#Military Academy's ranking | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hwaightme · 2 months

Text

Feel alive

(masterlist) (taglist)

🌑 pairing: strictland!seonghwa x gn!singer!reader 🌑 genre: fluff, angst, dystopian, sci-fi, noir, music, lovers to enemies to lovers 🌑 summary: after escaping the confines of prestige academy you find yourself singing at 'morpheus' - an underground bar and club for strictland outcasts. except this reality, too, crumbles before you. your fate is again in the hands of the same man, and you are forced to ask yourself: what does it mean to 'feel alive'? 🌑 wordcount: 9.5k total 🌑 warnings/tags: semi-edited, authoritarian regime (strictland/z/universe z), lore-inspired, guns/gunshots, implied attack on club, implied violence, crime, alcohol/drinking, implied organised criminal networks, discussions about death/murder/execution, nihilism/existentialism, 'bout as dark as the diary entries, long lost lovers, starcrossed, hope, blue bird, jazz, uprisings 🌑 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🌑 a/n: noir hwa, ateez synthwave song quartet, and lore ponderings. hope you enjoyed <3 any notes, reblogs, comments, asks are always welcome! much love!

The lights dimmed, and it was as if the jazz bar never existed in the first place. The worn seats occupied by drunks who liked to pretend they had taste, sofas in the far corner reserved for big shots and well-established scum with pretty young accessories on either arm, the bar that sold everything under the rays of the dying sun and evil moon, it all disappeared with the dawn of the spotlight falling upon your alluring silhouette. A simple, yet elegant sleek black dress with a hint of shimmer that graced your curves seemed to shine in the glimmering illumination. The delicate silver accessories were stars in the hypnotising sky, the allure of an unreachable universe becoming overwhelming as your hands glided over the length of the microphone to find purchase on the stand. The music, starting from a low rumble, was an echo of the abyss surrounding you, manifested only at the softest inhale. After what could have been the drums and trumpet, or could have been the heavens announcing the beautiful singer’s presence finished their spontaneous introduction, Seonghwa had the pleasure of forgetting his purpose, at least for as long as the song lasted. He could drift into a sultry paradise, seduced by what had to be a siren’s call, and regard the customers of the Morpheus bar with something less than loathing.

As soon as he cleared the last of the russet coloured drink he had ordered in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar, shutting his eyes momentarily to focus on the warmth of the alcohol running down his throat, Seonghwa found the fingers of his right hand softly drumming out the song in accompaniment, each digit hitting one note, another, again and again. Back in the day, it had not been often that his visits to the bar occurred at the same time as the one and only Y/N’s performances, but when they did, he swore he could see the smog clear and tomorrow become a certainty. The music consumed him whole and even though he knew down to the second when the magic would be extinguished, a part of him still retained the hope that the spell would never be broken. Not when the only encore he could guarantee for himself was another torturous raid on an establishment such as this one, or another feverish witch hunt for those who had regained their ability to feel and to think freely. All in the name of a faceless leader who even Seonghwa himself had only met a handful of times despite being in a high ranking position of Guardian Inspector - above the standard white-clad machines, above the so-called officials clad in military uniform, he was in charge of ‘keeping civil hands clean’. At what cost? Perhaps his own emotions were the price.

The dark-haired man caught himself wondering how many people in this bar could enjoy themselves to the fullest. How many of these poor unfortunate souls that succumbed to the rush for easy money and easy love were true followers of hedonism, and were spending their days in an enviable bliss? Biting his lower lip, Seonghwa regarded his surroundings with a subtle scorn. He was well aware that he was to blame for it all too; The regime, to retain the ultimate, unwavering control over the citizens, even those who wholeheartedly believed they were well-hidden from the authoritarian judgement, was a supplier of one of the many pleasures after all - toying with people's weakness before the formidable seven sins only to lead them into full submission. The Strictland government, despite propagating ‘human emotion being a disease’ had anything anyone could ever desire, and Seonghwa was one of the many agents to guarantee long term partnerships, addiction to the illusion of a better life, and most importantly, stability and security for the people who had taken him in all that time ago when no one else would, and had given him a chance.

While he was the bringer of demise, the counter of profits drenched in crushing dread and the hand of twisted and subjective justice, at the same time, Seonghwa believed that it gave him all the more right to judge the society he was a part of. After all, he was not the one being fooled. Inevitably, his glimmering orbs settled back on the singer’s gently swaying form as they broke into the chorus, and nearly shuddered as your gaze, from languid, half-lidded but oh so appealing eyes, met his, only for a split second but it was as if hellfire itself embraced him and greeted him like an old lover. Each lyric - a personal address as you moved along at a sensual pace, the song smoother than the most expensive silk. He smirked to himself as he caught his ponderings accelerating uncontrollably, attempting to squash them under a sober, calculating fist. You were no fool either. An entertainer, measuring out each attack like a venomous serpent, not threatened, seeking fun in the reveal of vulnerability of your listeners - each one believed that you existed for them and them alone, and in the hypnotic state added bill after bill to their already hefty tips in the hopes that at least some would reach you, and you would give them that beautiful smile, maybe something more. Truly, a shame that the owner of Morpheus owed the regime a lot more than all the tips, so-called donations and what, compared to the rest of the money, was "honest" earnings all combined. The Captain of the Inspectors in charge of this little project had gotten a little too nice as of late, at least that was what Seonghwa had concluded, but it was not him who was going to pay for it, naturally.

Twisting his head, Seonghwa took note of the familiar faces that appeared at the entrance to Morpheus to join the rest of the Inspectors that were posing as regular customers, cleverly dispersed among the filth that reeked of dependence. Of course, dependence on what the regime was selling. There was no other way about it. Nodding the two men a curt hello, Seonghwa let his eyes trace back a swift path to the magnificent performance. He paid attention to how your dainty earrings glinted even in the lowered light, and how, with every subtle movement, he could see the gorgeous dress tighten just a little around your body. You were so out of place in this scene, an angel in the darkest pits of hell, a little bird struggling against the wiring of a cage, curling inwards, growing smaller until the last flutter of the wings. As he was caught up in admiring your beautiful style, grace, and listening to your sweet, warm tone, one of the two newcomers, a fellow brother in governmental salvation to Seonghwa, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and occupied the seat beside him.

“As flashy as ever, Woo. Might as well tattoo ‘trouble’ on your forehead,” he motioned towards his not so inconspicuous suit that made him look more like a mafioso rather than an average joe. Seonghwa had to admit, however, that the outfit looked too damn good on him, but this was going to be just one of those things he was to take to his grave. The man did not need his ego fed any more than what the ladies he finds as company for the less busy nights not hounded by the lower ranking Guardians provide.

“I’d carve a pretty smile on that face. Not even a hello?”

“Hi San,” Seonghwa deadpanned, looking past his friend who he noted had tied his hair into a low ponytail, and right at the other half of his duo. Wooyoung and San, two peas in a pod, and probably the last people one would ever wish to see if they were in trouble with any of the Inspectors.

“Aren’t you mean today… what, pretty star over there didn’t give you attention?” Wooyoung retorted with a smirk creeping onto his lips. With a raise of an eyebrow and a shake of the head, Seonghwa dismissed any thoughts of peace that he had been imagining, settling back to regular business.

Rolling his shoulders back, he let the scene come and envelop him. It was no coincidence that so many of the Inspectors had gathered, especially with Wooyoung and San now closing in the arrivals. It did not take a genius to guess that Captain had changed his terms, and this was no longer going to be an ordinary shakeout for money or customary information gathering from the owner of Morpheus. The owner had stalled for far too long, had strayed from ‘good practices’ of a loyal rat, and it was time to set an example for others. Disease was the human emotion, and this bar was a breeding ground for thought crime, was it not?. Lowly, lonely creatures who gathered here were all examples of where society had gone astray from the perfect vision Z had put forward, at least… most were. Those who had forgotten the meaning of feeling despite having regained the ability, those, to Seonghwa, were the true vermin. He regarded the few gathered who were most definitely not meant to be part of this story. A middle aged, haggard man with flushed cheeks and what had to be his fifth glass of the cheapest liquor on the menu. Some bigshot from another town who he recalled some of the Inspectors in charge of patrolling the area identifying this morning - no ties, no money, just a lot of ambition that was to amount to nothing. A few lowlives here and there who were faceless, in shades of grey. All not meant to be here, and yet by some stroke of fate, here they were to remain. Finally, he drifted back to the main act, still at the centre of the stage, the sole luminance among the tainted - those who had no hope in making Seonghwa feel anything but numbness. You were the only one working here. Earning your meagre pay - he had discreetly checked the bar’s balance books when the old man behind the counter was too distracted to care for a person of his kind strolling into his office that was concealed in a dark corridor. It was shameful how you were still in this far less than grand establishment, sharing your angelic vocals, despite obviously not having any compensation nor appreciation of your efforts. Perhaps the moments on stage were the only time when you felt alive; the thought would not leave Seonghwa. After much investigation playing pretend, he was confident in his conclusion: you had not changed.

You were on the tattered poster plastered up outside - the one and only, shows every Friday night. Perceive and behold the spectacular ethereal being as you sang songs that spun threads out of a spectator’s very soul, blood trickling from the cracks in their shattered form turning to gold. You sang their… his pain, promised him his glory, soothed and comforted him. Seonghwa was well aware that you were the sole reason that he had shifted his visits to Morpheus to this particular day of the week and monitored the illegal location so closely, otherwise, your face would never grace his corrupt, bleak vision. You did not deserve to go with the rest. When breaking free, one was not supposed to fall into another trap, and yet, here you were. You were not meant to be here, littering the ground that you stood on as the last of the gunpowder would settle on your perfect skin, your long, alluring eyelashes. The onyx-haired man felt a shift within himself as he mused the outcome of the unspoken plans - by the way in which Wooyoung leaned back onto the counter, a grin dancing on his features and by the way San was acting particularly kindhearted to the lonely staff who was rushing about, struggling to keep up with the visitors’ habits, he knew that tonight, they were not planning on hearing any cries for mercy. They were here to complete a mission for a higher purpose. And that mission was far from the sweet music which he had loved his whole life, and finally found again.

“They’re not supposed to be here.” he mumbled, his voice obscured by yours, echoing across and elevating to a sensual culmination.

“Aren’t we all? We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Think of them as a sculpture or something if it makes things easier,” Wooyoung took out a rolled up bill to put between his lips - a habit that he had formed after a few too many hits on the back of his head by San, an interesting approach to make a man quit smoking. He called it ‘smoking capitalism’, earning quite a few chuckles from the Inspectors, Seonghwa included.

“So say someone’s going to scope the ring to clean it up a bit, would you let them hit our favourite auntie?” he asked, referring to the friendly cleaner who was probably the only one in the entire city who did not bat an eye at the violent matches that Wooyoung managed under the wraps for the regime, instead cooing over the fighters he brokered for and giving the men an extra helping of her home-cooked delicacies. In many ways, she was a mother figure for the Guardian Inspectors, despite her being at risk, every day, of being taken to the Red Humans should one of them be in a ‘different kind of mood’ on an arbitrary morning.

“Definitely not. But this singer. Who are they to you?”

“A pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“Mhm. I can pawn them in for rewards.”

“Suppose they are pretty enough, if that’s what you’re thinking of…”

“Goodness, take the pimp out of the bordello but can’t take the bordello out of the pimp. That business was shut a while back for you, no?” with a groan, Seonghwa retaliated at Wooyoung’s rather out of pocket suggestions. Over the many years of serving Z in not so ethical ways, the man had tried on a few too many hats and seen a few too many hats to retain even a sliver of compassion towards anyone except those closest. It was understandable. Odd, but understandable.

“Kidding. But for real though, what’s the use?” Wooyoung bit down on the bill softly, gaze following San who had moved towards a couple of underlings that had gathered in a booth off to the side, towards the far corner of the bar. Clearly, he was checking if they had read the room.

“Say, isn’t it Captain’s niece’s birthday soon? We don’t exactly have a musical act to hand since…” Seonghwa trailed off, knowing that Wooyoung knew what incident he was referring to, involving an accusatory phrase, a short temper and a very professional shot from a sniper rifle from the boss’s office window into the temple of a figure that was storming away from one of the many Inspector accommodations. Another one to fertilise the soil with.

“Smart. I’ll give it to ya. If you sort the business out before showtime, pretty thing’s all yours.” Wooyoung responded, patting his side where, underneath his shirt, Seonghwa knew was a holstered pistol. Pushing himself away from the counter he stood up, adjusting his long, leather coat and glove. It was not that he had a particular preference, but ever since entering the new life upon being pardoned for feeling, a life where he had to say found a home, he could not help but wish to always look just that little bit more put together, even if only to appear loyal.

“Cheers. I’ll get them a nice candle-lit dinner to soften them up and then inform Cap’,” sounding purposefully sarcastic, Seonghwa mumbled under his nose, well aware that this was not a method that had ever been in use. One glower and curt phrase had always been enough - the rest was simply the heart’s doing masked by odd humour.

“Awh, look at you, how sweet and lovely. What a darling,” Wooyoung teased, sending Seonghwa a wink. The music was fading away, the last notes landing on his ears, marking every moment.

“One more word and you’ll be the main course.” with his index finger he poked the centre of his fellow Inspector’s chest in threat, maintaining a cold expression.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to be roasting out here tonight, so make it hot with pretty thing.”

“Filth,” the taller man spat, knowing that attempting to counter his friend was nearly impossible - out of all the people he knew only Captain could fully round him in, and even then Wooyoung had a smile on his face, much to Seonghwa’s confusion.

“It’s not me who is with the heart eyes.”

“I just saw an opportunity,” playing with the leather piece that buttoned up to protect his neck, he eyed you, waiting for you to finish. Unknown to you, you did not have much time left before your very life would be placed on a scale and thoughtlessly pushed to lose against the weight of usual Strictland business. Such was the violent, catastrophic illusion of order, such was the structure that had been Seonghwa’s twisted saving grace. He was going to be doing you a favour by taking you away, won’t he? Either way, you would be out of work, and he was helping you with a little job search from one of the highest payers - chivalrous and kind hearted, that was who he was. How else could the Inspectors form any partnerships and feast on forbidden fruit otherwise? Who was he kidding - a soul like you was not meant for a life like this. But he had to try. He needed time to think.

“Sure. Sure. An opportunity to grab the gorgeous star for yourself.”

“Oh shut up will you?” snapping, Seonghwa were desperately trying to cut the conversation short, seeing the window for him to make a beeline for the edge of the stage, towards which you promptly setting off after finishing your set, and receiving a dismal lack of applause - what else would he expect from the crowd gathered in Morpheus? Especially when the stench of iron and the final judgement was mere minutes away from materialising.

“You know that’s not my style.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be good. Hope you did not block my mustang,” throwing one last comment behind him, the solemn man was off, only barely catching Wooyoung’s half-hearted response.

“Have I ever…”

The mission was simple. Since he was dismissed from the less than pleasant task of wiping out the bar, considering that two more senior Inspectors had made their appearance and were clearly more in the know of what was brewing, Seonghwa had only a couple of minutes before all freedom would cease to exist. And then, no heaven could bestow mercy upon neither him, nor the beauty he had come here to save for no logical reason, instead relying on some hazy version of hope and nostalgia. He had parked his ink black ride around the block - out of sight for unwanted eyes, and perfectly positioned for getaways just like this. If you could catch the Inspector’s drift, that was. One could only pray that the dazzler on stage was just as dazzling when it came to reading between the lines. He had perhaps even less than the estimated time to explain himself before Wooyoung and San would call the owner over to get the real evening show started. Time was ticking along with the skyrocketing pace of his heart as he stopped you on your tracks with a slightly outstretched leg, only to move forward and cast a shadow over you.

It was difficult to remain level-headed when, even at such proximity, in the normally less than flattering lighting, you were nothing short of a deity. Something out of fairy tales, stories of royalty or angels in kingdoms far far away, those that were not supposed to exist. But here was one, staring right into his eyes with your beautiful expressive orbs, as deep as the history that Seonghwa had raced here to try and reignite. A universe in your irises, an all-consuming black hole in your pupils, beckoning Seonghwa, leading him into a stupor before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, bringing himself out of the momentary trance by force. Time was not on his side, and he knew that it would never be unless he kept on running.

“Lovely song, that was.”

“Indeed. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is one of my favourites. Did you enjoy the performance?” Your speaking voice was different, of course, but nonetheless struck that stunning familiar chord within Seonghwa, one that should never see the light of day if he were to remain how he had to be. It was terrifying, how he was ready to let go of his resurrected image as an Inspector for a chance to turn the past into the present.

You were polite. The features of your alluring face were hinting at a genuine interest, an appreciation of every movement, every breath you were taking. Though, in Seonghwa’s own line of work, particularly in the stage of undercover investigation, this was simply the usual. Show a smile, bat the eyelashes, make business, disappear. Genuine interest was an artform, but even if you were indeed expressing it in the way with which he was familiar, it felt so natural that he almost wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this daydream who had come to change the colours of his occasional Fridays, his hunts for those straying from what Z had deemed ‘right’, leaving glimmers of memory to last him through the weeks when he had to be numb to life itself until he could come and see you again. It did not mean much to you, most likely. You were strangers in your respective new lives, and had Captain not made the decision to teach the owner of Morpheus a lethal lesson, you would have remained that way. Drifting together for a few hours, remaining distant, and drifting apart again. A forever flowing story that was to rekindle a starcrossed ‘once upon a time’ but never have that sought after resolution. A dream that reminded Seonghwa of why his unlikely survival was a blessing. As your eyes revealed a hopefulness, a plea for praise, Seonghwa gave you a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“I look forward to seeing you, you know.”

“O-oh?” Seonghwa could barely contain his surprise, the previously cool demeanour cracking into a raised eyebrow. Could you remember?

“Yes! You always sit at the bar, second stool from the left. And order… what is it… a brandy, right?”

He would be lying if he were to say he was not surprised by your suddenly chipper attitude. Almost like you were a kid who entered a candy shop for the first time to see all of your favourite treats, you excitedly revealed to Seonghwa your observations. While it was endearing to see, the shuffling behind him, along with the idea that he was not the only one intently observing left the Inspector with a sense of unease, nearly throwing him off from the initial goal that motivated him to brave talking to you in the first place.

“In…deed?”

The singer, who was previously an astounding yet distant figure captivating all who cared to look even once, rapidly transitioned into someone who he almost found endearing, the keeper of far too many qualities that cemented the rightness of his decision. You were not meant to be here, he repeated to himself. Mutters around the bar were getting louder, and as the rest of the musicians filed out of the main hall and crammed into a tiny room off to the side, in Seonghwa’s peripherals he noted San’s steady, seemingly innocent amble between the scuffed round tables and equally unpleasantly antique chairs.

“You are the only one who listens, so, how could I not notice? Actually, I wanted to talk to you properly, or at least say thank you but didn’t want to impose.”

As much as he wanted to sink into the warmth of your words and allow you to recognise him on your own accord, the rippling commotion that was finally rearing its ugly head spurred him on and struck his heart with an icy, calculating mace. He had a minute tops, knowing Wooyoung’s love for never counting down to zero before beginning.

“Well, let’s talk. Outside,” The black-clad man tried to walk off, aiming for the dark corridor at the end of which was the fire exit, but when you did not move, rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking I could buy you a drink-”

“Cute. Another time though,” seeing the tinge of disappointment in your gaze was new, and entirely unexpected, but gave Seonghwa plenty of leeway to sway you into following him, “since you watched me enough, I bet you can guess who I am. Or, what I do for work. Right?”

A steely glare, leaving nothing open to interpretation. For additional evidence, he demonstratively adjusted his coat, loosening the belt he had tied around his waist to reveal a leather holster, discreet, gun always within reach. Attentive to detail as ever, you took note of the inconspicuous design of the pistol before he let it disappear once again under the fabric - in this city, there were few who had access to any form of weaponry, the items being so highly regulated by the government that it was nearly impossible to purchase or get licensing. Your mind began to list off options; Seonghwa clearly was neither a standard Android Guardian due to the lack of mandatory uniform, nor a scruffy criminal whom you had gotten used to over the time that had passed, nor part of the police force, nor a Class 2 Prestige Academy student. It only left an answer that shook you to the core. Of course, it was not that you did not hold the assumption in your heart. As a matter of fact, you had previously assumed that you were used to greeting people from different walks of life, all gathered in the same place, at the same time for what you wanted to believe was a ‘good time’. That was what drove you to live the life that you were living. Exist in this space, despite your pay and your security almost always not being enough, but you would give even that up if that meant you could keep your freedom.

Seonghwa was effortlessly graceful, determined in every step and gesture, not a single movement wasted. In a sense, it was as if he had purposefully learned and memorised the most efficient adjustments of the body, letting himself metamorphose into a lithe, agile animal. It was terrific, and terrifying, how at any moment he could pounce, and you would never know when until it was too late. For this hint of a reason, you decided to follow the man’s unspoken command, only whispering an airy inquiry after the other musicians, which he coldly dismissed:

“You need a better band anyways.”

---

The gravity of the situation only began to settle in when the biting breeze outside of the stuffy bar hit you, seeking opportunity to tousle your locks. The strands that had managed to fall over your face were trembling, the only sign revealing your suppressed distress as the last of Morpheus's dusk-like illumination was shut from your vision with a confident slam. Your eyes widened as you watched the Inspector, or in other words, your personal grim reaper, flip a lock on the door - previously thought to be inaccessible to anyone except the owner, done so masterfully as though he were the one who had installed it in the first place. An exit, a saving grace for innocents inside, turned into a dead end - more symbolic than one would ever initially assume. He trailed up the length of his arm stopping for a moment at the material that covered his shoulder, listening to leather hit leather. Seonghwa could only find calculated resolve within himself. This was the usual for him, and that after weighing all the options, he had logically come to the conclusion that the demise of the people inside was indeed the most attractive option.

As you heard the first shot resound inside of Morpheus, you shuddered, but did not dare stop following the man in the trench coat as he strode on ahead, hands remaining in his pockets. To any onlooker it would seem that he was relaxed as ever, out for a late night walk in a neighbourhood he knew better than he knew himself. Breath in, breath out; you were trying to remind yourself of the simple act, focusing harder than you had ever done during your performances. Imagining your diaphragm stretching, letting the lungs take in as much air as possible and-

Another shot. Breath knocked from you, balance off kilter, you desperately wanted to run. Anywhere. Maybe you should have stayed, not picked up on the subtle offer of your life being spared. In that way you would not have to live with the guilt of not having said anything to your fellow bandmates, not having said thank you to the owner for… what was there to thank anyone for? Out of habit, you lifted a hand to brush over your ear, echoes of the time when you had first felt emotion rippling across your body, making you shiver. You were all fools misled by hope for a brighter tomorrow in a world that was permanently overcast. Where did this running lead you? Where did your wistful song guide you? Back into the arms of the apocalypse - broad-shouldered with hair the colour of ink, the last thing you would see before disappearing for good. At least you should thank your former so-called colleagues for the information about the common demise. Tears welled up in your eyes as you obeyed the lean man’s orders and practically toppled into the black vehicle parked by the Morpheus, a lonesome yelp masked by the gunfire and indecipherable orders.

You had no idea where he was taking you, and you did not dare ask. The man reminded you of all you had been trained to avoid in your new life, a threat, a weapon, a soldier. His gloved right hand remained resting beside the gearshift, while his left coldly gripped the steering wheel. Not a single one of his muscles appeared to be relaxed, and not a single movement had a semblance to anything natural. An automaton in the driver’s seat, you wanted to feel comforted by the idea that you were the only one truly human in the car, for the idea that someone as brutal as a Guardian Inspector could be conscious or decisive was too strong of an agony.

At the same time, in the moments where the Inspector turned his head to check the surroundings, you noted something familiar. He dashed past the blue, purple and aquamarine signs that lined the streets of the district you had learned to love, himself turning into a painting. Be it in the angles that formulated his stern face, or in the elegance that he was unable to conceal, the past crawled out of a long-forgotten cavern in your psyche and gnawed at your nerves, just out of reach of realisation. Perhaps in another time, you had known him. Perhaps in one of the banned art pieces, you had seen him. At the same time, this could not be the first Guardian Inspector you had encountered - they were all similar enough in demeanour, so what was another face? Equally as entitled, above the law. Above a runaway like you. You were vermin. The enemy. A traitor to the Academy, to Strictland, to Z himself. Or so you were told. The only thing that could be different about this Inspector, was that he could be your last.

A sharp stabbing sensation spread from your temples and what had to be through your skull, jabbing into bone and into the cerebellum. Nauseous, you shut your eyes and clutched your head in a futile attempt to seek some form of relief. The car roared, and a sudden stench of rubber and concrete penetrated through every crevice, choking your senses and making you taste the acrid pollution. One turn, another, your organs were being jolted back and forth as the monstrous engine urged on by none other than the embodiment of oblivion dragged the car across eternal misery of long-abandoned districts.

“Oh goodness…” a feeble whisper left your lips. You reached out to grab hold of the door handle, peering at the grooves to find at least something to focus on. His vision was swimming in your eyes, etchings of your surroundings morphing into repressed memories.

A boy marching beside you to class, head held at the angle commanded to all academy students. A young man, dressed in all white with black locks parted in the middle. A solemn stare, unreadable, though not fully blank as it should be. But at the same time, how could you, another student of Prestige, detect that something was not quite right? Since when could you feel? You lifted your head cautiously to try peeking at the Inspector again, but he was frozen. Only the abrupt tightening of his gloved hand around the steering wheel and a determined turn reminded you that he was not quite an automaton.

“I must be dreaming…” you blinked away a teary blur, and clenched onto your dress for the remainder of the journey, feverishly recounting whatever lyrics you could. Your little safe haven, your precious prayers to the arts - truth which you had discovered after abandoning everything you could have been.

Your hand moved on instinct to the side of your head, feeling for what once had been the hub of your consciousness. A chip that made you feel right at home, heartless, but with a purpose. Forty years of education, an eternity to serve something greater than you; clear goals, a mission for your generation and many that would come after you. Hand in hand, you were soldiers of a catastrophically closed-minded society; at the time, however, you could not be ‘happier’. Or rather, more numb. Because you did not know of negative nor positive, you could not experience either, and so remained in a stable equilibrium, just as the superpower of this forlorn land had instructed. Disease was the human emotion. You were ‘healthy’. Until that boy appeared in your life, and revealed himself to you.

Bright-eyed, hopeful, excited. So unlike anyone. And against better judgement, you let the inklings of curiosity drip over your heart, and the beginnings of affection take flight. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, a smile brighter than the sun, a soothing mellifluous voice, vowing to you that you could build another life together. A life much more beautiful than one constructed with deception and hollow propaganda. What could a little tap of a breaker do to you? Apparently, it could change your destiny.

As you massaged your temples, you locked gazes with the man in front of you, but met the boy from your past in the mirror. That same worry, knotted eyebrows, concern and care so evident you could touch it if your fingers grazed his cheek. You could not move, even when he turned back to the road, and continued to stare at the rear view mirror in the hopes of seeing your daydream again. You had to be wrong. This had to be you hallucinating. You must be just… afraid. Out of your mind. And so you were recalling one of the few times when you thought the world could do you no harm.

“Get out,” a command. As cold as steel. The engine was still roaring in your ears, despite the surroundings having gone dead silent.

A click. The doors unlocked. You could run if you wanted to. Though you were fully aware that the action would shorten your lifespan to a mere few seconds. You remained seated, gaze falling onto your lap, and listened to the painful succession of sounds that led the man to open your door, and roughly grab your upper arm.

“I said, get out,” you followed him like a rag doll, knowing that any attempts to resist would put you into even more danger. At the same time, even though the Inspector was obviously attempting to instil terror and a twisted respect for him, he could not face you. Consciously he made an effort to barely raise his lashes, thus keeping his scrutiny concealed. Reading through his hesitation was easy enough.

He could not keep his hand on you for a second longer after you stood up straight, darting away as though you were an open flame. The man cleared his throat and locked the car, before gesturing towards an abandoned building that loomed over the gravelly opening where you had completed your journey. Comically, it reminded you of Prestige, even though the latter was of much larger proportions and possessed a more unique shape. Perhaps it was the fact that this block, what used to be an apartment building, was crumbling, made you think of the academy’s inner workings. Rotting away. The cogs in the machine tearing each other apart.

This might be your end or your beginning, you were not sure which one. With an astounding loyalty, you let yourself be guided into the long-forgotten cement fortress, up exposed stairs with metal railings, past walls left bare, illuminated by an exposed moonlight, laying down a carpet of silver. It was oddly easy to think that life was beautiful when it was likely going to be taken away from you. The walk was silent, and the longer it lasted, the more at peace you felt. The odd step rang out and echoed like the gunshots you had heard, so surreal that you could barely believe it. It must have been a joke. Fireworks, or someone just being a little boisterous. Morpheus had seen so many colours of Z’s regime, it could not disappear now… oh who were you kidding. It was done for. You little version of an escape. Your space to feel.

As you made sneaky glances at the Inspector to your right, who not so ceremoniously had loosened his coat’s belt once more to have easy access to his gun, you could not help but think of the boy. You had followed his advice, made a run for it while he had been taken away by the Red Humans. Two youngsters who betrayed the regime. But who was truly free? The one who had been exterminated, or the one who had to live in fear, but at least felt the ruthless emotion?

The enigmatic man slowed down, and so did you. He made a turn, so did you, acting as his shadow. You were certain that you were probably breathing at the same rate. An empty hallway, lined with equally empty rooms and destroyed apartments. From a humble abode to rubble, you could see the horrific vistas of the district, and the drop to the cold ground below. No wall, no security, no certainty. It was only you and your fate in the form of a man who seemed to possess too much of a likeness to the keeper of your fragile adoration.

The Inspector walked in front and turned to face you. You froze, burning under his scrutiny. Eyes like scalding cold ice, assessing you, condemning you. Your best listener, now listening to your terrified heart. For what could be the last time, you felt alive. As the man reached into his pocket, you prepared for the worst, however, he only motioned with his head for you to follow him. Confused, you obeyed, finding yourself in a more secluded corner of the floor, one which had remotely retained the appearance of an actual room. Stuck in the same few seconds, there were no further commands from the Inspector, causing your mind to wander, and lips to move on their own accord:

“I should not be here.”

“Neither should I,” he deadpanned, though his choice of words was unsettling. Wasn’t he on a mission?

“I should be dead,” you persisted.

“I should have more blood on my hands.”

A pause. You were in shock, pointlessly clinging onto your own upper arms, stuck in a false embrace. Like prey that had been cornered, you were beyond the point of trusting survival instincts. You simply wanted for the interaction, or dare you say, interrogation, to be over, so you could be given away to the Red Humans, to whatever the afterlife had to offer, in peace. If you were to be melted, then so be it. If your departure were to be short and sweet, so be it. But a little question in your head still remained, a persistent worm which you decided to unleash given your hopeless circumstances:

“Then why-”

“It is pointless to ask when there is no answer,” the man answered coldly, not sparing you a glance as he picked at a filthy off-white tulle which covered a blown out window - now just a frame, with his gloved hand, glaring at the pitiful greyness outside the abandoned building before wiping the hand off with a handkerchief produced out of the pocket into which he had stuffed his hand.

A few steps separated you, but you knew better than to try and make a run for it – the man was armed, and you assumed that the gun you spotted was not the only weapon in his arsenal. He was menacing, unpredictable, and very dangerous. Alongside that, as much as you hated to admit, but the Inspectors were nothing short of extraordinary when it came to their expertise and training. Unlike Android Guardians, they were the leading forces, capable of high-risk decision making and unparalleled critical thinking. If you were to try to describe them, you always ended up thinking of chess. That was what they were playing whenever they were out in the field.

In fact, it was for this exact reason that you were concerned about this Inspector’s behaviour – it was out of line. Inefficient. Sub-optimal. You wondered if this was a new strategy or there was a higher plan; there were so many possibilities that your head could start spinning. You dug your fingers into rapidly cooling flesh, waking yourself up from the distressed rumination. What was the Inspector going to do to you? You had followed his demands so far, and weren’t putting up a fight - what more could he want?

He was unreadable. Gestures unpredictable, expression stoic, he regarded you with an air of superiority characteristic of people from his class. Serpent-like and calculating eyes, regal nose, facial structure reminiscent of a statue, plush perfectly shaped lips – all were a nod to his upbringing, you bet. He did not feel real. Reminiscent of automatons that the regime sometimes used in place of regular Guardians during high-volume riots, he was what one would call the ‘ideal specimen’. Down to the strand of wavy hair that fell on his face, he was a beautiful painting of your worst nightmare. Life had been unkind to you, you decided. It only showed you something prettier than the night lights when it was the last thing you would see.

The man stepped towards you, and your eyelids slammed shut automatically. You did not wish to see your death. The sound of leather against leather, the tied coat belt, the creaking of ancient rotten wood planks under lacquered ankle boots. He must be getting ready to end you. Were you too high profile to be lying with the other bodies in the club? Were you more dangerous in the Inspector’s view, being a singer, or as one could say a ‘spreader’ of inappropriate entertainment. Was this treason? Terrorism? You were not sure – the sentence changed more than the weather. But were you an enemy? With confidence, you had to answer with a Yes. Having escaped the regime, and according to those who had helped you regain some parts of your past self, having had a part in the uprising within Prestige Academy, you were the worst kind of citizen of Strictland. Disobedient, unchanging, and influential. You were waiting for the cocking of a pistol, for cool metal to hit your head, and for the world to go even darker as you collapsed on to the floorboards. The man had to be taking out his gun. He must have taken you away from the raid to be particularly ruthless. A sadist? Maybe. You had no time to judge.

You felt the fabric of your shimmering dress under your fingertips, and imagined you were preparing for a show of a lifetime. You counted your inhales and exhales like you would do before a performance, and conjured an audience in your mind. More rustling, another step. He, that boy, no, young man, was in the audience. Still in the Prestige Academy uniform, but the chip was long gone. He was giving you an encouraging smile eager to hear what you had achieved in your time away from the academy. Leather caressed your hand and you flinched, comforted only by how cautious the action was. Hand turned to raise your palm to the omniscient skies, your illusions combined with reality - what was Seonghwa to give to you?

Funny, how in critical moments, the mind could give you what you had longed to forget. Seonghwa. His name tasted sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. A fine wine, dizzying, addictive. A handsome, talented student who had the future ahead of him, only to throw it away for the taste of something more ‘real’ in his eyes. Something cold was being pressed into your palm, reminiscent of a large bullet or a device your fingers could remember before your mind. Your eyes shot open and were met with a dream and a nightmare. Finally, it hit you. Behind the Inspector’s facade, a mask crafted by years of experience and brutality, was the same boy, who, just like now, pressed a breaker into your palm.

“Wake up.”

Your gaze fell to the intricate metal handiwork, spotting the carving of an ‘A’ contained in a circle right at the base. The taste of anarchy, an uprising, revolution, a hope for something better flowing through a tragic story you two had written. At last, it had a resolution, and you were more than content with who was holding the lethal pen. You stared at the breaker. The very thing that brought you out of an eternal somnolence, submission to a regime. You had woken up then, and never could sleep.

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer… the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” you lifted your head once more, staring into Seonghwa’s softened eyes. He had matured, his features having become siren-like, dangerous, seductive. Befitting his character. You smiled sadly, “...or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing end them?” He remained quiet, as if he was the one waiting for you to decide your own destiny, “Shakespeare. Hamlet. Ever read it? Or do they not let you?”

“I-” he cleared his throat, concealing a pang of nervousness, “I am familiar with his work.”

“Mm, isn’t that a criminal offence?”

“What is?”

“Reading work exploring human emotion… sounds like treason to me.”

“Reading does not imply sympathising.”

“But you do.”

Again, a heavy pause. Seonghwa rocked from one foot to another one time, another - an old habit? Or an attempt to convince you that he was at least a fraction the same?

“I… I do not,” before you could scowl, he continued, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once’. I am more partial to this way of thinking.”

“Ah, the irony of it all.”

Your hand formed a fist around the device, and you kept on searching for fragments of the man you loved inside of the new Seonghwa before you. In flashes, you spotted glimmers of gold, feeble hints for something that could be concealed in the depths of his soul.

“So, are you going to make me a valiant person?”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?” feeling a little more brave, you taunted him, wishing to see what his limit was. Whether he was lying to you just to set you at ease and make his job easier. So he could see one final sense of betrayal in your pupils.

“We are already dead, Y/N.”

---

Music. A universal language. The biggest risk for a community that someone wanted to silence. So you hummed one song after another, head leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder as you sat on the concrete floor, in the corner of the room that was barely holding itself together. Bathed in silver light, you shared with him the luxury of reminiscing, mourned what had been lost only to have the feeling be replaced by a budding desire to wish upon anything at all.

Seonghwa might have lied to many of the Inspectors, and was in danger of facing a fate worse than extermination, but at least he did not lie to you. And because he did not lie to you, you were here; you were real. He could have the pleasure of having you beside him, wrapped up in his leather coat; your dress was not exactly ‘inhospitable conditions’ material, as pretty and befitting as it was. You were refusing to let go of the breaker as though it was the tether to a more sunny past, not that Seonghwa would ever dare pry it out of your hands. So long as you could keep singing for him forever. Even when music were to cease existing, and when the sky would fall down, he would still hear your voice. How many times had he visited Morpheus in secret, outside of his official inspections and scouting missions? How quickly had he transferred into a field role just for the chance to find you? How had he managed to remain alive even though his sentence had been supposedly set in stone, and he was still feeling? With each question, the answer grew blurrier and blurrier, until it no longer existed. Perhaps this was a manifestation of destiny. You were supposed to meet again after so much turmoil, so you did. Curious.

“What song do you like?” your voice, sleepy, serene, cut through his ruminations. Seonghwa looked down and to his side, meeting a gentle gaze.

“What song do you want to sing?”

“Mm, no that’s not an answer,” you snaked your hands around his arm and pulled him closer.

“But I like everything you sing. Because you sing it.”

“Sweet, but I’m at a loss.”

“Then let’s be quiet. Together. For as long as we can.”

“There’s not too long left, is there?”

Your question was rhetorical. Both you and Seonghwa were aware of it. Time in Strictland was not governed by the individual but by an unforgiving system. A person, or perhaps a symbol, holding the clock with an iron grip and making the hands fly faster and faster until a second was an impossible measure. Involuntarily, he sighed, causing wisps of steam to escape his lips and rise to the exposed armature of the floor above. With cooling temperatures came the cooling heart, and it was difficult to tell what it was that you loved. What was it that made you feel alive?

“You know, they gave me a choice,” Seonghwa began. There was no reason why he should be telling you about what had happened to him, but the sombre atmosphere seemed to bode well for a confession. You did not interrupt, choosing to remain passive, resigned, “either die for what I believe in, or admit I was wrong.”

“Funny how they gave you a choice,” the infamous ‘they’. The Guardians, the regime, the enemy. Now turned into a friend. Interesting how life changed.

“Definitely was not what I expected.”

“You sure they didn’t say ‘sike’ at any point and you just got lucky?”

“I don’t think they can miss,” a simple, but sharp fact. You bit your lower lip, “...anyways. You can probably guess what I chose to do. The only caveat is that I admitted I was wrong… for a different thing.”

“Do tell.”

“I was wrong for putting you in danger, Y/N.”

“Nothing we could do about that. We were two fools in love.”

Seonghwa detangled himself from you, only to grasp your free hand in his, place the other on your thigh and meet you face to face. Misty-eyed, his rationality was growing frantic, and you knew that at any moment he could snap, and only the clearing night knew what would happen then.

“But I was the one to jolt you out of a peaceful existence. I was selfish-” After years of doubting himself, sinking into a destructive illusion where he would march alongside others like a machine, he was breathing. Much to his regret, it was a sensation far too sweet and heavenly, worth every revolution and rebellion.

“I don’t regret it.”

“...What?”

“I would put this thing to my head time and time again if I had to,” you raised the breaker to eye level, attempting to get at least a smile or a chuckle out of Seonghwa. Much to your dismay, it did the opposite. You would be lying if you were to proclaim you were euphoric.

“I- I’m… Y/N I’m so sorry…” you shook your head and pulled him in, until his exhales and inhales were tickling your neck. Hunched over you like a black-clad shield, Seonghwa was unmoving. Eyes darting down, you spotted that he had taken the pistol out of the holster, and upon a second glance to where he had been sitting, you noted its lonely presence, tucked away with debris and gravel.

“You are alive. And clearly still care enough to remember me. That’s your apology. And your punishment,” in a soothing gesture, you ran your fingers through his hair, cautiously at first, then turning your ministrations continuous, measured out when Seonghwa sat back down on the concrete, only this time nuzzled into you.

“Sorry…” he forced out, choking up.

The moon counted down the time while lazily passing over the building. You were at a crossroads. In haste, Seonghwa had told you of the opportunity to serve the Guardian Inspectors, being a private entertainer of sorts, but he knew you would refuse. Fast. Becoming one’s own enemy was the one thing you would not follow Seonghwa into doing. And that is why he admired you. You were strong. You were truly alive. A bird soaring in the skies in spite of the risks of being hunted, being shot. Simply for the feeling of the wind under your wings, to be closer to the stars and to sing your song loud and clear, every note a celestial blessing.

“Blue bird…”

“Hm?”

“I think I have an idea… if you are willing to go into hiding, that is.”

“Planning uprisings are we?”

“Oh they’ve been long in the works, my love. It is part of my job to close my eyes when necessary, and when convenient.”

“Are you about to be wrong again?”

“Maybe. Or very, very right. Depends on how the song sounds to you.”

---

Walking down the corridors of the headquarters, hands behind his back and appearance pristine, Seonghwa was nothing short of a model Inspector. Low ranking employees cowered before him and bowed, while his immediate colleague Wooyoung smirked, attempting to hook any information out.

“So… where'd the pretty star go?”

Silently, Seonghwa handed him a slip recording the disposal of an ‘unnamed entity’.

“ Oh… well that’s harsh. What did they do, reject you?”

“Apparently once gone so far astray, one cannot be changed. I had to do what was best for the regime.”

“Such an example for others. Wow. Almost too good to be true, Park. Well, I’ll be reporting that the extermination and cleanup of Morpheus was successful.”

“You do that.”

While Wooyoung turned the corner, Seonghwa continued to walk straight down the metal corridor, eyes locked onto the very end. Morpheus was no longer, indeed. But your song was still ringing in his ears, and no doubt, there would be a time when it would resound over the many speakers planted all across Strictland.

Blue skies smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothing but blue skies from now on

🌑 perma-taglist: @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @starrysvn @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @uwuheeseungie @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @jaehunnyy @maddkitt @ren-junwrld @pyeonghongrie-main @marsstarxhwa @pocketjoong-reads @yeooclock @yeonjunnie @asjkdk @lucky-cat-cafe @northerngalxy @my-loves-my-life @http-gyu

enjoyed? please consider reblogging <3 thank you

218 notes · View notes

rascal-xo · 1 year

Note

What's up! Umm, I got a request another actually ideas be popping in my head. For ghost x reader, where the reader is a world-class boxer and is like undefeated like the reader is pretty much female Mike tyson (BTW if you don't know who Mike tyson is he was pretty much a scary boxer who knocked people ass out , people were scared of him and he bit someone ear off ) and reader is like so deadly in the ring she almost kills someone or gets called this pretty sick nickname and everyone on the task force is afraid of her but ghost being ghost doubts the readers skills and challenges the reader in the ring and gets his ass beaten badly like a REALLY bad broken nose, jaw or like gets his ass knocked out. Just a thought: I hope this is acceptable 🙏. I love your writing.

Sunday Punch | Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Female Reader

Chapter summary: You’re a lethal fighter in the ring, and a seasoned soldier in the field. The 141 get front tickets to your underground double life.

Warnings: Fights, bodily injury, blood, language

Tags: @glitteryeggalmondherring @fiveshelmet @madamemelancholysstuff @myguiltypleasure @pukbadger

A/N: Ty for sending in another amazing request! you keep my brain happy lolll 🩷🩷 I hope you enjoy! (It’s a long one i’m sorry LMAO i got carried away)

P.S: Sunday Punch is just another way of saying KnockOut.

It’s no secret that you’re a talented soldier. With every move you make in the field, you showcases an unrivaled combination of skill, agility, and raw power. You holdheld quite the reputation around base, especially for your skills in combat.

Most of the younger cadets at the academy were also hesitant to be paired up with you, mostly afraid to get knocked out.

Whether it's engaging in close-quarters combat or taking down enemies from a distance, your every move is calculated and executed to your advantage. Your training has molded you into a formidable force, capable of adapting to any situation with ease.

But you haven’t always been like that. Going through the ranks before and during your recruitment to the 141, you were pushed beyond your boundaries and worked through.

Now you’re lethal, and one of the military’s strongest assets. But like anyone else, you have hobbies. Dangerous hobbies.

You step into the dimly lit underground arena, the air thick with anticipation. It's early, and the entire space lies empty, granting you a moment of solitude before the chaos ensues. The only sound is the distant hum of the overhead lights, casting an ethereal glow over the barren ring.

With a focused gaze, you tighten your fists and step forward. Your first strike connects with the bag, and the impact reverberates through the arena like a gunshot. The sound echoes off the empty seats, filling the air with the thunderous force of your blows.

The scent of sweat and anticipation lingers in the air, fueling your senses. Your muscles ripple beneath your skin, coiled and ready for action.

Your teammates on the 141 know you lead a mysterious life when you’re not at work, but have never seen you in action. You decided that it was time to let your most trusted friends in on your endeavors. Mostly because Soap was dying to see you in the ring.

The Captain isn’t very fond of you putting yourself into dangerous situations outside of your already severely dangerous occupation. He’s like a father to you, but he also understands and respects your talent.

Now as you sit in your dimly lit dressing room, the anticipation of the upcoming underground boxing match courses through your veins. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and determination, mingling with the faint echo of distant cheers from the eager crowd.

The mirror before you reflects the flickering glow of a single bare lightbulb dangling from above, casting shadows across your face.

You take a deep breath, the adrenaline surging within you as you run your fingers through your hair. The rhythmic motion of braiding your hair has always been a ritual before each fight or mission, a way to focus your mind and steel your resolve.

“Quite a crowd tonight, Bullet.” A voice breaks the silence. You look up to see Anchor, the man who arranges the fights. You’ve been fighting in his arena for 3 years.

He’s wearing his signature navy blue suit, his hair gelled and a championship ring on each finger. He throws you an envelope and you catch it on your bare lap. “Three thousand. Five when you win.” He winks, leaning against the doorframe. “You’ve got Tank Gomez tonight.”

You open the envelope and glance at its contents, the crisp bills tucked neatly within. Anchors the only other person you’ve ever trusted besides your team. He trained your mind to always be lethal and ready, coming from a fighting background himself. “Copy that.” You say, a smile at your lips.

“When do you deploy?” He asks, crossing his arms. “People don’t seem to care about me when ‘Bullet’ isn’t in the ring.” You shake your head at the nickname you’ve acquired.

“3 days. So don’t scuff me up too bad.” You tease, getting up to put on your robe.

The crowd awaits, hungry for the spectacle that is about to unfold. But it's more than just a performance; it's a test of your mettle, an opportunity to showcase your mastery of the craft.

With Anchor's support, you step forward, ready to embrace the chaos and reclaim your rightful place in the ring. The anticipation builds, the sound of the crowd growing louder as you make your way through the corridors.

As you step into the ring, the air crackles with anticipation. The crowd roars, their excitement reverberating through the arena. Across from you stands your opponent, a formidable figure, a big man whose sheer size alone could intimidate the faint of heart.

As you take your stance, a flicker of movement catches your attention from the corner seats. Soap, Price, Gaz, and Ghost, are there, watching you intently. Soap sends an energetic thumbs up, cheering you on.

Yet, as you meet Ghost's gaze, you notice his eyes. The usual seriousness is replaced by a coldness, an intensity that makes it unreadable. He looks away. Ghost has never been one to support your hobbies, but watches along anyway.

The referee's voice cuts through the tension, signaling the start of the fight. The world around you narrows, and everything else becomes a blur. It's just you, your opponent, and the dance of combat.

You move with purpose, your training guiding your every step. Dodging, weaving, and countering, you navigate the ring with grace and precision. Each blow is calculated, your fists finding their mark with practiced accuracy.

The big man lunges forward, his power evident in every punch he throws. But you refuse to be overwhelmed. Your speed and agility become your greatest assets, allowing you to evade his strikes while retaliating with your own punishing combinations.

“Argh!” One of his punches land, striking you right under the eye. You curse knowing the bruise it’s gonna leave later. You feel a little blood drop down your cheek. Recovering quickly you bounce back.

With each passing second, the intensity of the fight grows, both you and your opponent refusing to back down. Sweat beads on your brow, mingling with the taste of blood and adrenaline on your lips. The rounds blur together, time becoming inconsequential as you immerse yourself in the battle, fully present, fully alive.

As the final bell sounds, the crowd erupts in applause. The fight is over, your opponent is out cold, and you've given it your all. You stand tall in the center of the ring, catching your breath, as the referee holds your victory arm up high.

After a grueling workout, you find yourself in the open gym on the military base, sweat glistening on your brow and a towel draped around your neck. Your bruised knuckles draw your attention, serving as a reminder of the battle you fought in the ring just a week ago.

As you examine them, lost in your thoughts, the door swings open, and Ghost walks in, his presence commanding attention. “Hey.” You say to him, with a nod.

“You’re here.” He replies, monotonously. His normal gear is now replaced with gym shorts and T-shirt. He trades out the full skull mask with a black balaclava.

“Why wouldn’t I be.” You chuckle, watching as he sets down a weight. You would normally work out with Ghost as you’ve got sort of a friendship that’s built over the years.

Today he seems awfully distant. You feel the tension growing between the two of you. You knew he was never a fan of you fighting for show, he was the first person you told about your endeavors, and he wasn’t too thrilled.

Ghost's eyes briefly meet yours before shifting away. You lean against the hanging punching bag, and cross your arms. It's evident that he's harboring a deep anger, his normally calm demeanor shattered by the concern that has festered within him.

“It was nice of you to come out the other night.” You say, testing the waters. His head turns in your direction as he takes you in. His gaze stops at your knuckles.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He says, looking right through you. You scoff a dry laugh.

“Haven’t yet.”

“You think this is funny?”

Ghost's voice cuts through the air, his anger palpable. You straighten up, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. The tension between you escalates, the air crackling with unresolved emotions.

"No, Simon, I don't think it's funny," you reply, your voice tinged with a mix of frustration and defiance. "But I also don't think it's fair for you to dictate what I can or cannot do. This is my choice, my path."

Ghost's eyes narrow, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Your choice? This isn't just about you, Y/N," he snaps, his voice biting with a sense of betrayal. "Every time you step into that ring, you're not just risking your own life; you're risking everything."

His words hit you hard, the weight of his disappointment bearing down on you. You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to convey your own perspective.

“I've trained for this, I know what I'm doing."

Ghost scoffs, his disbelief evident in his tone. "Trained? You think a few months of underground fights make you invincible?”

“Fuck you. You never fucking supported anything I do!” You throw your towel down, needing to get away from him and get some fresh air into your system.

An hour later, Price calls you and the guys for the group training session. He divides the team into pairs for sparring, and to your surprise (or perhaps fate's twisted sense of humor), you find yourself standing face to face with Ghost.

The tension between you is palpable, the lingering anger and hurt casting a shadow over the training session.

Price's voice breaks through the silence, setting the rules and reminding everyone to "play nice." But deep down, you know that the emotions swirling inside you threaten to break through the facade of control.

The bell rings, signaling the start of the spar, and you and Ghost cautiously circle each other. As the seconds tick by, you feel the anger inside you bubbling to the surface, fueling your movements.

His movements are measured, his punches and kicks executed with surgical precision. He weaves in and out, his strikes landing with pinpoint accuracy, but you matche him blow for blow, refusing to back down.

The sound of fists meeting flesh echo through the training room as your strikes collided. The intensity of their spar escalates with each passing second, the energy between you crackling like electricity.

Without warning, you lash out, throwing a punch fueled by a mix of frustration and pent-up emotions. Your fist connects with Ghost's nose, the impact resounding through the air. Time seems to slow down for a moment as he staggers back, blood staining his balaclava from his broken nose.

The realization of what you've done hits you like a punch to the gut. The anger dissipates, replaced by a flood of guilt and regret. His eyes meet yours, raging and stone cold. “Fucking hell. You just don’t know when to stop do you?”.” He curses, his shoulder hitting yours as he leaves the mat.

“Si-wait!” You call after him, but before you can say anymore Price stops you.

Enough," Price's voice cuts through the air, firm and resolute. His gaze shifts between you and Ghost, assessing the situation. "Take a breather, both of you."

He gestures towards the side of the mat, signaling for you to step aside. You comply, your mind filled with a whirlwind of emotions.

A/N: That’s all I got for now or else imma be writing like 10,000 words just on this LMAO

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #fanfic #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley imagine #ghost x female reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #141 x you #141 x reader #task force 141 #modern warfare smut #simon riley x reader #captain price #soap mactavish

558 notes · View notes

drkmgs · 1 year

Text

Homecoming

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Warning: nothing just overload cuteness...

I have no clue how military school works or how to get into the military in America...so no offense to the people who are studying to get into the military...big respect for y'all

I might change this to OC (still in the process), but it will be still your POV...part 2? or nah?

Growing up you always admired Soldiers— how brave they were leaving their families to protect a whole country or even help out countries in need. So you swore when you grew up, you're going to be one and that became true.

When you came home from military academy/school for the first time, your friends invited you to hang out and enjoy your free time from school/academy. You arrived at this "hang out" to find out it was a little party, you recognized some of the people but mostly not. Then one of your friends found you in the mass of young adults and introduced you to their friend. That was Jenna. That's how you two met and stayed in contact. It started with a little text here and there, then into late nights chats, then into late-night calls, and then into video chats.

Soon you needed to say goodbye to those routines because the day of your return to the military academy/school is coming. You did mention it to Jenna in one of your late-night talks and she finds it great how you constantly pursue your dreams. The day before you left you personally asked her to be your girlfriend and she said yes. So, ever since that day you never let go of her.

You did feel bad for her because you couldn't celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, dream goals achievements together, or go out for a simple date night. Yes, she didn't complain and she said she understood that this is your dream but you knew in yourself how much she wished you would escort her to every red carpet she goes on or every award show she attends. You didn't know that your love for her is deeper than any of your dreams in life. You decided to retire from the military, you have talked to your family and also Jenna, and they support you with all of their hearts.

Currently, you're on your last duty and your retirement ceremony would be right after it, after that you have a flight to catch to get to Jenna's awarding show. Jenna has no idea that you'll be her escort at the Golden Globes, a week before you secretly messaged her manager to ask if it's possible to surprise Jenna and they had no issues with it, but the thing is you're on a tight schedule and you're already running late. The retirement ceremony got delayed because there was an issue on-site and you had to defuse it. Then at the airport your flight got canceled and needed to wait for two hours to get a new one, you were already 3 hours behind your schedule, and there was no time for you to drive home and change.

On the plane, you couldn't stop your leg to jerk because of the anxiety you wouldn't make it to Jenna on time. You kept texting her manager to hold Jenna off until you were at the venue. The landing of the plane was smooth, but then all of a sudden your name was called out. The pilots mentioned your achievements in the military and your retirement, all the passengers applauded you. The pilots mentioned something about an escort, you looked outside and see a limousine with police escorts parked in front of the plane. It was sent by a high-ranked officer in your department, who you looked up to. You quickly thanked everyone and made your way down the plane, into the limousine, and off you were.

Jenna couldn't understand why she was still in the car and wasn't allowed to exit. She's been in there for almost 30 mins and still no call or text from her manager. She can see the flashes of the cameras and shouts from fans of other celebrities. Then a black limousine parked behind her car, which she could only see through the rear mirror as she couldn't turn scared to mess up her dress. She finally breathe out when the car door opened.

Your phone is blowing up with text messages from Jenna's manager saying, she can't hold Jenna back anymore. You texted back that you are almost at the venue with the escort you have. What a fucking entrance will it be, you thought. Everyone at the venue became curious about who just pulled up with a fucking police escort at Golden Globes. Paparazzi swarmed the newly parked limousine, securities becoming a human barrier. You're still in your formal uniform with all of your military medals and cap, there was no time to change so this will just do, you fixed yourself a little and took a deep breath. Stepping out of the vehicle, and into the flashing cameras, you made your way to the car that was parked in front of the limousine.

You stood beside the door and gave the driver a nod to open the door. You stretched out a hand for Jenna to grab, but you kept your head down to the side so she couldn't see your face. You guided her to your right, so the driver could close the door. She still hasn't noticed you, not until you hook her hand on your right arm and whispered in her ear. "You look breathtaking, my love.", that's when she snapped her head towards you with wide eyes, all you could do is smile at her. "Wh-What are you doing here?! You said you couldn't escort me?!", she slightly slapped your arm, and you could see her eyes tearing up. "Hush, my love. I'd do anything for you. The things you've done for me, over the past 6 years? I could at least give you a princess-like entrance to your first Golden Globes.", you rubbed her hand trying to soothe her, and kissed her side temple.

You let her walk on the red carpet and let her pose for the photographers, when she had enough, she made a grabbing action towards you indicating to come beside her and let them take pictures of both of you. People at the venue were in awe seeing you pose effortlessly in front of the cameras as if you'd done it your entire life. After the picture session, a lot of managers or executives agencies gave you their business cards. "Babe, I think you don't need to look for a job anymore.", Jenna snorted seeing the 12th business card handed to you. "Hmm. Don't you think it will be fair for the fans to have two attractive individuals in a movie or series?", you whispered in her ear. "I do realize that I'm kinda bad at sharing, you have to give me all the business cards later, I'm going to burn them.", she replied which made you chuckle a bit.

Jenna's manager came to snatch you away from Jenna and let her do some interviews. While she was giving interviews, you were busy talking to her manager. "Jenna, would you please tell us and everyone who's watching at home, who your escort is? Because I don't think you saw how they made the highlight of the night. They had four police escorts, two up front and two at the back of the limousine, the way they stepped out of the car and hold their hand out for you— it was pure Disney movie.", the interviewer said and Jenna couldn't wait to watch any clips of it. "That's my partner Y/N Ashford. I didn't know that they would be here with me. It was a surprise, them being here with me.", Jenna answered excitedly. "Do you know what official rank they're, because from here I can see the shimmering of their medals?", the interviewer added. Jenna tried to find you through the crowd and answered "Yeah, no. I don't know what official rank they are and it's also the first time I see them in their formal uniform. I'm kinda into it."

You had no idea what was going on, everything here is overwhelming for you, and by the way, you got your 14th business card handed over, you already snorted at the thought of how would Jenna react to seeing all the cards later on. Wherever Jenna goes your eyes follow, you could see her smiling while talking to one of the interviewers, you could tell that they were looking at you but Jenna couldn't spot you which made you chuckle a little bit. You excused yourself from the people around you when you get sight of Jenna trying to leave the interviewer platform but struggling with her dress. You swiftly grabbed her by her hand and back so she wouldn't fall, when she realized it was you, she gave you her sweetest smile, and flashes of the cameras started hitting both of you again.

It was definitely a beautiful night for both of you.

#wednesday #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #wednesday addams #wednesday x reader #wednesday x you #wednesday x y/n #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday series #wednesday netflix #drkmgsstories

786 notes · View notes

pianostrings · 5 months

Text

Rebel Moon Novelization

Some interesting parts from the novelization! Contains potential spoilers for Rebel Moon under the cut.

The novelization opens with the destruction of King Heron's world, as punishment for aiding the Bloodaxes. Noble forces Heron's son, Aris, to kill his father with the bone staff to protect his family before he is conscripted into the army. Noble beats the rest of his family to death anyway.

Kora's sex scene with Den is fleshed out (wink). Inwardly, she admits to liking Gunnar, despite his shyness, but has issues with intimacy and the idea of starting a family.

Hagen, a villager whose wife and daughter died, was the one who found Kora and took her in. He is something of a father figure to her.

Slightly longer dialogue scene with Sam & Jimmy. Features Jimmy's line from the trailer that a 'A king is a man, and a man can fail or betray. But a myth is indestructible.' He mentions that Balisarius had the Jimmies separated from Princess Issa, despite their vow to protect her, and that most of them had never set foot on the Motherworld.

Sam thanks Aris for saving her (❁´◡`❁)

Den takes over as the village leader after Sindri and his wife are bone staffed to death 😓

Before Kora leaves, she asks Hagen to task Private Aris to fix the guns on the dropship she crash-landed on Veldt in.

In Kora's flashback scene, we learn Kora's family lived above the tea shop they owned. She had two older siblings. They are killed by Imperium soldiers while she is upstairs packing.

Kora's scene with Balisarius has dialogue. He introduces himself. She tells him her name is Kora. She believes he is impressed she had the guts to pull the trigger. He renames her on the spot 😒 and takes her as a 'a gift to himself and his legacy' 😒 because 'every leader had an heir'.

Kora's life on the ship is briefly detailed. Balisarius brings her to a surrendering planet and makes her watch the soldiers open fire on its people. She is sent to train at the Imperium military academy and doesn't see Balisarius for years. Before she leaves, he tells her she can't tell anyone about her past or where she came from. She graduates with top marks and her final test is orchestrated by Balisarius: it involves her executing a man without question.

More scenes in the village. Aris keeps his Imperium uniform to keep up appearances for transmissions to the Motherworld.

While trying to fix the ship, Aris and Sam share how their parents died. It's giving young love over shared trauma 🥰 They wake to find there is a deer with antlers removed (important!) roasted on a spit and the ship has been repaired. Aris guesses it was Jimmy who did it.

We hear from Jimmy's perspective that he ran to save Sam because he felt the same connection and loyalty to her as he did Princess Issa (interesting). He decides to make his own choices, carves his own staff, cloaks himself with a robe, and a pair of fashionable deer antlers to go into the wilderness.

Hickman hints at Tarak's backstory-- he says Tarak runs when given the chance and that he let his own people die at the hands of the realm.

Cassius takes a call from someone who makes him more uneasy than Noble, a high scribe named Enoch with abilities that defy logic. Cassius finds Noble predictable in his brutality.

We learn more about Cassius: he doesn't have the implants the realm's upper classes and high-ranking officials make to their bodies because it would leave him open in ways he didn't want. Cassius's family isn't native to Moa (the Motherworld) but had been there for generations and became affluent. His mother's penchant for opulence mounted debts for his father, a senator, and her modifications revealed their circumstances to another senator who blackmails them. Cassius's father trades him to serve with the priests who tells him that silence and observation are powerful tools (interesting).

Sexy scene with Noble and the Octopus, called the Twins. They were gifted to him by a warlord and are one of the few things he actually likes. Not shockingly, he is really into tentacle shit and BDSM. Cassius interrupts and Noble offers to let him go a round with the Twins. Cassius, grossed the eff out, politely declines. It's TMI, even for him.

More Cassius backstory: his career in the priesthood doesn't work out; after his family is ruined and executed, he joins the military order where he meets Noble, who confirms his father was responsible for Cassius's family's downfall & execution. In the academy, Cassius sees Noble's cruelty up close. He thinks of Noble as someone charming and cruel, surrounding himself with slightly smarter but less ambitious people. Good at working his way into the right circles.

Daggus is known throughout the galaxy for its cobalt mines. The land was leveled and indigenous life died out. Workers, mostly refugees, move there with the promise of wealth only to be exploited and live in poor conditions.

Kora offers to help Nemesis with Harmada, but she declines. She says: 'Harmada has grown accustomed to the pain of her grief. I know her rage intimately. We are not enemies.'

After watching Gunnar save the child, Kora thinks that even though he isn't a seasoned warrior, he has the heart of one. She's catching feelings.

In a flashback scene, she watches Princess Issa play in the snow at the winter castle. There is a frozen lake with giant fish and creatures swimming underneath (important later).

Kora witnesses Issa bring the bird back to life and warns her not to show anyone her power. Issa recounts that when she was born she almost killed her mother but when she was placed in her arms, the Queen was miraculously healed. Everyone present was sworn to secrecy. Unbeknownst to them, the King watches this scene from the castle window.

The King approaches her later and tells Kora that Issa likes having her as a guard and expresses his happiness at her new role. He asks if she misses her homeworld, but Kora doesn't respond. Balisarius told the King that Kora was abandoned as a child.

King Levitica agreed to help the Bloodaxes because he finds the Imperium's notion of 'homogeneous purity vile' and because 'they neither respect nor value anything that doesn't serve them at the expense of their own lives.' His comfort and kindness remind Kora of Hagen, her father figure on Veldt.

While waiting for the Bloodaxes, Tarak tells the others of how the people of his home, the Samandrai system, were killed or enslaved by the Imperium. Kora asks why he wasn't taken and conscripted to be made an example of. When he doesn't respond, she surmises he left before that could happen. Kai calls him a coward and ribs the other men. He and Titus almost get into a fight. Gunnar tells Kora he thinks Kai is a dick.

Darrian tells Devra that "people need a revolution they can see". When he refers to not allowing another world to fall in their name, he is presumably referring to King Heron's world at the beginning of the book.

A dying King Levitica tells Noble that "goodness will return to the universe. Endless war and needless death will end in the universe., There will be one to bring it back." So sad to see the end of his squidgy face.

Kora and Tarak speak; Tarak doesnt trust Kai, but she brushes it off. Girl, there are SO many alarm bells ringing.

Kai's betrayal reminds Kora of the "first monumental betrayal in her life."

There is more dialogue between Noble and the team as they are bound and about to be transported. Noble mocks Nemesis's dead children (seriously, fuck this guy!!!). The spine machines are meant to paralyse them for transport.

Noble asks if Gunnar will be a problem being transported unbound but Kai laughs it off, saying Gunnar is a coward. Oop. That was a bad read.

The fight sequence actually has them fighting together. Titus acknowledges Nemesis saving his life. Tarak and Titus fight happily side by side.

Darrian's death scene is vague; it says his body 'shut[s] down like the hunk of metal he clung to' while screaming 'Death to the Motherworld! Death to the Realm! For Shasu!' while hysterically laughing.

More dialogue when Noble and Kora fight. When she looks over his (presumably) dead body, she wishes it was Balisarius instead and is sad to know that she'll likely never be able to confront him in person.

There's a "who's going to fly this thing" moment with Kai's freighter. A crime this was left out. (Also, they don't answer this; the freighter apparently just lands itself when they arrive back in Providence.)

Back on Veldt, Sam invites Aris to stay in her home. She loves sewing and quilting, which she learned from her grandmother. Aris likes the quilts, which is good because she has so many.

After the company arrive in the village, they are followed by two Hawkshaws at a distance. They are watched, in turn, by Jimmy.

Devra commands her ships return to 'Base One'.

The astral plane setting where Noble meets Balisarius is confirmed to be the winter gardens of the royal palace where the Princess Issa scene was set.

Balisarius' face is noted to have been kept young with 'fortune and science' (yeah, and bad CGI 😐)

It's explicitly confirmed that Kora is responsible for the assassination of the royal family, or at least is being blamed for it. Noble says: 'I have found her. The hated other who murdered in cold blood that which we held most dear.' He also calls her 'the ethnic impurity, the monster, the Scargiver, the enemy of us all.' Balisarius says Arthelais is the 'assassin of the royal family, she who killed the king and queen, as well as her charge, the Princess Issa.' - From Rebel Moon Part One - A Child of Fire: The Official Movie Novelization by V. Castro Other interesting parts:

The scribes extract the teeth of their victims and put them on their masks in front of an image of Princess Issa to 'honour her.' The effect is, not surprisingly, extremely horrifying.

While Kora is living on the ship, she sees a Kali in a giant metal encasement with 'thick tubes of red and blue energy' and 'something alive in there'. She feels sorry for it, and thinks it is the only other thing on the ship who understands the feeling of being trapped.

Kora's off-worlder status is being made a big deal of, and I'm still not sure why. Balisarius apparently gets no heat for raising the assassin that murders the royal family?

Cassius is given way too much backstory for him to just be a random henchman. I suspect he may be collecting information to overthrow Noble at some point.

I am outing myself as a Sam is Princess Issa truther, even if it doesn't make any sense at all. But I think it's neat.

Sam and Aris ❤

Jimmy ❤

#rebel moon #rebel moon spoilers #a child of fire #rebel moon novelization #kora #gunnar #tarak #atticus noble #cassius #balisarius #Princess Issa #sorry if there’s typos! I will not be bothering to spellcheck this

80 notes · View notes

arc-misadventures · 6 months

Text

A Solider, A Huntsman, And A Monster

They made a wide berth around me as I walked through the halls of, Atlas Academy. Many moved to the side to make way for my presence, others stopped in their walking to jump back in alarm as they saw my ghastly visage before them. I tended to create, although involuntarily, stirs around people who haven’t seen me.

Although, many offered me a kind, and polite nod of the head in acknowledgment as they saw me walk by. These were mostly the rank, and file soldiers you would find strewn about the academy. Be they enlisted, or officers, my actions in the defence of, Atlas, and Mantle had earned me their respect, and mine in turn.

But, peoples fear of me would have to wait, General Ironwood wanted to speak with me, and I for one wasn’t planning to keep him waiting, especially since his summons seemed rather urgent. A notion that filled my broken soul with unease.

When I reached the doors leading to, General Ironwood’s office I softly knocked on the door, and entered. Well, what what I thought was a soft knock made a sound more akin to a hammer pounding warped steel. I looked down at my right hand, inspecting the white bone plate upon it, as I entered the generals office.

Jaune: My apologies… I thought that was knocking softly… evidently not.

Ironwood: It is quite alright, Mr. Arc. Please do come in.

As I entered his office I saw several other individuals in the room. Specialist Winter Schnee, Specialist Ebi Clover, several of Atlas’s council members, including its latest addition, Robyn Hill. My gaze lingered upon her longer than others, but it was soon put to an ease as she walked over, and held out her hand.

Robyn: It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Arc. How are you feeling?

I took her hand in mine, and simply replied:

Jaune: I’m doing fine.

There was genuine concern within her voice. Robyn, and I had created an ammoniacal relationship between the two of us. I found her presence calming, and her smile comforting, but more importantly I could use her semblance to gauge my mind’s true feelings. And, based upon the red grow that emanated from our hands. Well, there was much lies to be told.

Robyn: You’re lying, Jaune.

Jaune: To myself, or you? That’s the real question…

Robyn gave me a sad smile as she pulled away, patting my arm as she turned to stand beside her colleagues.

I thought my night with, Willow would have lifted my mood. But, seemingly only on the surface it had been lifted. But, now wasn’t the time for mopping about, or swallowing myself up in rage. I was summoned here for a reason after all. What that was, was the question.

Jaune: So, you wanted to speak with me, General Ironwood? May I assume this is about my work schedule, and teaching documents that I will need? Or, perhaps some individuals have voiced their objections to me becoming a teacher at, Atlas Academy because of various… circumstances.

I cast a cautionary glance to my left, I gazed upon the gaggle of council members currently present. I couldn’t blame them if they objected to my appointment as a teacher, I was a for the better part, a Valian after all, and not an, Atlasian. Many would find pause in that alone. Taking into consideration me being a Grimm/human hybrid, well, I’m still surprised I’m not locked up in another lab getter poked, and proded, again.

James saw through my not so subtle pointed questions, and smiled softly at that, and he shook his head dismissively.

Ironwood: No, no nothing of the sort. This is about something else all entirely.

Jaune: And, that would be?

Ironwood: I, General James Ironwood would like to, on the behave of, Kingdom of Atlas, and Mantle, would like you to offer you a military commission.

The eyebrow over my left eye rose as I looked at him skeptically.

Jaune: You want to buy my services as a mercenary? But, I’m already a Huntsman working for, Atlas Academy. Aren’t I already a mercenary under a contract?

General Ironwood, and the Specialists all looked at me wide eyed for a moment before bursting our in a small fit of laughter. Even, councilwoman, Robyn Hill chuckled at my expense.

Ironwood: Hahaaa… No, Mr. Arc, what I’m saying is that I want to offer you a position as an officer in the, Atlas Military. The process of doing so is called, ‘a military commission.’

My head nodded in understanding at the terminology, but I was nonetheless confused.

Jaune: I understand, but why are you doing this? Don’t I need to serve in the, Atlas Military for a while to become an officer?

Ironwood: Normally yes, however, Hunter’s, such as the, Specialists have, Huntsman level of training, and are a part of the, Atlas Military. This exemption to the rules also applies to you as well, since you were gifted you, Huntsmen license from, Atlas Academy. And, as for why we’re offering you a commission, well there are several reasons.

I could see an almost nervous sense of unease fill the room. I looked towards, Winter, and caught her gazing at me, her eyes quickly darted away from me. I did the same to other members of the, Specialists, and they gave the same distant look, but, Robyn kept her eyes locked with mine unlike the rest. Interesting.

I tore my vision away from, Robyn to look back at, Ironwood, and ask the question he wanted me to ask.

Jaune: And, those reasons would do doubt have to do with, Salem’s attack upon, Mantle, and Atlas, no?

Ironwood: You are correct. We lost a lot of people that day… Mostly soldiers who sacrificed their lives in the defence of, Atlas, and Mantle people. And, while we lost many of the common rank, and file soldiers, we have lost far more officers than we can allow.

I looked at him with a mild sense of confusion, his words didn’t add up. I knew the body count of that day, I knew how many soldiers died, I knew who were the grunts, and who were the officers among that number. I knew how many civilians they saved that day was, and I knew how many they couldn’t save that day. I knew all too well, and I could never forget.

Jaune: Unless I am mistaken the total casualty numbers for the day people have dubbed, ‘The Siege of Atlas,’ was around three hundred, and thirty eight, Of that number, one hundred, and seven were civilians, leaving that count being that there were two hundred, and thirty one casualties sustained by military personnel. Now, not counting the casualties sustained by the, Atlasian Knights, which I believe is around, three hundred, and ninety two. That number of, two hundred, and thirty one only, forty one of them were officers. Now, if we are not counting the nine, Paladin pilots who also lost their lives among that count. Since I assume you are counting officers that were in positions of command, and any soldier who is, ‘Fitted for their suit,’ as the slang goes is gifted the rank of lieutenant upon graduation. So that would leave approximately, thirty two officers who lost their lives in the line of duty. Now I mean to speak no ill of the dead, but is that not considered, ‘An acceptable casualty rating?’

My words may have been as simple as reading a causality report, but the shocked looks I received from those present was odd. It seems like they didn’t expect me to know the exact casualty rates we experienced that day, and based upon how, Ironwood was over looking a series of documents in front of him he couldn’t believe it either.

Ironwood: You are correct, those were indeed the casualty numbers we received that day. And, the number of three hundred, and thirty eight fatalities among the enlisted personnel, the officer core, and civilians is indeed, ‘an acceptable causalty rating.’

: An acceptable casualty rating?!

I looked of to one of the council members, a lady whose name was, Mrs. Alicia Ophilia. She seethed in a cold, and silent rage as she started us down at our seemingly disconcert regards towards the glorious dead.

Alicia: I for one do not consider over three hundred dead civilians, and military personnel as an acceptable casualty rating! How can you be so callous, and emotionless towards such a substantial lose of life?!

Myself, Ironwood, the Specialist, and even, Councillor Hill understood fully well the reason behind her rage. Which made the cold, grim logic behind, Winter’s following words all the more damning on an already weery soul.

Winter: If I may, Mrs. Ophilia. The term: ‘Acceptable casualty rating,’ is an euphemism used by the military, and huntsmen alike to address casualties, or destruction inflicted by an enemy force that is considered minor, or tolerable.

Alicia: Tolerable?

Robyn: Please put it into perspective, Alicia; we lost over three hundred people during the attack, and out of two cities whose total population nears ten thousand, which would you prefer; one thousand dead, or three hundred dead?

Mrs. Ophilia looked at the group of soldiers, and Huntsmen before her, and as she processed the words spoken to her, and gave a heavy sigh as she relented.

Alicia: I concede. You are right: Theee hundred dead is a more… acceptable number… than one thousand dead.

Jaune: While I agree with you, Mrs Ophilia, that one death is one too many, I was actually referring to the casualty rating among the officers, not the total amount of dead. Wouldn’t losing thirty two officers be acceptable, surely there is more than enough soldiers to fill in the holes they departure has created.

Ironwood: That is the case, and those officers positions have been refilled by newly promoted soldiers. I’m afraid to say we lost more than thirty two officers.

Jaune: What? How?!

Shock roared through my voice causing others to jump back from me, I could see, Harriet from the corner of my eye adopting a combative stance. Their shock was understandable, but they mistook my cry of alarm for one of rage. An understandable reaction at the end of the day; I sound like a monster as much as I now look like one.

Jaune: My apologizes. My voice betrays my mood. I am not angry, but shocked that we lost so many officers. But, how did this happen, did we have a sudden, Grimm attack, or something?

Ironwood: We didn’t lose any more officers to the, Grimm after that. We did lose an additional forty seven officers, most of whom were dishonourably discharged afterwards though.

Jaune: Dishonourably discharged?

The confusion laced within my voice was just as loudly heard as the silent rage that echoed from the, Generals.

Ironwood: Yes, you are aware of what a, ‘bought officer,’ is?

Jaune: A corrupt officer?

Ironwood: No… Well it wouldn’t surprise me a few if a few of those officers weren’t taking money on the side to look the other way. But, no, a ‘bought officer’ is a slang for officers who purchase their rank with lien, not years of dedication to, Atlas, and its people.

Jaune: You have such officers in your ranks? That doesn’t seem like something you would allow.

Ironwood: And, I wouldn’t have. But, a contract made by the founders over a hundred years ago said we had too, and it would have taken just under another hundred years ago for it to expire. Luckily, taking in the results recent attack in mind, I was given the ability to remove such a contract, and the filth it brought with it from our ranks.

Jaune: And, the individual reason these officers were removed?

Ironwood: General cowardice: abandoning their post, leaving their men behind, trying to steal military craft to flee, Atlas. Simple things such as that.

Jaune: Ahh, well that certainly explains things…

I could remember seeing individuals fleeing from the frontlines at the beginning of the battle, all wearing officer’s uniforms now that I think about it. I couldn’t pay too much mind to it though, there were too many pressing matters to attend to at the time.

Jaune: And, you want to offer me an officers commission to fill in one of these missing positions?

Ironwood: Yes. You would still be a teacher at the academy, you would just also have an officers rank, and be expected, if the need arise to, to lead troops upon the battlefield.

Jaune: Just like what I did during, Salem’s attack?

Ironwood: Correct.

He wanted me to be an officer. An officer in the, Atlas Military. It sounded like in the end I would just have a change of clothes, and some pretty bobbles on my uniform. But, I looked down to my right hand, and thought hard about his offer. The white bone plate that covered my hand, and the pale skin that rested below it. I wasn’t human anymore, would these soldiers follow my orders into battle? During the, Seige it was different; There were no officers, just soldiers fighting for their lives. I gave them orders, and commanded them to obey my commands, saving thousands in the process. But, that was in the midst of a battle, the largest, and most deadly battle, Atlas had ever experienced. Would these soldiers be willing to follow my orders, the orders of a monster during a time of relative peace?

Ironwood: They recommend you.

Jaune: Excuse me?

I was ripped from my musing at the, Generals words. I was recommended for this position; By who, and why?

Ironwood: Several of the soldiers you fought along side that day were also promoted, and made officers to fill in the ranks. Now we have competent, and skilled officers in our ranks. But, while these officers were being promoted, they often asked the same question: Is the, Hero of Mantle, Jaune Arc joining us?

Jaune: H-Hero of Mantle? Are people calling me that?

Robyn: Its the name the people have given you for your heroic acts for saving them that day.

Jaune: Hero…?

Robyn: Jaune…

I looked up to see that, Robyn was holding my left hand in a comforting grip as she softly smiled at me.

Robyn: Regardless of what you think, people don’t see you as a monster.

Jaune: They don’t?

Robyn: No. People see as a victim of the horrendous acts of a true monster. They see you as a man who risked his life to save them. You are a hero to them, Jaune. You are not the monster you believe yourself to be. You are, Jaune Arc, the Saviour of Mantle.

I couldn’t help, but snort at her words.

Jaune: ‘The Saviour of Mantle.’ Sounds a little much now doesn’t it?

Robyn: Well, it’s shows you how the people truly see you as.

Jaune: But, I’m just a huntsman doing my duty. There’s nothing more to it than that. I

Robyn: But, don’t you like being called a hero?

Jaune: No, not really.

Robyn: You sure about that?

I looked at her skeptically before staring down at my hand enveloped in a red glow. I looked back to, Robyn’s cheeky smile as I swatted her hands away.

Jaune: Stop doing that!

Robyn: Not going to happen.

Jaune: Damn…

Ironwood: So, Mr. Arc, what do you say?

I turned away from, Robyn to address, General Ironwood. I straightened my back, and stood tall before everyone with my hands held firmly behind my back.

Jaune: If, if I accept this offer I would like to make one request.

He quirked, and eyebrow at me, as he straightened his back in turn to address me.

Ironwood: And, that would be?

Jaune: A custom uniform that would fit me properly, and new armour as well. My bodies… alterations have made my armour rather cumbersome to wear.

Ironwood smiled as he took in my simple request.

Ironwood: I think we can do that. Anything else?

Jaune: No that is all. In any case, I humbly accept my commission to… uhh… what rank will I be receiving… Sir?

Ironwood: You can save the ‘sirs’ until after your commission. As for your rank; taking into consideration the deeds you’ve accomplished in the service of, Atlas, and Mantle. We have agreed on giving you the rank of, Colonel.

Jaune: Does this mean I will outrank the, Specialists?

Ironwood: As a matter in fact, you will indeed outrank the, Specialists.

Jaune: Oh good… Now, Marrow can be the one getting me coffee instead… Heheheee…

Everyone seemingly flinched as I chuckled to myself. If, Marrow’s face was saying if he had a pair of ears instead of a tail, they would have dropped in fear.

Jaune: …

Jaune: That did not sound like I was making a teasing remark in the slightest did it?

The resounding choir of nos soon swiftly answered my question.

Jaune: Great, not only did he turn me into a monster, but he took away my ability to make a joke… Godsdamn bastard…

Everyone seemed to find something else to look at, all seemingly not wanting to comment on my feelings towards that particular monster. Like there was anything else to comment on it anyway.

Ironwood: Ahem. The award ceremony where you will be granted your new rank will take place in a week from today. I recommend you get fitted soon, so they can make your new uniform soon.

Jaune: I understand, will that be all?

Ironwood: That’s everything. I look forward to working with, Mr. Arc.

Jaune: Likewise, General.

We grasped one another’s hands in a firm handshake, before others came along, and also gave me congratulatory hand shakes as well. The Specialists were open, and receptive to my commission, while Marrow did look nervous as I teasingly smiled at him. Though I doubt it was very teasing, a smile filled with fangs no doubt always looked threatening.

The council members gave me celebratory handshakes as well, they were pleased with my appointment to become a colonel. No doubt for some political bullshit they were planning to use me in.

But, then there was, Robyn.

Robyn: So, Jaune, how does it feel to become an officer in the, Atlas Military?

Jaune: Ask me again when I’ve dawn on the uniform.

Robyn: I’ll have to remember to do that. I’m glad you accepted the offer, the other two council members are actually opposed to your appointment. You no doubt understand why.

I looked towards the other councillors as they addressed, General Ironwood. No doubt talking about future plans, and meetings they must attend to. However, as I looked upon the three of them a thought crossed my mind.

Jaune: Wait… Two votes for, and two votes against? You were the deciding vote.

Robyn: I was, and I voted: For.

Jaune: Why? You don’t trust, General Ironwood, and the military, why would you agree to have me instated in the military?

Robyn: Because I trust you, Jaune. I trust that with your calm head, you will be able to keep the others in check. That with your help we can lead, Mantle into a brighter future for the good of everyone.

Jaune: A brighter future lead by a, Grimm/human hybrid? I find that hard to believe. No, Robyn you are the Bannerman, the one leading others to a brighter tomorrow with hope as your forge a better future. I however, will be the sword that protects that future. I am more suited for that role. Soldiers can easily follow a monster into a war, but not in peace.

Robyn: Jaune, just because you look like a monster doesn’t mean you are a monster.

My head fell as I shook my head. Blind optimism fuelled by hope, I never thought I would miss someone talking like that. At least, Robyn has a realistic head on her shoulders. But, still blind optimism will never help me.

Jaune: We’re all monsters, Robyn. We may not look like ones since we’ve all been well groomed, are well dressed, and given etiquette lessons. Some monsters wear the skin of monsters, others wear the skin of humans. But, it doesn’t matter, because at the end of the day we’re all just monsters, now we’re just well dressed monsters.

Robyn: Well dressed monsters…

Robyn looked away from me as she pondered my words before she shook it away before looking back at me with this mad glint in her eyes.

Robyn: Jaune, are you busy this afternoon?

Jaune: I was going to grab my teaching manifest, and study what I need to be teaching the students. Why do you ask?

Robyn: Class doesn’t start for two weeks, you can put that off until tomorrow. Come with me, there’s a victory celebration being held in, Mantle.

Jaune: A victory celebration? But, the Siege was over a month ago, why are you having one now?

Robyn: The Siege turned everyone’s lives upside down, people needed time to rebuild, to morn those they lost. The people of, Mantle need to let loose, and relax. To let the burdens of, The Siege fade away, so we can all move on from it. So, we’re going to have a massive party to do so. So, would you like to come?

Her logic made sound sense, but I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, I would probably cause a small panic, being a monster, and all. But, the people of, Mantle do call me, ‘The Hero of Mantle,’ so maybe they might actually enjoy me being there. But, I had to ask something very important before I offer her any answer.

Jaune: Will I have to give a speech?

Robyn: No I don’t think you would will have to.

Jaune: I’ll hold you to that.

Robyn: So you’ll come?

Jaune: I will, but don’t expect me to dance.

Robyn: We’ll see about that. Come on, Jaune we have a party to go to.

I hope this will be fun event. a chance to unwind, and relax, just as, Robyn said. But, honestly I just hope this wouldn’t be an event that I would come to regret.

I can at least hope for that right.

Right?

#rwby #jaune arc #winter schnee #willow schnee #clover ebi #marrow amin #robyn hill #jacques schnee #rwby salem #james ironwood #harriet bree

95 notes · View notes

a1sh1teruu · 6 months

Text

new world ; s.mg

— synopsis:: A perfect world is what they wanted, and it's what they failed to create. “Our world is perfect, our world is safe. Our world is a world without errors, though, a small error leads to a crack, and a crack leads to pain. Pain is an unnecessary emotion and a negative element in life. We want to protect you all. We work for you, we dedicate ourselves to you. All of this is for you. Do not question.”

— contains:: use of weaponry, murder, violence, mentions of claustrophobia, mentions of a panick attack, profanities

— wc:: 4,1k

— note:: FINALLY?!?!?! life has been kicking me in the ass lately so sorry for the delay :,) also, i'm not quite happy about this end product and it's a lot shorter than i had anticipated but yeh. i hope yer like it <3

— disclaimer! this series if heavily insipred by ateez' storyline and some sentences or scenes might be inspired/based on their diary versions, mvs, teasers, or even other franchises, such as movies, etc.!

— 00 -> 01 -> 02 -> masterlist

“There is a disease in the heart of man. The disease is human emotion.” Day in and day out, children and unsuspecting citizens were dragged into the government laboratories and academies, corrupting them with their twisted idea of a perfect world. The distorted face of a man on the big screen repeated the same words over and over again– draining the free will of the people.

“Our world is perfect, our world is safe. Our world is a world without errors, though, a small error leads to a crack, and a crack leads to pain. Pain is an unnecessary emotion and a negative element in life. We want to protect you all. You, living your life in your position, are the world itself. Do not doubt, do not question; this is all for you. We’re right because you’re right. Keep that in mind. We work for you, we dedicate ourselves to you. All of this is for you. Do not question.”

A world without cracks. That’s what they wanted but failed to create.

“Bullshit,” you scoffed, ripping the flimsy paper off the wall, your gloved hand running over the paper that had your picture on it with bold letters saying, ‘WANTED DEAD!’ You let the piece of paper fall down next to your feet onto the wet ground. With quick steps, you walked out of the dark alleyway, your eyes roaming the dark, empty streets to check if there is anyone who may be a threat to you. Your hand never left the gun that was strapped to your hip, the cold metal giving you a sense of comfort. With quiet steps you made your way through the shadows until you met the border of the outer districts.

The outer districts were almost completely abandoned, neglected by the government, causing the people to move into the center of Wonderland, Utopia. Where the government had a better eye on them, better control. Here, there were only rogue citizens, rummaging through trash for food and water, fighting with stray dogs and cats for one bite of that soggy burger on the ground. It was disgusting.

“Hey, you!” Someone’s voice cut through the silence, making you turn around to meet a man clad in navy uniform and glistening badges scattered over his chest, military. The soldier caught up to you, breath fogging up in front of his face. “Name and ID,” he demanded, “what are you doing out after curfew?”

“I went on a walk, sir.” You mustered, voice monotone and face muscles relaxed. Handing him a fake ID, you told him the name matching the ID. Looking over the government card, he gestured for you to take off your mask. All you did was slightly shake your head from side to side. Your eyes fell onto the silver badge on his chest that read Sector 7, his rank was low.

The soldier sighed as he handed the ID back to you. “I need you to take off that mask, ma’am.” He said more firmly, you still didn’t budge. “Ma’am,” he warned. With a roll of your eyes you took off the cloth, meeting the soldier’s eyes. A frown curled your lips as you saw his expression turn sour. He pulled out the gun that was strapped to his hip and pointed it at you, the smooth silver of the weapon glowing under the fluorescent lamps. “On your knees, now!” You did as told, putting your hands behind your head. The soldier put his gun back into its holster and turned around, reporting to the military that he had found you but when he turned back around, you were gone. His heart leaped into his throat, scared of what the new Supreme General would do to him if he found out about the young soldier’s mistake. “I would advise you to come out, the military is on their way.” His voice had a tremble in it, anxiety crawling into his gut. Suddenly, cold metal came into touch with the soldier’s nape, causing him to flinch and grab his own gun, or where it should’ve been.

“Walk,” you demanded, pressing the gun harder into his skin. You noticed that the soldier didn’t have any weapons on himself, except the gun you had in your hands. With trembling knees, he walked forward, stepping on broken glass that was scattered on the pavement, probably from the broken windows. The alley you led him into was dark, only his silhouette visible. You reached the end of the alley, a tall brick wall standing in front of you. With a hit on the back of the soldier’s head, you made him fall face first onto the ground. He immediately scurried to sit up, raising his hands in front of his face to shield it from you. A sigh left your lips as you raised the gun again, pointing it directly at his forehead.

You noticed the tremble of his lip and the glossy eyes, his life visibly flashing in front of his eyes. It was truly a shame, putting these young people into this position. The government mistreats them, never batting an eye if they die. Without a word, you pulled the trigger, shooting the poor boy into his forehead, making it as quick and painless as possible. As his body fell limp, you smashed the gun against the brick wall with as much strength as you could muster, the weapon falling into multiple pieces, spotting the silver chip on the ground and stepping on it.

With cautious steps, you walked out of the alley, eyes roaming the streets to see if someone was there. Little did you know, somebody had their eyes set onto you, hiding somewhere in the shadows. When you didn’t see anything, you took off, sprinting into the forest that led to your house.

The cold air was burning your lungs as you kept running. Your skin felt like thousands of needles were being dug into it.

You slowed down once you saw your house in the distance, surrounded by the tall trees in the middle of a clearing. The moon was shining in its full glory. You let your gaze wander around your surroundings before walking up to the door. The keys jingled as you stepped inside. Just as you locked the door behind you, you heard the high-pitched voice of a special someone.

“(Y/N)!” A smile crawled onto your face as you met the big eyes of the four year old girl, her lips pulled into a wide grin as she ran to you, her tiny arms wrapping around your hips. “You’re home,” she exclaimed with a giggle.

“Jihan,” you said, kneeling to be the same level as the small girl. She immediately let her arms wrap around your neck, clinging to you. With one arm beneath her bum, you stood up and laid a kiss onto her temple, her soft hair tickling your nose. “Did you miss me?” You asked, walking down the stairs leading into the living room, where your grandfather was sitting, reading old documents from his time in the military.

As you reached one of the big couches, you dropped Jihan on it, letting a hand run through your hair to smooth it out. You took off your thick vest and the heavy belt that had all kinds of weapons and guns strapped to it. “Anything special?” Your grandfather’s gruff voice broke through the silence.

A sigh left your lips as you plopped down on the couch next to Jihan. “No,” you paused, closing your eyes, “nothing.” You felt Jihan snuggle into your side, sighing as she hugged your waist with her tiny arms. Your hand was caressing her back when your fingers brushed over a bulky scar on the back of her nape. It felt as if time stopped as you sat on the couch with Jihan snuggled into your side.

You let your head fall onto the backrest on the couch and closed your eyes. The only sounds that could be heard in the small living room was the turning of pages from the files your grandfather was reading. “(Y/N),” your grandfather cut through your thoughts, making you turn your head from where you sat. “Have you ever thought about how life would be if the world changed,” he paused. “Like… a new world, a better world. Not perfect, but better.”

You sighed heavily, closing your eyes back again. “It’s kind of unimaginable,” you stated truthfully. “Your image of a new world would only happen if the Man In White died,” you muttered in a bored tone, throwing your arm over your face. “Which is impossible,” you added, letting yourself sink into the cushions of the worn-down couch, Jihan sleeping by your side.

“But if you think about it,” your grandfather spoke up, a tinge of hope in his voice. “It is possible.”

“No,” you countered sharply, looking at your grandfather with a heated gaze. He just looked at you with furrowed brows as he said nothing. “It’s impossible,” you started. “As soon as something happens to that son of a bitch they will have an heir up there, they won’t let him die without some type of back-up, Pa.” You noticed you had gotten louder as your eyes fell on Jihan, her stirring pulling you out of the haze of your frustrations. You let your hand run over her shoulder softly to soothe her back to sleep while you looked at your grandfather.

He stood up and threw a stack of papers onto the coffee table in front of you. It had Confidential written on it in bold letters. “Read that,” he pointed at it. You did, you read every single word of the file in your hand, the picture of a familiar blonde biting into your eyes. “If he is still alive, he will give us answers. He knows it all,” your grandfather said. “Choi Ilsung’s son knows things that you and me don’t know.”

“You are talking like I never had any experience in the military,” you mumbled, letting the file fall onto the coffee table. “You keep dismissing the stuff I saw and had to endure behind those damned doors,” your words were sharp as you glared at your grandfather. You had the urge to scratch the bulky scar that was right between your shoulder blades, your skin burning like it was fresh.

“Because you aren’t him.”

“Because I am me!” You yelled suddenly, standing up. “Stop comparing me to someone you don’t know like I do!” In your haze of anger, you turned around to look at Jihan on the couch. To your relief, she was still sleeping soundly. With one last look to your grandfather, you moved to pick her up and tuck her into her own bed.

When you were done tucking Jihan in, you walked back into the living room and sat down on the couch. Your grandfather didn’t say anything else, all he did was sigh and walk with his crane into the kitchen, which was connected to the living room. “You want some tea?” He asked as he put water into the kettle.

"Yes, please." You whispered, looking at a random point in the living room.

You were laying in your bed, drenched in your own sweat as tears profusely ran down your temples. The dizziness causing your head to hurt like it was being split in half made you almost completely unable to move. You tried to regain control of your body by changing your rapid breathing pattern into a calmer one, which didn’t work at first but once you were there, you stood up on shaky legs. Your right knee felt like it could buckle under your weight anytime, so you held onto the wall as leverage until you arrived at the bathroom. Immediately, you were met with your disheveled reflection, hair sticking in every possible direction, sweat glistening on your hot skin, and the dark, heavy eye bags that were embedded under your eyes.

You could feel the harsh pounding on the left side of your head, the constant abuse you had to endure taking a toll on you. You lean forward and spit a heavy glob of spit and bile into the sink as a wave of nausea hit you. Your right arm was tingling like a thousand needles were prickling your skin at once, the limb shaking under the weight of your upper body. As frustration took over, you let your head lean against the mirror on the cabinet above the sink, and when your rapid thoughts didn’t seem to calm, accompanied by the throbbing headache and constant ringing in your ears, you pulled your head back and let it fall against the mirror. Over and over, with every hit against the mirror it got harder, your face pulled into a snarl as a low groan rumbled through your chest.

“This won’t make it better, you know,” your grandfather’s voice cut through the harsh pounding of your head against the mirror. You stopped your movements as soon as his deep voice met your ears. “You’ll wake Jihan, and I don't want her to see you like this,” he trailed off, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Get it together,” were his last words when he left, probably going to his own bedroom, the quiet thuds of his cane echoing through the small space.

His words echoed in your mind as you washed your face with cold water and brushed your teeth to get rid of the sour taste of bile on your tongue. “(Y/N)?” The soft call of your name made you spit the toothpaste in your mouth into the sink and quickly rinse your mouth out. As soon as you turned around, a wave of dizziness washed over you but you tried to conceal it as much as you could. Jihan was standing there, her eyes puffy and red from sleep, little beads of tears running down her soft cheeks and her little hand was holding her plush bunny by its ear as she rubbed her eyes with her free hand. The sight caused your heart to clench.

“Yes, baby?” You asked softly, stretching your arms out for her to hug you. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” You let your hand caress the top of her head, the silky strands of hair comforting you in a way as you comforted her.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered into the junktion of your neck and shoulder. “I… I had a bad dream,” a soft sob forced itself out of her throat. You cooed softly as you rocked her from side to side. “Can I sleep with you?” Her question made your heart skip a few beats. You were contemplating if it was a good idea after the small episode you had, but you agreed nonetheless. Collecting the courage, you stood up, though your right knee was still a bit shaky, you were able to walk to your bedroom and put Jihan on your bed. It didn’t take long for you to join, pulling her tightly against your chest with her plush bunny squeezed between your bodies.

You didn’t get a wink of sleep that night, fearing that you’d wake Jihan. When you noticed that the time for her to wake up came, you softly nudged her cheek to pull her out of the confines of dreamland. “Good morning, pretty,” you cooed softly, pushing the wild hairs out of her face. She groaned in protest and buried her face into your warm neck. “But it’s time for breakfast,” you said with a pout. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds so you figured she fell back asleep. Giving up, you stood up and let her sleep on your bed as you went to the bathroom to take a much needed shower.

“Good morning,” you greeted your grandfather as he sat on the dinner table with his half-eaten sandwich and files scattered across. His glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose and his free hand either played with the end of his beard or took the sandwich to bite into it. While he was sitting silently, you pulled out bread from the cabinet and made your own sandwich and one for Jihan for when she wakes up.

You sat down across from your grandfather. Just as you were about to take a bite from your sandwich he spoke up, “I don’t want to see you like that ever again.” Your eyes found his, your sandwich between your fingers. You nodded softly, your eyes avoiding him as you bit into the sandwich, your appetite practically gone. “Jihan knows a lot,” he started again, flicking the side of a paper. “And she notices a lot,” he paused, looking at you. “I don’t want her to see you like that. She doesn’t remember anything that happened before you took her in, but once she remembers, we have to tell her everything. And now is not the time.” You nodded again, keeping your eyes trained on your plate. The thought of Jihan remembering everything that was done to her in those rehab centers made you shiver, her cries ringing in your ears.

With a soft shake of your head you continued to eat, barely able to swallow the dry bread. “I’ll be gone for today, and probably won’t come back until later tonight. So, don’t wait up for me,” you explained, looking at your grandfather. “We are running out of necessities,” you explained.

Your grandfather just nodded and resumed his readings. “Don’t get caught.” Was all he said as silence took over.

After having eaten breakfast, you started to get ready, a mask pulled over your nose and mouth to conceal your identity, heavy leather attire with multiple weapons strapped to your body, and a long, gray cloak pulled over your shoulders, the hood cast a shadow over the upper part of your face. Without a noise you left the house, climbing up the stairs to your front door. Once you exited, you lock everything again, making sure that nothing would happen.

Though, as soon as your back was turned to the house, you felt a weird sensation of being watched, as if someone was standing right behind you. Turning around, you looked everywhere. There was no chance, right? After making sure that you saw nobody, you made your way down the dirt path that led to the outer districts. It didn’t take five minutes for you to hear a sound from behind you, like something heavy falling from a high altitude. One of your hands found the small knives strapped to your thigh and let it glide across the air, only to get impaled on one of the thick trees. Nothing. You ran a hand over your face, a frustrated sigh muffled by the cloth that covered your mouth. You quickly walked over and yanked the knife out of the tree bark and stuck it back into its place.

Your speed picked up as you practically jogged through the thick lines of trees, letting a sigh of relief fall from your lips as soon as you reached a clearing and not too long after you finally reached the outer districts of Wonderland. People of all kinds were walking around in thick, gray cloaks, some disappearing into alleyways, most likely to exchange goods, or some disappeared into the abandoned houses and apartments.

You take multiple shortcuts through alleyways to find your destination, the entrance into the underground. It didn’t take you too long, afterall, you knew these streets like the back of your hand. But once you reach the underground, it’s unknown lands. Your steps gradually slowed down as you walked through the crowded space, the humidity casting a thin, glistening glow on your forehead. Music, laughter, and profanities echoed through the air as you kept walking with your gaze kept low, undetectable. A shadow was cast over the top half of your face as you roamed through the tight marketplace. Your eyes fell on colorful vegetables propped up on a tiny stand with a man shouting to catch the customers’ attention.

“G’day, ma'am! How can I help you?” The man’s loud voice cut through your concentration as your head jerked up to look at his face. He looked old, skin pale, probably untouched by the sun. “My fruits and vegetables are very fresh today, from the fields of the outer districts,” he exclaimed, a large smile stretched on his lips.

You lift a hand to point at a bundle filled with various vegetables. “How much for this?” The man gave you a reasonable price for the bundle, which had you buy two at once. You were careful as you pulled the money out of your pocket to hand it to the marketer. As soon as you got your hands on the fresh goods, you stuffed them into your backpack and continued your walk through the crowded space. You spent barely over an hour finding the things you had to buy and take back home.

Your bag was heavy on your back as you hurried back to the entrance. As you were focused on walking through the bodies of people, you suddenly fell forward as something violently bumped into your back. With a grunt, you looked up over your shoulder to see the back of a tall man, his arms lifted as he talked to someone in front of him. You quickly scrambled to your feet to walk away, which seemed to be hard now with the way people started crowding around you and the other two men. You looked over your shoulder and noticed that a heated argument had erupted between the two. Another harsh shove had you bump into someone again, a low groan rumbling through your chest as you started to get agitated. The crowd was closing in around you, the air was tight in your lungs.

You managed to steady yourself between the people, frantically looking through the large crowd to find an exit. The fight between the men started escalating further and put you into a frenzy of your thoughts. Right as you started to feel numbness slowly creep up your fingertips, a hand reached out of the crowd towards you. “Let’s go,” a man called, looking at you and then at the men behind you. Without thinking twice, you took the stranger’s hand and let yourself get pulled out of the thick crowd. As soon as you were out of there, you felt like you could breathe again, pushing your hood away to feel a bit more free.

“Figured you wanted to get out of there,” the stranger said, a breathy chuckle followed by his words. Your gaze found him, red hair biting into your vision, gaze lingering there for a second too long. “Did anything happen to you?” His question pulled you out of your thoughts.

“No,” you breathed, looking back at the commotion. “No, nothing happened,” you added, checking your backpack to see if everything was in place. A sigh of relief fell from your lips when you saw everything was in place, your heart calming and the feeling in your fingers returning. “Thanks,” you muttered as you looked at the stranger again.

He smiled, offering his hand to you. “I’m Jongho,” he introduced himself. You nodded courtly, shaking his hand. You didn’t say anything, though, wary of the people you meet and talk to. “So no name?” He asked with a smirk. After a second, he laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine, understandable to not trust anyone in the underground,” he assured, pulling away. “It seems you aren’t very familiar with being down here, no?” Your eyes narrowed softly, slowly shaking your head, no. Jongho just nodded with a hum. “Yeah, well, this is how it is every day, especially at the marketplace,” he laughed. “That tall guy that hit you to the ground is actually a good friend of mine, Yunho. He likes to pick fights with the biggies in here, so I learned to mind my business when he does something.”

You didn’t say anything as you just looked at him, occasionally looking over your shoulder when Jongho mentioned Yunho. “It looks like you are in a hurry,” he muttered, pulling your attention one more time.

“Yeah, I have to get going now,” you mumbled, walking around Jongho. “Thank you again.” With that, you made your way back to where you came from, out of the underground.

The walk back was even more stressful for you. Not knowing what was awaiting you at home, your steps were quick and your breath heavy. With every step, your right knee trembled under your weight. And there it was, the feeling of being watched. It’s as if eyes were following you through the thick branches of the forest you were walking through. As if there were eyes in the sky.

— 00 -> 01 -> 02 -> masterlist

#fic ; new world #cromernet #kflixnet #ateez fic #ateez series #ateez au #ateez x reader #park seonghwa x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #jeong yunho x reader #kang yeosang x reader #choi san x reader #song mingi x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #choi jongho x reader

74 notes · View notes

remusinfurs · 7 months

Text

[emphasis mine]

“The decolonization narrative has dehumanized Israelis to the extent that otherwise rational people excuse, deny, or support barbarity. It holds that Israel is an “imperialist-colonialist” force, that Israelis are “settler-colonialists,” and that Palestinians have a right to eliminate their oppressors. (On October 7, we all learned what that meant.) It casts Israelis as “white” or “white-adjacent” and Palestinians as “people of color.”

This ideology, powerful in the academy but long overdue for serious challenge, is a toxic, historically nonsensical mix of Marxist theory, Soviet propaganda, and traditional anti-Semitism from the Middle Ages and the 19th century. But its current engine is the new identity analysis, which sees history through a concept of race that derives from the American experience. The argument is that it is almost impossible for the “oppressed” to be themselves racist, just as it is impossible for an “oppressor” to be the subject of racism. Jews therefore cannot suffer racism, because they are regarded as “white” and “privileged”; although they cannot be victims, they can and do exploit other, less privileged people, in the West through the sins of “exploitative capitalism” and in the Middle East through “colonialism.”

This leftist analysis, with its hierarchy of oppressed identities—and intimidating jargon, a clue to its lack of factual rigor—has in many parts of the academy and media replaced traditional universalist leftist values, including internationalist standards of decency and respect for human life and the safety of innocent civilians. When this clumsy analysis collides with the realities of the Middle East, it loses all touch with historical facts.

Indeed, it requires an astonishing leap of ahistorical delusion to disregard the record of anti-Jewish racism over the two millennia since the fall of the Judean Temple in 70 C.E. After all, the October 7 massacre ranks with the medieval mass killings of Jews in Christian and Islamic societies, the Khmelnytsky massacres of 1640s Ukraine, Russian pogroms from 1881 to 1920—and the Holocaust. Even the Holocaust is now sometimes misconstrued—as the actor Whoopi Goldberg notoriously did—as being “not about race,” an approach as ignorant as it is repulsive.

Contrary to the decolonizing narrative, Gaza is not technically occupied by Israel—not in the usual sense of soldiers on the ground. Israel evacuated the Strip in 2005, removing its settlements. In 2007, Hamas seized power, killing its Fatah rivals in a short civil war. Hamas set up a one-party state that crushes Palestinian opposition within its territory, bans same-sex relationships, represses women, and openly espouses the killing of all Jews.

Very strange company for leftists.

Of course, some protesters chanting “from the river to the sea” may have no idea what they’re calling for; they are ignorant and believe that they are simply endorsing “freedom.”

[…]

I should also say that Israeli rule of the Occupied Territories of the West Bank is different and, to my mind, unacceptable, unsustainable, and unjust. Settlers under the disgraceful Netanyahu government have harassed and persecuted Palestinians in the West Bank: 146 Palestinians in the West Bank and East Jerusalem were killed in 2022 and at least 153 in 2023 before the Hamas attack, and more than 90 since. Again: This is appalling and unacceptable, but not genocide. The Palestinians in the West Bank have endured a harsh, unjust, and oppressive occupation since 1967.

Although there is a strong instinct to make this a Holocaust-mirroring “genocide,” it is not: The Palestinians suffer from many things, including military occupation; settler intimidation and violence; corrupt Palestinian political leadership; callous neglect by their brethren in more than 20 Arab states; the rejection by Yasser Arafat, the late Palestinian leader, of compromise plans that would have seen the creation of an independent Palestinian state; and so on. None of this constitutes genocide, or anything like genocide. The Israeli goal in Gaza—for practical reasons, among others—is to minimize the number of Palestinian civilians killed. Hamas and like-minded organizations have made it abundantly clear over the years that maximizing the number of Palestinian casualties is in their strategic interest. (Put aside all of this and consider: The world Jewish population is still smaller than it was in 1939, because of the damage done by the Nazis. The Palestinian population has grown, and continues to grow, at a substantial and healthy rate. Demographic shrinkage is one obvious marker of genocide. In total, roughly 120,000 Arabs and Jews have been killed in the conflict over Palestine and Israel since 1860. By contrast, at least 500,000 people, mainly civilians, have been killed in the Syrian civil war since it began in 2011.)

If the ideology of decolonization, taught in our universities as a theory of history and shouted in our streets as self-evidently righteous, badly misconstrues the present reality, does it reflect the history of Israel as it claims to do? It does not. Indeed, it does not accurately describe either the foundation of Israel or the tragedy of the Palestinians.

According to the decolonizers, Israel is and always has been an illegitimate freak-state because it was fostered by the British empire and because some of its founders were European-born Jews.

In this narrative, Israel is tainted by imperial Britain’s broken promise to deliver Arab independence, and its kept promise to support a “national home for the Jewish people,” in the language of the 1917 Balfour Declaration. But the supposed promise to Arabs was in fact an ambiguous 1915 agreement with Sharif Hussein of Mecca, who wanted his Hashemite family to rule the entire region. In part, he did not receive this new empire because his family had much less regional support than he claimed. Nonetheless, ultimately Britain delivered three kingdoms—Iraq, Jordan, and Hejaz—to the family.

The imperial powers—Britain and France—made all sorts of promises to different peoples, and then put their own interests first. Those promises to the Jews and the Arabs during World War I were typical. Afterward, similar promises were made to the Kurds, the Armenians, and others, none of which came to fruition. But the central narrative that Britain betrayed the Arab promise and backed the Jewish one is incomplete. In the 1930s, Britain turned against Zionism, and from 1937 to 1939 moved toward an Arab state with no Jewish one at all. It was an armed Jewish revolt, from 1945 to 1948 against imperial Britain, that delivered the state.

Israel exists thanks to this revolt, and to international law and cooperation, something leftists once believed in. The idea of a Jewish “homeland” was proposed in three declarations by Britain (signed by Balfour), France, and the United States, then promulgated in a July 1922 resolution by the League of Nations that created the British “mandates” over Palestine and Iraq that matched French “mandates” over Syria and Lebanon. In 1947, the United Nations devised the partition of the British mandate of Palestine into two states, Arab and Jewish.

[…]

The concept of “partition” is, in the decolonization narrative, regarded as a wicked imperial trick. But it was entirely normal in the creation of 20th-century nation-states, which were typically fashioned out of fallen empires. And sadly, the creation of nation-states was frequently marked by population swaps, huge refugee migrations, ethnic violence, and full-scale wars. Think of the Greco-Turkish war of 1921–22 or the partition of India in 1947. In this sense, Israel-Palestine was typical.

At the heart of decolonization ideology is the categorization of all Israelis, historic and present, as “colonists.” This is simply wrong. Most Israelis are descended from people who migrated to the Holy Land from 1881 to 1949. They were not completely new to the region. The Jewish people ruled Judean kingdoms and prayed in the Jerusalem Temple for a thousand years, then were ever present there in smaller numbers for the next 2,000 years. In other words, Jews are indigenous in the Holy Land, and if one believes in the return of exiled people to their homeland, then the return of the Jews is exactly that. Even those who deny this history or regard it as irrelevant to modern times must acknowledge that Israel is now the home and only home of 9 million Israelis who have lived there for four, five, six generations.

Most migrants to, say, the United Kingdom or the United States are regarded as British or American within a lifetime. Politics in both countries is filled with prominent leaders—Suella Braverman and David Lammy, Kamala Harris and Nikki Haley—whose parents or grandparents migrated from India, West Africa, or South America. No one would describe them as “settlers.” Yet Israeli families resident in Israel for a century are designated as “settler-colonists” ripe for murder and mutilation. And contrary to Hamas apologists, the ethnicity of perpetrators or victims never justifies atrocities. They would be atrocious anywhere, committed by anyone with any history. It is dismaying that it is often self-declared “anti-racists” who are now advocating exactly this murder by ethnicity.

[…]

The open world of liberal democracies—or the West, as it used to be called—is today polarized by paralyzed politics, petty but vicious cultural feuds about identity and gender, and guilt about historical successes and sins, a guilt that is bizarrely atoned for by showing sympathy for, even attraction to, enemies of our democratic values. In this scenario, Western democracies are always bad actors, hypocritical and neo-imperialist, while foreign autocracies or terror sects such as Hamas are enemies of imperialism and therefore sincere forces for good. In this topsy-turvy scenario, Israel is a living metaphor and penance for the sins of the West. The result is the intense scrutiny of Israel and the way it is judged, using standards rarely attained by any nation at war, including the United States.

But the decolonizing narrative is much worse than a study in double standards; it dehumanizes an entire nation and excuses, even celebrates, the murder of innocent civilians. As these past two weeks have shown, decolonization is now the authorized version of history in many of our schools and supposedly humanitarian institutions, and among artists and intellectuals. It is presented as history, but it is actually a caricature, zombie history with its arsenal of jargon—the sign of a coercive ideology, as Foucault argued—and its authoritarian narrative of villains and victims. And it only stands up in a landscape in which much of the real history is suppressed and in which all Western democracies are bad-faith actors. Although it lacks the sophistication of Marxist dialectic, its self-righteous moral certainty imposes a moral framework on a complex, intractable situation, which some may find consoling. Whenever you read a book or an article and it uses the phrase “settler-colonialist,” you are dealing with ideological polemic, not history.

[…]

The Israel-Palestine conflict is desperately difficult to solve, and decolonization rhetoric makes even less likely the negotiated compromise that is the only way out.

Since its founding in 1987, Hamas has used the murder of civilians to spoil any chance of a two-state solution. In 1993, its suicide bombings of Israeli civilians were designed to destroy the two-state Olso Accords that recognized Israel and Palestine. This month, the Hamas terrorists unleashed their slaughter in part to undermine a peace with Saudi Arabia that would have improved Palestinian politics and standard of life, and reinvigorated Hamas’s sclerotic rival, the Palestinian Authority. In part, they served Iran to prevent the empowering of Saudi Arabia, and their atrocities were of course a spectacular trap to provoke Israeli overreaction. They are most probably getting their wish, but to do this they are cynically exploiting innocent Palestinian people as a sacrifice to political means, a second crime against civilians. In the same way, the decolonization ideology, with its denial of Israel’s right to exist and its people’s right to live safely, makes a Palestinian state less likely if not impossible.

The problem in our countries is easier to fix: Civic society and the shocked majority should now assert themselves. The radical follies of students should not alarm us overmuch; students are always thrilled by revolutionary extremes. But the indecent celebrations in London, Paris, and New York City, and the clear reluctance among leaders at major universities to condemn the killings, have exposed the cost of neglecting this issue and letting “decolonisation” colonize our academy.”

Simon Sebag Montefiore is the author of Jerusalem: The Biography and most recently The World: A Family History of Humanity.

#israel #palestine #decolonization #anti racism #wokeness #woke #antisemitism

84 notes · View notes