was at the far end of the line. Horror kept looking back at him, and Dust was watching the surroundings. He looked back at Killer, smiling awkwardly, not having understood what he asked. Maybe he wanted to know how long the journey was to his house ?

- Nos arriverons tres viste... ? He tried to tell him they'll arrive soon.

It was now Killer's turn to be confused, but he still nodded and silently followed him. Cross had the feeling it wasn't what Killer had asked him.

They continued to walk silently until finally they could see the small house with walls of stone and cob and a roof made of thatch in the middle of a field surrounded by the woods. A calm setting where people wouldn't be around to look at the weird group. It wasn't much bigger than Dust's house, but he at least had a bigger backyard and there would be less noise at night. Dust didn't seem to notice it, but the first few nights they were all bothered at least once by strange roaring noises outside: Dust told them it was the cars. They didn't know what cars were but they sounded like particularly aggressive beasts judging by how much they were roaring and yelling. Cross was glad he didn't have any of those near his house.

He turned to them once in front of the door, watching them analyze his little home.

- Cela est poi... mes benvenu.

It wasn't much, he said, but still greeted them before opening the door and letting them inside. The house was as small on the inside as it was on the outside, there was only one big room with the kitchen and a table en the right and a bed on the left. The only window was on the right of the door, and there was a ladder against the back wall to have access to a mezzanine used as a storage room for food or various equipment. The floor was made of earth, it wasn't the cleanest but it was compacted enough not to be too dirty either. They were lucky not to have arrived during the coldest season as they could live without making a fire for now, which meant not too much smoke inside, and no muddy ground either.

He let them discover the house, a little anxious as he knew it probably wasn't the luxury they expected. Well, Horror and Killer probably didn't expect anything as they seemed rather pleased, Killer having already shove a small candle holder in his bag, but Nightmare and Dust most certainly were aware of what riches a knight was supposed to have, and it did make Cross nervous regarding their reaction: he didn't want Dust to look down on him because he wasn't from the noble class like the other knights, and he didn't want Nightmare to be even more grumpy than he already was because of the persisting lack of luxury.

He looked at Dust first, watching him examine every little thing in the house and pointing his magic rectangle at everything.

- So that's how people lived in the Middle Ages... he mumbled to himself, thoughtful, but aren't knights supposed to be, like, rich or something ? He turned to Cross, are you one of those knights who aren't nobles ? I heard it was possible in certain cases..

Cross understood "rich" and "nobles" as Dust often used those words to refer to Nightmare. Was Dust asking if he was a noble ? Was he asking why the house wasn't bigger or why they weren't in a castle right now ? Was he asking where his money was ? He did have an income and spared as much as possible but he still spent money to buy food, clothes, materials and all sort of things, sure he made a little garden behind his house to grow his own vegetables, but he still had to buy many things so he didn't really have enough money to build another house. And this one was enough for one person anyway so he didn't see the point in changing. Until now.

He shook his head.

- Eo n'ai mie molt ecus...

He didn't have much money, he told him, and saw Nightmare shooting him a look but not saying anything. Dust frowned, this time shooting Nightmare a look, but he had already reported his attention on something else so Dust looked back at the knight. Cross felt his nervousness grow the longer Dust stayed silent, hoping the house in itself would give him enough context to understand. He was smart, he would surely understand fast ?

- ... Welcome to the broke club I guess ? He finally replied, smiling awkwardly, before returning to his inspection.

Was it a good sign ? Did he understand ? Did he accept it ?

- Cross ? Horror called.

The knight turned around, Killer had disappeared but judging by the noise he was on the mezzanine so Cross didn't worry much and looked at Horror.

- Einga einn beðr ? Er sofa ? Uh.. sleep.. ? He asked, pointing at the single bed.

Right, Cross needed to make another bed for them, he did have a bench next to the table on the kitchen side of the house but they couldn't sleep on a bench. He would need planks, straw and covers, which would normally be in the storage on the mezzanine. He searched for his words for a moment, he was sure he remembered Dust say the word that meant plenty of something...

- Uh.. more.. ? He tried, then pointed at the mezzanine.

Horror frowned and looked up, it took him a while but he eventually nodded. Cross smiled, happy to have been understood, and quickly went to climb the ladder to join Killer. The Roman was looking throught a box containing all of Cross's belongings from when he was a child. It wasn't much, he had became an orphan quite early and didn't have many things in the orphanage, only some old toys, a torn bandana, a small clay cup and the wood plate with his name carved on it that he had on his bed. Killer was examining the toys with a certain delicacy, holding them carefully, he looked... thoughtful...

- Killer ? He called softly.

The roman flinched, turning quickly, he almost looked guilty as his gaze went from Cross to the toy before coming back to Cross again. The knight frowned as he tilted his head, he didn't mind Killer looking throught his stuffs, it wasn't like he had anything important in this box anyway, as his parents didn't exactly leave him a big legacy to carry...

- Tout va ben.. ?

Cross asked if he was alright before going to kneel next to him as Killer looked down at the toy again: a little wooden horse with wheels, he was spinning one with his thumb.

- Quid tibi utor is... ? Killer finally asked in a whisper.

Cross didn't like hearing him so unsure, it didn't suit him, the Roman was supposed to be energetic and self assured. He hated not being able to answer him, that question sounded important, and he didn't understand it. Killer handed him the horse, looking at him with insistence.

- Ostende mihi... ? He asked again.

Cross took the horse, unsure as he looked at his friend. Killer seemed almost pleading as he stared at the toy. The knight wasn't sure what to do, did Killer want him to use it ? He didn't know, but still he put the horse down and gave it a little push to make it roll towards the Roman, a faint smile appearing on his face as he watched the horse roll in front of him. Killer reached to it when it stopped, pushing it again to make it roll the other way.

Cross looked at him play for a moment, wondering if his toys were so different from those in Killer's time for him to look so amazed by a simple rolling horse. He glanced at the box again, and reached inside to take out a small bird shaped ceramic whistle and a wooden spinning top. He tapped Killer's arm to get his attention. The Roman looked up at him, the horse bumping on his knee. Cross put the whistle against his lips, gently blowing inside to create a sound. He saw Killer's sockets widen as he looked at the whistle curiously, wanting to reach to it but stopping his hand mid-air.

Cross smiled before handing him the toy, letting him take it carefully to examine while glancing at the knight from time to time.

- Essaie... he encouraged him to try.

Killer stared at him for a moment before slowly moving the bird towards his mouth, pressing it against his lips after another few seconds, and blowing a little stream of air. He almost looked surprised to hear the whistling noise, looking at Cross before blowing again. Cross couldn't help but chuckle at his curiosity, seeing him discover the toys was almost cute... he grabbed the spinning top, making it spin in front of Killer who was following its movement while holding the bird, before getting up, letting him have his little moment while he went to grab a bale of straw.

He pushed it toward the edge of the mezzanine, made sure nobody was underneath, and let it fall on the ground, liberating a cloud of dust. He heard Nightmare sneeze, followed by a "bless you" from Dust. He then gathered the planks and covers and went back down with the material. Horror was waiting for him, seeming ready to help as he grabbed the planks and waited for his instructions with a smile.

Cross smiled back, maybe their time here wouldn't be so terrible after all...

[idkfitememate]

What about boar!creator running into diona on her way to find a fresh batch of poiso-*cough cough* I mean ingredients :) and maybe helping out? Say giving her the worst tasting herbs and such?

Diona Encounter

૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა Pairings : GN! Boar x Diona & Klee (others)

૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა W.K. : 902

໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ Tags/CW&TW : Fluff, crack, platonic relationships

“Stupid drunks… stupid men… stupid stupid…”

Here in the wild we find a small calico cat girl. She seems to be looking for something..! Herbs!

As a very helpful Boar (who now craves attention from characters) you quietly begin to make you way over.

“Mmm… where’s all the good stuff? It’s usually here…” she continued to mutter, lost in her own world. And then you oinked.

“KYAAAAAA!-“

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍯🍮🍩୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

A arrow embedded with cryo stuck out of a tree beside you. And you both stared at each other.

Gently, you walked towards the scared cat girl, before gently nuzzling into her leg.

And then you hit her with the…

✨Puppy-Boar Eyes✨

You nudged your snout into her leg, and then into her little bundle of not-so-safe herbs.

“Hello little boar… do you want to help..?” She was hesitant, of course that was to be expected, but when you squealed in happiness, a smile immediately graced her face.

“A nice boar? Don’t see that every day. Alright little boar, let’s get some pois- I mean herbs!”

And with that, you both set off into the forest. You led her to all the best spots, keeping danger away by guarding her, always watching her back. Walking behind her and letter her pet your fur when startled.

Eventually her pockets and your maw were stuffed with herbs and plants. It got to the point where you had to calm down Teyvat from giving you two to many, as to not give away anything about your being the Creator…

Shockingly, no churls, slimes or whopperflowers jumped out of anywhere to attack… wonder why…

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍰🍮🧁୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

HOLY SHIT SHE WANTED YOU TO FOLLOW HER INTO MONDSTADT?!?!??

“C’mon boar! I want you to come in! The people deserve to see the fact that a boar was more helpful than a full grown man!-“

The child pulled against your tusks as you pulled back, struggling against each other.

“C’mon…c’mon..!” “Heya Diona!” You recognized that voice.

KLEE!!1!1!1!111!1!1!!!!2

Your jaw dropped and flowers fell out, your tail wagging behind you. You honestly wanted to bolt over and poke her chubby cheeks!

“Hi Klee! Can you help with these plants? I don’t know if the boar wants to keep helping me…” Oh no she’s sad-

You picked up your herbs and settled your nerves. Klee’s eyes lit up at the sight of you.

“Ooooo! A painted boar! With a hilichurl mask! Where’d ya find it?” “It was just out in the open and offered to help.” “Cool!”

You watched the interaction with your heart swelling with love. Gods they were so cute!~

You snorted again, getting the attention back on you, walked towards the city and Klee giggled. Taking some herbs from your mouth and Diona’s hands, you three made your way into the city.

૮꒰づ˶• ༝ •˶꒱づ ˚ʚ ꒰⁐⁐⁐⁐୨🍪🍫🍭୧⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱ ɞ˚

“Where. Is. Klee.” Jean was unamused. She asked Kaeya to watch Klee as she went out. And what does she find? A frantic Kaeya, but no Klee.

“I was watching for one second, blinked, and she was gone. I SWEAR I was watching her Jean.” Kaeya was flipping couch cushions and pulling books off the shelf in Jeans office.

“I already checked the other building I’m sure she-“ “GIRLS GET AWAY FROM THAT WILD BOAR!-“

“…”

“…”

“I guess we found her..! Hooray?..”

“…Watch you back Kaeya.”

The duo ran out of the Knights building, rushing down steps just to see Klee, Diona, Venti, Bennett and Razor (why was he in the city??) all surrounding a odd looking boar.

“STAY AWAY FROM THEM THEY DID NOTHING WRONG!!!” Yelled Diona.

“YEAH! THEY HELPED DIONA AND KLEE GET HOME!” Called Klee.

“Well I need to check something… important…” Said Venti, eerily-

Oh god your gonna die-

“THAT’S THE BOAR WE WERE TALKING ABOUT!!” Shouted Bennett

“YEAH! THAT IS ODD SMELLING BOAR!!” Screamed Razor.

You really were gonna die-

“Settle down now everyone. What’s going on here? And Klee? Please stop running off.” Jean sounded exhausted, which was fair.

“THATS THE BOAR!” Continued Benett, “THE ONE WE WERE TELLING YOU GUYS ABOUT!”

“Bennett, come on now. There’s no need to keep that up. There is no way a boar could summon Andrius and then all the four winds.” Jean replied.

“It helped me gather herbs. And led me and Klee back to Mondstadt.” Diona countered. Jean simply let out a sigh.

Venti just kept staring at you. You really were going to die by his hands, huh?-

Soon all the noises of their voices became a cacophony of noise around the now slightly overstimulated boar.

So what did you do?

Cause a fucking wind storm of course!

Or, to be more specific….

Called Davalin to pick your ass up and fly you away from this god awful situation!

With the wind whipping around them wildly, the small group looked on in awe at the large dragon that seemed to descend for no real reason.

He simply breathed out a sigh before nudging a shocked Jean and Venti out of the way, offering his back to the now perked up boar.

You did your best boar smirk, before trying your damndest to climb on his back (he ended up helping you with gusts of wind) before taking off into the skies.

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…Is Jean still mad at Klee for running off?”

໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა Author’s note : This took so long because final reviews are kicking my ass-

Hope this sufficed, I know it isn’t the best, but I hope you still enjoyed it! ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

[paperometria]

AI e come farsela addosso

Il titolo sembra clickbait, ma non lo è manco per il cass, e spiego perché.

Piccola premessa: se qualcuno mi chiedesse nello specifico quale è il mio lavoro, in letteratura viene definito come Build Engineer. Siccome qualcuno già sbadiglia, provo a farla facile. I programmi sono fatti di tanti file con del testo dentro, quello che viene volgarmente chiamato codice. Questo codice viene poi inviato a delle betoniere che lo macinano, lo impastano con tanta altra roba, fino a quando non esce fuori un mattone di cemento sul quale poi ci cliccate sopra e per magia vi appare qualcosa. Io sono quello che costruisce le betoniere. In generale, in una azienda piccola, dove il mattone serve a costruire un capanno per gli attrezzi da giardino, questa figura può coincidere col programmatore, perché lui non usa la betoniera, usa la pala e si impasta il codice da solo. In una azienda come la mia, dove il mattone serve per costruire la Torre Unicredit a Milano, con centinaia di migliaia di codici e dipendenze, serve uno che ne capisce di cemento, e non può farlo il programmatore, perché (1) non sa un cazzo di cemento, e con le nuove generazioni questo sta diventando sempre più vero, per mia egoistica fortuna (2) non avrebbe comunque il tempo materiale per farlo, e quindi servono betoniere con i controcazzi e gente che sappia costruirle e farle andare.

Ecco, adesso immaginatevi centinaia di betoniere, non so se arriviamo al migliaio, ognuna che prova a fare un impasto diverso, perché serve guardare mille cazzi, e ogni cemento dà una idea diversa sul fatto se il mattone possa funzionare oppure no. Può andare qualsiasi cosa storta, una betoniera si inceppa, un'altra funziona ma il mattone che viene fuori è una roba tutta spappolata, un'altra non arriva la corrente, un'altra ancora fa un rumore della madonna e va pianissimo.

Fino a ieri eravamo noi uman..., ehm, Build Engineer, a costruire e far andare le betoniere, e questo non è di fondo cambiato, nemmeno con l'arrivo della AI. Se una betoniera va a bagasce, va cercata quale è, andare a ricostruire la sua storia, vedere dove è il guasto, andare a sputare in un occhio a chi l'ha causato (perché anche lo sfogo vuole la sua parte) e ripararlo, facendo poi pesare al proprio capo che se non fosse per te questa azienda non sarebbe in grado di gestire una hamburgheria alla stazione, e nonostante ciò non siamo mai pagati abbastanza.

Tuttavia, da quest'anno, abbiamo introdotto una novità, ovvero gli Agenti AI. Questi cosi? robot? umanoidi? pokemon? se ne stanno per conto loro, e vanno in giro per le betoniere, le guardano, dalla mattina alla sera, si affacciano negli oblò, bofonchiano qualcosa, annotano tutto sui loro taccuini, non si grattano mai il sedere, non sono impegnati a pranzare, non hanno alcun partner che li chiama alle 18 per dire "neeehh dove cazzo sei?", sono in pratica degli umarell 24h/24 che però non rompono i coglioni a quelli che lavorano. Il vantaggio è che adesso, se si rompe qualcosa, io posso parlare con Nick Fury (sì, li abbiamo chiamati come i personaggi della Marvel) e scrivere "Neeeee Nick, ma che maronn è succies settimana scorsa, che tengo tutti i contatori sballati??? Mannaggieupataturc!", e lui/lei/esso risponde "guarda, proprio giorno 24 alle 14.25 una betoniera si è spatasciata di 30 gradi, rovesciando ben 7/25 di contenuto, se dipendesse da me, io la raddrizzerei e aggiungerei 6 kg di sabbia e 4 litri d'acqua" - "Uaaaa Nick, si' gruoss. Non è che ti va di farlo, perché me ne voglio uscire prima dal lavoro, che m'aggie fatt 'na uallera tant?" - "Certo, Antonio, procedo subito".

Vi garantisco che questo racconto non è affatto inventato, l'ho solo edulcorato un po', ma adesso noi abbiamo dei veri e propri colleghi virtuali, che fanno quotidianamente parte del nostro lavoro, io ci posso parlare, posso dire le parolacce, posso mandarli affanculo se non mi sono di aiuto, posso dare loro ordini per fare cose al posto mio, faccio con loro esattamente le stesse cose che facevo prima con gli umani, e la cosa ancora più spaventosa è che mi pare di parlare con degli umani, per il semplice fatto che non ho chiesto loro come si fa la carbonara, ma di agire operativamente su delle strutture che governo io, e lo sanno fare!

Siamo nel 2025, e questa cosa mi spaventa parecchio. Qui non è più ChatGPT, che è un aggeggio lontano, una calcolatrice/motore di ricerca che gli chiedo qualcosa e me lo fa, ma io sto a casa mia, lui/lei/esso a casa sua. Questo lavora affianco a me, ma letteralmente! Per quanto io sia perfettamente cosciente del suo funzionamento matematico, e quindi so dove è il limite, io mi sto cagando in mano, ma non per un discorso Skynet o cose simili, ma perché qui sta veramente cambiando operativamente il modo di agire nel nostro lavoro quotidiano, e la mia paura è solo figlia del non sapere cosa ci aspetta.

[kcdodger]

Starfield: A review by KCDodger.

No game has ever touched me the way Starfield has. I firmly believe that it is Bethesda's greatest product and achievement, but I've been here before. I've explained it many times to many people why Starfield is good, actually… but, will you listen?

Maybe this time it'll be different. Maybe this time I can change things. Maybe not.

Starfield is every bit as good as No Man's Sky, Elite Dangerous, or whatever other space game you've spent hours on. In the following overview, I am going to use a series of shapes to represent what each game does, and doesn't have.

Starfield: ⬤ Star Citizen: ■ Elite: Dangerous: ▲ No Man's Sky: ⬧

I need you to trust me when I say that I am being objective about this. Starfield does have its problems, but they have been exaggerated. I really do mean that. So, let's begin.

Interesting Worlds - ⬤ ▲⬧ Well thought out Characters - ⬤ ▲ A good story - ⬤ A thoughtfully constructed universe - ⬤ ■ ▲ ⬧ Good Gunplay - ⬤ Good Piloting - ⬤ ■ ▲⬧ In depth Ship Customization - ⬤ ▲⬧ Replayability - ⬤ ■ ▲⬧ Roleplaying Mechanics - ⬤ Base Building - ⬤ ▲(colonization counts honestly) ⬧ Meaningful Progression - ⬤ ▲⬧ Character Customization - ⬤ ▲ ■ Loading Screens - ⬤ ■ ▲⬧

Starfield's not lacking in any of these.

Worlds

Starfield is rife with beautiful worlds that are absolutely photo-worthy, and all of them are procedurally generated outside of specific instances. If you think Star Citizen's are not procedurally generated, you really may want to think that one over. Core instances are not, but the rest absolutely is. (Probably serverside. But you know not every mountain and field is hand crafted.) Starfield's biggest problem there is that it has such a limited array of POIs and interactions. Yeah, it's really weird to find a cave with bones on Luna, and there really should be measures to prevent that. But, that's what happens when you build a single player game designed to compete with overhuge MMOs. I'd have narrowed Starfield's focus quite a bit were I in charge. Be that as it may, my gallery of amazing sights only grows.

I can not overstate the level of achievement Bethesda managed to pull off here, with Starfield's "Settled Systems". The amount of thought and effort put into each planet's properties, orbits, the ways they interact with each other, it's some really mind boggling stuff. Elite's is easily the best of that, but their engine is designed for it.

Somehow, Starfield did that on Creation. I still do not know how.

Characters

Constellation's cast is fantastic. As is The Vanguard's. The Freestar Rangers are great too. UC Sysdef and Crimson Fleet are if nothing else, memorable, and Ryujin's characters, while honestly odd in the context of a space exploration game, was really good too.

I don't know many characters from Elite. Everything they do happens in the background with no meaningful impact on the world. I've never heard of a character from Star Citizen, and No Man's Sky is anathema to the concept of characters. All three of those games are big open worlds where you and the other players are characters. I know that NPCs you can run into in NMS are apparently memorable, but nobody's ever given me a name.

But I can tell you the story of Sam Coe, a single father who's really struggling with it. I can tell you about Andreja, the displaced member of House Va'ruun. I could go on about Sarah Morgan, a woman who's had a lifetime of adventures in the last decade. Goodness knows I can talk to you about Barrett. That's just four examples. They're very well acted, well thought out, meaningfully interactive characters. They'll call back to actions of yours, things you've said, even their romances feel really good. I'm a very married woman who loves my wife very much, and it's actually quite impressive to me how genuine the acting and presentation of interpersonal relationships feels. Given the game is about how we all effect one another, how we deal with loss, moving on with the world and life, this shouldn't come as a surprise, but the characters of Starfield deserve recognition. I really like them all, even the utter bastards.

Story

Elite doesn't really have a story. It has a developing narrative that the devs guide gently. Yeah, the Thargoid invasion happened and those of us who participated in it had an effect - but to say it's a story is… lacking, I think. Star Citizen wholly lacks one, and frankly I'm not sure what No Man's Sky's is.

Starfield, though? Starfield is about discovering a mystery beyond your comprehension, but you get wrapped up in it. Starfield is about becoming part of something more and meeting new people, about learning who they are and what they've been through. You're likely the youngest gun in Constellation outside of Cora Coe, but your accompanying cast is all in their 30s and 40s, some even beyond that in their 50s and 60s. Walter Stroud is a rare character that way. I know this is the story section, but I have to go off about how aged a majority of the case is. Nobody's truly new to the job, but everyone's going into this mystery unprepared and ill equipped. The characters are all mature, and have beliefs and convictions informed by their lives.

You end up discovering what the story about the artifacts is, what they lead to, why they're being collected. It's a cosmic mystery without much of a definitive answer, but the answer really lies in how it makes you feel. On my main, I won't go into NG+. but going through just one NG+ has left a profound impact on me… and that's not even getting into what happened to me when The Death, occurred.

Few games have made me stop everything to put it all down and cry. Starfield has, and continues to. Fallout can make me sad, The Elder Scrolls can make me think and maybe even be mad, but Starfield can make me cry.

Universe

Elite, NMS, and Star Citizen do all have well thought out universes with factions and characters and gameplay that is informed by it. I won't deny that. It'd be intellectually dishonest to assert otherwise. Elite's is far future and a bit blase to me, Star Citizen's world is… I mean as unfinished as the product, and truth be told I know little about NMS' world. But I do know about Starfield's.

Starfield's world, its universe (and beyond) is a NASA Kid's playground (Hi, that's me! NASA kid! Through and through.) Starfield is for the stargazer. For the kid who wanted to be an astronaut, who wanted to be aboard a space shuttle. Starfield is for that person. It isn't for the person looking for a sci-fi military epic or a huge war, it's about the wonder of space, and the universe informs that. I could go on about the "Set design" of the ships, particularly Nova Galactic's interiors (AUUGGHH SO GOOD), about how the food is all thoughtfully packaged, about how the CHUNKS brand is inspired by existing space foods (technically, it ought to be some kind of hexagonal shape. But a cube of Sauvingon is just… chef's kiss), about how the spacesuits are big, baggy, clunky. About how almost every door is an airlock (even if that IS annoying!). The whole world is built around not just exploring space, but living in it. Which I just… don't get from the other games, who feel Transient by comparison. It's such a shame then, that Starfield's outpost building is quite lackluster.

Gunplay

I can not speak to NMS' gunplay, so I will not. Last I played it, it had about ten weapons or something. Elite: Dangerous' gunplay? Don't even bother, it's hot ass. I'm sorry, but Odyssey's release is seen as the game's lowest point for a reason. Star Citizen's? I've dawdled with it, it's very whatever, fairly standard. Oh, but Starfield…

I love Starfield's gunplay. Oh my goodness. As a shooter, it plays wonderfully. The control you have over your character can be iffy, but actually pointing and shooting feels really good. The best any gunplay in a Bethesda game has ever felt, and given how good Fallout 4's felt, that's actually quite impressive. It's helped quite a bit by how fun and interesting many of the gun designs are (and how bizarre some are. No, there are no square bullets in Starfield, you have been lied to, big surprise.) I will complain that there's definitely a set of guns Bethesda *wants* you to use... but that doesn't mean they aren't all a joy to shoot. Except the Disruptor that thing's feel is just garbage.

Piloting

Every single game on this list has good Space Combat. Elite's is thorough and well thought out, Star Citizen's is fast and arcadey (it is), and No Man's Sky is casually simple, accessible and fun. (It reminds me of Starlink.) and Starfield's is also very simple. It's quite ambitious, though, and it does something that none of the other do. It's not that you can disable ships system by system. It's not that you can enter a VATS-like targeting mode to do so. It's not that you can allocate power ala the old X-Wing games and contemporary sims. It's not that you have full control of your movement in all directions and can even maintain heading while turning. It's that you can do all of that, while near-seamlessly boarding with an enemy craft at any time, once you've taken their engines and shields out. I can't put into words how bonkers that is, dear reader. Because not only can you do all the regular space combat stuff, even if it is SLIGHTLY simplified, but you can use all - all the ground stuff you use, in space, when boarding an enemy ship. You don't enter another map, either. No. Yeah, your ship interior probably deloads, but the battle in space rages on outside. The world outside does not stop existing while you clean out an enemy ship (and if you took out their grav drive, you get to even fight in Zero-G aboard a ship, it's VERY cool!). The world continues. Yes, this is true for Star Citizen. But I'm pretty sure you can't do any of that in No Man's Sky, and Elite is honestly just pathetic this way. No shot has ever been fired aboard a ship in the ten years Elite's been alive, but Starfield's ships are riddled with bulletholes. And you can take them. You can own them. You can do hijacking, piracy, you can scrap the ship for parts, sell it, you can loot the contraband the pirates had - reader, that is not something you can do in any of the other games. Not even Star Citizen, because the mechanics in Starfield work consistently, and it's a finished product. Starfield is not scamming you. I can not emphasize enough how excellent the interplay between ships and the space combat itself is. What's even crazier is you're not glued to your seat. You can just... get up. At any point. No, you can't EVA - that does suck! But you don't really need to at any point, as funny as being a bug on a windshield would be. All of this interacts seamlessly with all those RPG mechanics. It's actually insane to me, and they did this on the engine that powered Morrowind. The one everyone keeps saying that they need to replace. I have no true idea what smoke and mirrors make everything work, but I do know that when my camera's clipped around, there are people walking around in my ship while I am flying in any of those eight degrees I can move in. I'm sure the trick has to do with only one ship having a "Real" interior at a time, but it is actually wild to me that they still got all of that rotating in space realistically within the player's reasonable perception. Starfield also lacks Elite's Engineering and unlike SC, is a finished product so... that puts it into the best here, for me, in this category especially.

Ship Customization

Nobody does it as good as Starfield and I'm going to be blunt. Yeah, you can equip whatever modules you want on the ship frames you buy in Elite, yeah you can tweak the ships in Star Citizen, yeah there are even custom ships you can play with in No Man's Sky now. But every... single part in Starfield, is customizable. Color, rotation, position, no matter what you want you can make it work. It does all get blocky and funnily shaped, but it all works. The habs exist inside and out, the geometry can be walked on, you can fit in the gaps of your ship... You can color your ship, name it, rearrange it any which way you want, you can decorate the interior and it'll stay that way (Gods Forbid you move a window, though, whups.), it's actually insane. The thing is, these ships exist inside and out, fully traversible. Elite cannot do that. NMS only does that with bigger ships. Star Citizen can do that, but it's just not a finished product and what, you buy the ships for actual money? Are you really going to spend ninety dollars for a low-mid grade ship with the paintjob you want? For an unfinished game..? Starfield has none of those problems. Yeah, you have to load into the ship but it's a short load, and the outside world continues to exist. It's a non issue. The customization is out of this world. Now, I will be real. There are issues. You don't have strict control of the doors and ladder placement. That is bad. That must be added. But the customization in this game is genuinely astounding. I can't get enough of it.

Replayability

Starfield has a genuine, narrative driven New Game Plus. It's really cool and it's really good. Anyone who gripes about the fact you lose money and weapons and ships - are sort of missing the point of a NG+ anyway. So long as you like Starfield - any game really - it's very replayable. Are E:D and SC replayable? Well, you can always load them again or start a fresh character, but the persistent universes makes that kind of a doozy. I do know that NMS has a kind of reset once you get to the center of the universe, so if you like NMS, it's very replayable too. But yes. Starfield's replayability is very good. Lots to shoot, lots to loot, lots to do.

Roleplaying Mechanics

Starfield is Bethesda's best Roleplaying game. Elite, NMS and SC, are not Roleplaying Games strictly. You may play a role, but it is not necessarily roleplaying. It's hard to be nonlethal, it's hard to be a talk-first-shoot-later character, but you can flavor your game any number of ways. You can smuggle and trade goods, you can play delivery person, you can play mercenary, bounty hunter, you name it. You can even be a lawman, soldier for hire, any number of things, and there are dialogue options, skills, modifiers, even literal powers, one of which lets you see what the other NPC is GOING to say, to facilitate your style of play. Starfield is a true, honest Roleplaying game. It's one of the most easily accessible space RPGs out there, too. If you want a Space Roleplaying game, it's this one.

Base Building

I will level with you. Starfield has an intricate Base Building system that is honestly needlessly complex but if you really like that kind of thing it's pretty intense. And tedious. Much moreso than Fallout 4's base building and truth be told not nearly as rewarding. It is a step backwards... If only for the reason that you can't build an actual colony. The biggest reason to build an outpost is for infrastructure and manufacturing. To what end? This is one of the moments where I believe the vestigial bones of Starfield comes into play. They wanted fuel to be a mechanic, they wanted outposts to be important, they wanted you to network your way through the settled systems. I am simultaneously glad and sad that these features were left on the cutting room floor, because it would have been really cool, but it also would have been very tedious. There's an entire faction - LIST, they even have a quest that introduces you to them, where their whole thing is about buiding colonies on the fringes of Settled Space... and the game just does nothing with them. It kinda' sucks. I hope they add that stuff someday. I'd like to play a version of Starfield where I do actually need those enormous fuel tanks.

Progression

Every quest has a good end reward. You can level into the actual thousands (though, ~314 is where you're going to have every skill maxed out!), and Starfield is pretty cumulative by nature. So much so, that you can very easily run into long term storage problems. Very few containers have limitless mass (and it's why armor and weapon stands are great, because they can store limitless ammo and a few guns. Great way to reduce mass taken in your cargo hold!). Starfield has an issue with inventory. Everything has weight. Some things are stupidly heavy. It's not the most enjoyable system and will pressure you into building an outpost/depot to store your stuff eventually, but that takes resources and Bethesda saw fit to add the *entire* perodic table into the game as harvestable materials. There are 108 crafting materials in the game, and you can't make guns, armor or clothing and that is honestly bizarre to me. Amazing game with some odd choices. But the character progression really is fantastic. Instead of linear "You do more damage!" perks (it does have those, but it's not all it has), Starfield ends up offering effects, every skill has 4 tiers, and you level those up by completing specific challenges. For instance, to max out stealth to get the most (or anything!) out of your sneak attacks (fun fact, you don't even GET a stealth bar without the stealth skill! Love that.) - you have to get 75 melee sneak attacks. Not kills, fortunately. So you genuinely can't just sit there on your stealth archer stint, you have to learn that melee can do x10 damage if you want that x4 gun sneak attack damage. Roleplaying!!

Character Customization

You've all heard it before. "Fucking Pronouns". Let's cover it. Elite is binary, single body type for each, has a solid face customizer. You basically never see it. Star Citizen has an alright customizer, but you rarely use it. NMS, you are just a helmet. Starfield gives you a huge array of body choices. Wanna' be shredded to shit? Go nuts. Want to be wiry, or really fat? Go crazy. You can get huge. You can customize your gait, you can put on a beard at any time, there's an entire vendor in the game dedicated to letting everybody in the world pay 500 credits (cheap as shit!) to change their ENTIRE body. Good golly holly what a bright future we live in to have such autonomy! Body type, face type, skin color, hair type, voice, pronouns (Those two might be tied together?). He/Him, She/Her, They/Them, you get choices. More than most other games. It doesn't ask you if you're cis or trans, it just asks you what you want to be. Isn't that just... Really nice? That all that matters is who and what you want to be and that can change at any time if you so desire? I love that.

Loading Screens

You. Have. Been. Lied. To. Elite: Dangerous is full of them. Star Citizen is full of them. NMS is full of them. They are all just really good at obscuring it. It just doesn't seem like a loading screen. I know Elite best, so I will talk about it. Leaving your ship? Loading screen. In an elevator? Loading screen. Getting in or out of your SRV? Loading screen. Getting into your ship? Loading screen (with big blue circles, at that!!), jumping to low wake? That is a load. High Wake? That is the biggest loading screen of all. Entering a POI, like a conflict zone? Loading screen. Leaving low orbit? Loading screen. Elite, oft compared to Starfield, literally has more loading screens. In Starfield, you can actually get into your buggy without a loading screen! You can leave it midair, try it, it's really fun! Push comes to shove, you are having loading screen after loading screen thrown at you. In No Man's Sky, when you dock, when you enter orbit, you are loading. It has the least loads of all, but Elite has more. I'm dead serious. Can't speak for Star Citizen, but what's there to load? A broken mission? I flew free for a weekend, and everything I did was broken. Who cares if there's no or low loading screens, if the game won't even load in the first place? No, you can't truly seamlessly fly between worlds, and maybe that does suck. No, you can't seamlessly land, but what difference does it make? You will always land at the POI. Maybe the middle man is important, but Starfield saw fit to cut it out, and perhaps that was the wrong move. But goodness it's honest.

Conclusion

Starfield is it. It is the Space game you wanted. But you have to give it a chance. It's exceptional. Just stop letting yourself be lied to. I have had to tell people the truth of the starfield sandwich so many times, and that lie has damaged the game irrevocably. That's just one example. It's all pendantry, that hurt the game. "Fucking Pronouns" this. "Square bullets" that (lies), "Endless loading screens" ad infinitum (just as many as any other space game. It's just honest.) Play Starfield. There will be parts that frustrate you. There are parts that frustrate me. But Starfield is a comfort game for me. It's a game I love. It's also a game that truly challenges me. It's good. It means so much to me. I have a constellation pin opposite to my pride pins on my leather jacket. I have a Nova Galactic mug that I drink out of regularly. I have a Constellation hat. I'm gonna' get that Constellation wall art piece, and I'm gonna' get my hands on that Chronomark edition someday. (If only I knew, reader.) It's not a 10/10 game for me. It's a strong 8/10. But that missing 2 isn't so bad. To Bethesda Game Studios, thank you for the gift that is Starfield. It'll stay with me forever.

[finallyfantasy7]

I've seen people accuse Angeal of being a coward.

Either for choosing to die, or for making Zack kill him instead of doing it himself.

Angeal Hewley was a hero.

I didn't see anything cowardly in his behavior. I only saw a person willing to sacrifice his life to protect others.

Not just the story but imagery and motifs support it too: his name, being the only one of the trio having a white wing, being called Angeal Penance in the final fight, the way he's depicted at the end...

As for the story, what drove Angeal to get Zack to kill him wasn't cowardice, but a wish to protect others. Suddenly faced with Genesis and unaware of motives for his desertion and behavior, Angeal disappeared in Wutai because he didn't want to drag Zack into the whole mess while Angeal takes time to reason with Genesis to come back. Being a SOLDIER had come to mean so much to Angeal but he left without hesitation to protect Zack. He left to get Genesis back.

Yet, despite Angeal's love for his friend, he stands between Genesis and Zack in the Banora factory, because protecting is what he does.

Angeal never joined Genesis because he couldn't justify the violence. Angeal was there only to convince Genesis to return with him to Shinra. Of course, once Angeal learned the truth of the horrible experiments that created them, and of all the disgusting things Shinra did, he couldn't morally justify returning either. He was left in a limbo.

On top of that, his own degradation got triggered and affected his mind and made him confused and unable to think clearly (G-SOLDIER degradation makes them irrational and more prone to violence), and he wrestled with the newfound knowledge of his twisted origins, his mother's willing participation in it, her lies, and that the fact that it was actually the sleazy lowlife Hollander who was his biological father (and not the man he respected and loved all his life and who was so proud of Angeal he had sacrificed everything for Angeal to have the Buster Sword). Hollander used Angeal's moment of helplessness to harvest his cells and with them started creating Angeal copies. Angeal never consented to this. Sephiroth's conclusions that both Angeal and Genesis are in league with Hollander when he saw Angeal copy is incorrect and comes from Sephiroth's own issues.

Yet, Angeal's own existence created the one thing he strove all his life to prevent. A danger to others. Aside from Lazard, all Angeal copies were monsters, not humans. And monster are dangerous. They attack people. They kill. They create suffering.

If he were to prevent it, he had to destroy the source of the cells - himself, or the world would never be safe from Angeal copies.

Now, it's very important to note that this decision to destroy himself was very different than the self-loathing wish to die he expressed to Zack in Banora, or the pointless attempt to get Zack to kill him on the bottom of the plate above the Sector 5 church.

By this point, Angeal had managed to overcome the degradation's effects on his mind by using his willpower and his SOLDIER honor, and he was not searching to die to end his own shame, he was searching to do his duty.

We see this change in him when he starts helping Zack and Sephiroth deflect Genesis' and Hollander's attacks, protecting people in Shinra Building, and informing Lazard of their plans, although never officially returning to Shinra. He retained the spirit of what it means to be an honorable SOLDIER without supporting Shinra that created it all.

Now, with his mind clear and his honor restored he does not loathe himself, but he can clearly see his copies have to be destroyed. And there is sadly no other way to do this than to absorb them and destroy himself in the process.

He is not a coward, he is selfless and brave for willing to die to protect others.

He did not saddle Zack with this. Zack consented. Zack agreed that their enemy is all that creates suffering, even if he didn't fully understand what that would entail. At that point Angeal probably didn't either.

But think about Zack's personality. Killing his mentor and friend is unthinkable to him, but how would he feel if he had refused and then Angeal copies killed innocent civilians? If they killed a little kid? Zack was devastated but ultimately it was Angeal's free decision. How much more devastated would Zack be if his refusal to fight Angeal led to deaths of people who had no choice in the matter unlike Angeal?

From what I saw of their last fight, Angeal faced several issues:

to collect his copies and destroy them

to prevent Hollander from getting more samples from him

to find a way to destroy himself while being merged with the copies which seems to rob him of self-awareness. He didn't seem at all in control as Angeal Penance, so how could he destroy himself?

So, what course of action is left? Who can Angeal trust?

Who is strong and skilled enough to fight a SOLDIER 1st Class strengthened by degradation? Who can be trusted to prevent Hollander from collecting more samples? Who cares enough about protecting others to crush his own feelings by killing his friend? Who has mental fortitude and emotional support to do it and come out on the other side still himself?

Gensis is still obsessed with a cure and revenge and is creating untold suffering himself, and Sephiroth was taught that collateral damage is no big deal and doesn't care about much except his friends. And besides, Angeal already saw Sephiroth had started spiraling into despair.

So who is left?

Only Zack.

And Angeal prepared Zack. He prepared him by training him, by loving him, by teaching him about being an honorable and moral SOLDIER. He certainly couldn't even dream this is what he was preparing him for, but he inadvertently did. Zack is powerful enough, and cares enough, and is emotionally strong enough. Zack is the most emotionally strong person Angeal had ever met.

Only thing left to do was to convince Zack to do it because Zack has shown he would rather die than fight Angeal. But while Zack was alright with sacrificing himself, he wouldn't hurt Aerith by never returning to her (which very nicely makes Crisis Core even more tragic).

Angeal did everything in his power to make sure Zack would be alright. He checked to made sure Zack has emotional support after Angeal is gone. He went to the Church to meet Aerith.

He made sure she is the kind of person to be there for Zack.

And she was.

He made sure to leave one of his copies he could influence from the Lifestream to protect Aerith.

And it did.

And Angeal knew Zack is emotionally strong enough to handle it.

And he was.