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bibliocratic · 4 years

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tread softly

S4 Canon Divergence + Mythological Creatures AU Mermaid!Sasha, Pheonix!Tim, Selkie!Martin

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Peter Lukas has always prided himself on the timing of his entrances.

He is not there, then he is. The ward slips colder, down into single digits. Martin gives a jerking shoulder-hunch motion when he notices his unexpected arrival, coupled with an intake of breath. No noise this time, no jumping, no explications of suddenness or surprise. Martin Blackwood takes well to both shock and silence with a delightful sufferance, and Peter is indulgently proud.

The lad is, as expected, by the Archivist’s bedside. Crone-backed, ringed with an satisfying corona of misery. It’s after visiting hours, but Martin likely hasn’t even realised that the gaze of the ward staff and orderlies has simply grazed past him when he came up, when he took his traditional post, when they do their rounds. Martin has not wanted to be noticed, so he won’t be.

Peter idly watches the machinery and tubes threaded though the Archivist like mechanical embroidery. This one seems eminently more worse for wear than Gertrude ever was. Stronger, though. Peter watches Elias’ chosen as he lies still and sedate for all he stalks the landscape of dreamers, and wonders if he might see the Eye’s favoured come to fruition in a way Gertrude never did.

All the more reason to talk to Martin, it appears.

“What do you want?” Martin says. Dulled, thick-throated. He’s wiping his face free from damp with his baggy jacket sleeves, glowering at Peter with a delayed annoyance, as if he’s interrupted some no doubt tender petition for waking. The antiseptic stench of the hospital worsens the tension in his bones.

He is perfect for their God. Peter’s so pleased the Archivist wasn’t so careless to have lost this assistant like he nearly lost both of the others. Elias told him that the Corruption had already sought to burrow into the debris of this lost soul, that Martin has taken the mantle of archivist well, while Beholding’s chosen was indisposed. And it is true that Martin’s gaze is more assessing than he would like. But Peter knows that Forsaken has long laced Martin’s lining with mist and dew-damp cold, filled his stomach with fog far longer than those petty chancers have tried to have him in their maw. That his God’s touch has been settling like thronging, subdued snow in place of Martin’s sealskin.

“I wanted to see if you’d thought about my offer,” Peter replies genially. Pushing his hands in his pockets, ignoring Martin’s radiating desire to be left alone.

Martin has. Peter doesn’t need Elias’ pretty little parlour tricks to know that Martin has likely thought about little else.

“I’ve been a bit busy.”

“Oh right!” Peter says after a moment’s pause. It visibly annoys Martin that it didn’t come to mind faster. “That spot of bother with the Flesh. All sorted now, I’m sure!”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?”

Peter crinkles his face in a deliberate confusion. Casting out his line.

“Why, what should I have done?”

Martin takes the bait with ease.

“It’s your job, isn’t it?” His voice pitches with accusation. His hands ball into fists, and he moves to standing, the chair complaining as it’s pushed back. “It’s your responsibility! You’re in charge now Elias is gone.”

“Thanks to you,” Peter replies smoothly. “And your companions seemed to do a good enough job. A few bruises here and there, a few near misses. Nothing they won’t heal from.”

Peter slides closer. Just a step. It makes his skin sing discordant at the proximity, but Martin stiffens, an anxious intake of air despite himself, and Peter knows he’s paying attention.

“I could ask you the same question,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you do something to stop them?” Peter doesn’t sound judgemental. He doesn’t have to, Martin will paint on layers of meaning without overdoing this particular nuance of his game. “It was very impressive, watching you all. They all held their own very well. Except you. You could argue I suppose, that it’s not the same. That you’re not like the mer or the firebird or the sphinx, no added little genetic extras, and you don’t get any boost from any old helpful Power like that police officer, or the angry one touched by the Slaughter. You’re just Martin. And that’s… that’s the problem, isn’t it? Just Martin. Nothing to offer in the fight, no way to protect them. Holding them back. They could have been hurt, and you wouldn’t have been able to do, well, anything at all.”

“I…” Martin says, and Peter takes another step.

“The Extinction is a pressing threat. There isn’t time for me to wait while you finish your grave-side widow routine. I need you to help me, and it would be only fair, in return, for me to help you.”

“Oh, what, you can fix me then?” Martin snaps.

“Not at all,” Peter says. Smiling, because he is so funny, with his rage sputtering in a fog that seeks to tamp it flameless, stumbling headlong and blinded into the conversational pitfalls Peter’s dug behind him. “No, no, I’m afraid you’re broken, Martin. I speak from experience when I say you’ll never grow your skin back.”

Martin freezes. He looks Peter up and down like he’s expecting to see something different, the scales fallen from his eyes, but this is the only skin Peter has worn for so long now, and he endures the slightly prickling gaze of Martin’s Eye-touched observation.

“You… You were – ?”

“A long time ago. Before the Lonely granted me a better shroud to cloak myself in. It is not a selfish God, Martin. It offers gifts, or payment, if you prefer that way of understanding it, to those who work in aid of its ends. Benefits that could protect your friends, should something as unfortunate as the Flesh’s assault occur again.”

“And what about Jon?”

“He’ll wake up. Or he won’t.” Peter replies cheerily. “Either way, you can’t do anything for any of them like this.”

Martin gives him a scowl. Peter lets it pass over him. He knows, before Martin even opens his mouth, that he’s won.

Sasha avoids the sea.

She does not know why. Its pull is no lesser through her absence. She has dreams of sinking and never coming up for air, and she does not know if it is serenity in the ceaseless drop or despairing surrender. She marks the high days and festivals of her people alone and unremarked upon, speaks to her landward kin infrequently and vaguely. She needs to be here, she tells herself harshly. She can’t go off when there’s so much to do, when she’s in the process of losing so much. One of her family cold and vanishing, one breathing through a machine, and one… he died, died properly, and although he came back purged of something poisonous, the shrapnel scarring of collapsed masonry on his skin and the reddest, warmest wings sprung from his back, this does not settle her terrors.

She cannot leave. Not when she could lose sight of her splintering shoal so easily. Not when she’s unsure the temptation to dive down and out, deeper, further away, wouldn’t ensnare her to cowardice.

She finds the first scales in the shower. It’s a myth that any water will have the skin of her legs go slick, then bumpy, fusing into one muscled tail with her scales folding outwards. She can have showers and baths without impact. It’s the sea, that is the essential component. The same for most deepwater kin. Not the sea, maybe, or exactly, but what it represents in the change. It’s something about floating out into endless space clad only in human skin and human lungs and trusting not to drown. The letting go of one form with the tide and permitting the waves to bring forth another.

Her scales are dimmed, like they’ve smudged. Their colour diminished.

It’s not a molt. Her people don’t. Tim does, normally annually. Before they travelled to Yarmouth, he’d been dropping feathers around the office almost continually with stress. Nesting, and growing in new and painful sections of wing, snapping with a yo-yoing temper.

Tim notices. Maybe because he’s the only one left. Basira is holed up somewhere of course, as is Melanie, but it’s not the same. They weren’t here before, they don’t have the context for how much their group is diminished, falling to pieces slowly like her own skin is.

They’ll be visiting Jon later. She hasn’t seen Martin in weeks.

Tim approaches slowly. Looks at the flakes of blue in her hand. Understand flowers gently in his eyes, and he reaches out and touches her arm, and she forgot the world could manifest in ways other than hurtful.

“You OK there, Sash?” Tim asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t… I just… When did it all go so wrong?”

“I dunno,” Tim repeats, and he doesn’t move away and she doesn’t want him to. “God, I – I don’t know, Sash.”

Jon’s clothes are dirt-clotted, ripped up by the grind of rock, and holding him tarnishes Tim’s feathers grey, smudges the pattern on his t-shirt into obscurity. His teeth are chattering, goosebumps bobbling up his arms and making the dark hairs up his arms stand on end. Tim suspects it’s more shock than cold.

Sasha brought him a glass of water, holding her palm under it because Jon’s long-fingered grip is so shaky it’s sloshing the water up the sides.

“Told you the rib was a shit idea, huh?” Tim says. Played as a joke and deliberately shorn of any accusation. He breathes in-and-out and Jon follows the rise and fall, and it benefits both of them. Tim’s getting better at control. He’s had to. His anger grows in like pinfeathers but so does his grief these days, a full plumage of emotions he is learning to deal with.

Jon coughs up something that could be agreement, but is mostly dirt and grave soil over Tim’s shirt.

You should have waited for us, Tim thinks but does not say because there would be too much teeth in it, and Jon’s skin is already whittling down to skeletal. We asked you not to go, we wanted a better plan, why didn’t you wait.

You could have died, down there in the dark, and we wouldn’t have even had a body to mourn, he does not say.

We love you, you idiot. We love you and even that wasn’t enough to stop you leaving, he does not say.

We’re already losing Martin, he does not say.

A room full of looping, chattering, overlapping tape recorders. Neither Tim nor Sasha stacked them, and Jon would not have thought to.

It should be a reassurance, that Martin’s been here.

God, Tim hopes he knows what he’s doing.

Sasha rubs at Jon’s back, helps him sip another small trickle. Tim’s wings, voluminous and unwieldy, knock over recorders in a clattering collapse as he scoops them around to shield them both. Against the balmy heat Tim’s throwing out, Jon’s shivers gradually subside.

“Daisy?” Jon murmurs. His teeth are grimy with soil.

“She’s with Basira,” Tim replies.

Sasha’s picked up the rib that’s dropped out of Jon’s clenched palm. Wiping the grime off it and staring at it without clear expression.

“Why, Jon?” she asks.

“I wanted to help,” Jon says. His words small, like he’s embarrassed that he even thought of it. “Even if it was one person. I wanted to be able to do something good for a change.”

“You could have died,” Tim says.

Jon’s horrible flat chuckle scrapes over his lips.

“I’m not sure I can anymore.”

“Yeah…” Tim replies subdued. He glances at the red daggers of his feathers and thinks he understands that.

“I wonder what it would take,” Jon says idly, slurring with exhaustion, and Tim grips him closer and hopes he never finds out.

Martin doesn’t react when Sasha sits down near him. The breeze, a vicious snagging chill tussles his hair, some wisps twisting into nothingness like smoke from an extinguished candle. She is still getting used to this Martin, or perhaps the Martin he never let others see. The toned-down stillness of him, the undisturbed waters of his expression. His skin not quite solid, the patches that have returned pale, sickly-pallored in the softening dim of moonlight. The rest of him is a coalition of fog, a hazy motion to his image like he’s wave-rocked, smoked out.

Long minutes pass. Sasha sits down cross-legged. The waves ripple up the stones that make up the strip of beach surrounding the loch, and they’re hard and uncomfortable under her.

“I can’t swim, you know,” Martin says finally. The sea is louder than he is, and he can make himself so quiet these days.

“No?”

Sasha keeps her tone light, inquisitive without intensity. Martin shakes his head, and his image lags, skipping disjointed, like his connection is poor.

More silence. Sasha doesn’t know what she should say, where Martin’s thoughts are at. She scratches behind the base of her gills, rubs at the dorsal fins sitting mostly flat under her sleep shirt.

“I didn’t live too far from the sea,” Martin continues. Looking at the wavering mirage of his hands without comment. She doesn’t even know if he recognises her presence. “We had Liverpool about an hour away. Even Blackpool, I guess. My primary school had a swimming club, where they’d pack them off to the big leisure centre on a coach afterschool. Kids’d get these little medals for managing like five metres, or ten, fifteen. But there was a small fee, and Mum said…” He snorts out a dismissive breath and his face twists, and neither of these actions suit him. “Doesn’t matter. I never went, and I never learnt, and that was that.”

“You could always come swimming with me?” Sasha proposes slowly. Lost in the swell of this conversation, why Martin’s talking about the sea, what this has to do with anything. She wishes he’d look at her.

Martin doesn’t answer immediately. He might not have even heard her.

“I told Peter, and he said that made it even better. That it was a such a – ” he says the word with a sneer, the words sharp-toothed in his mouth “ – gift, that I’d never even had the opportunity to know what I would miss, not even a memory to embellish or to sour. That there was so much that could root in absence. He said I should be grateful.”

“Peter Lukas said a lot of shit,” Sasha says.

She shuffles closer to him. Puts her hand on his knee.

“Whatever he told you was bollocks, you know that right?”

Martin blinks. After a moment, his hand joins over hers. His image grows denser, less likely to be stolen by the midnight air.

His eyes, fixed out on a horizon point in the slick dark of the loch, are still distant.

“I just wish I understood why she did it,” Martin murmurs.

“Who?”

“I did some research. After Elias… after I found out. I couldn’t have been the only person, and it’s rare enough but there are – help groups… you know, therapists that specialise in that kind of stuff. But I didn’t… I couldn’t face going to one. I thought that… knowing what was so wrong with me would make it easier, but it didn’t. All my life, I…. I was stupid enough to think it might be something I could fix. If – if I changed myself enough, if I said the right things, loved the right people, then I might… that someone could fix me. But it can't be fixed. That’s what all the leaflets said. That it was best to think of it like a permanent injury. Like having a stroke, or some sort of brain damage or something like that. Something irreparable.”

“Martin, sweetheart…” Sasha starts. She doesn’t understand. The flotsam of Martin’s speech grows erratic and he’s started shivering, and it’s no wonder, dressed in a t-shirt, pyjama trousers and some thick socks.

“Do you know much about selkies, Sash?” Martin powers on. Chattering teeth and goosebumps and it’s like he’s drawing something out of himself, some infection long done its damage. “Not many of them left, and they don’t usually venture landward like some of the other deepwater species. They mate for life apparently. Staunchly social communities, and some of them can’t… can’t cope, if they lose their group, or their partner. They take off their pelt, and just swim off to drown. A-and those help groups and therapists, those people who had theirs stolen, or destroyed… they’re, god, they’re all terminal. They last six months, maximum. Because it kills them, losing it. They waste away and they die. And here’s me…” Martin’s face twists again, and it’s bitter and angry and despairing all at once, “and I just get to keep going.”

“Selkies…?” Sasha says. “Why are you….”

She trails off in a gradually dawning horror.

“Martin?”

“She burnt it,” Martin says, his tone stringing higher now, distress sweeping in like a squall to break up the unnatural apathy in his voice. “I don’t think she knew what it would… I mean, I don’t know, maybe she did, maybe she wanted me gone just like dad, I don’t know, and I’ll never know because I can’t ask her why. I didn’t even… it was so long ago. I was sick and then I got worse and it was awful and I didn’t understand why I was so ill, why everything hurt just so much… and after, when I was better, Mum said it was appendicitis. I believed her. Course I did, why wouldn’t I. I didn’t know… not until Elias, and I’ll never know what I’ve lost, or why it didn’t kill me, maybe it was because I was so young, or because it’s only from one side of the family, I don’t – I don’t know! I’ll never know! It’s a whole part of me that she just… she just took a-a-and…”

Martin’s back bows like whalebone. He takes long shuddering breaths like his words are keelhauling across his lungs.

Sasha’s never heard of a selkie with only half their soul. She can’t imagine, what it would do to someone.

She moves in front of Martin and he moves forward against her like a wave crash. He’s taller and heavier than her, and the impact pushes her back momentarily before her arms catch him.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” she says, “You can do it, breathe.” She holds him so surely, and she always will. And he starts crying then, the first time since Jon was in hospital, and he won’t or can’t stop shivering, and it is horrible to hear every emotion inside him claw itself back from the brink.

She keeps telling him to breathe, and he keeps following that instruction through sniffling and sobbing and broken-voiced confusion, and she counts it as a small victory nonetheless.

Jon’s mouth cannot scream.

Tim’s in the next room, the kitchen, drying plates and bowls and cutlery, within shouting distance, and he’d be here in a moment – he’d help if only Jon could speak a word other than his unbidden, unwanted recitation.

Jon’s mouth doles out its terrible missive, and he doesn’t not feel like a person as Elias rolls out the triumphant red carpet of his plotting and scheming, the self-satisfied weave of his grand finale. And no, he’s not a person, not for a long time now; he’s a catalogue, a testimony, an archive, and he would never have chosen this.

His hands scrabble at his throat, and his eyes are blurred with tears, his vision obscured, but it does not seem to matter, for his skin ripples and sloshes like an inkwell and a hundred eyes swell and pop and inflate again like bubbles against his skin.

Someone else screams. And the multitude of Jon’s eyes are newborn, fractal-imaged, gummed up with a feast of far-reaching horror all witnessed by him, overseen and devoured in his sight, and it is hard to translate what his original set of open, weeping eyes see. There is motion. Commotion. There are apologies being spoken in his ears, fervent, petitionary, but he is hearing the rising insistent thrum of the summoning and it is as sickening as it is beautiful. Someone is holding a hand hard over his mouth, the grip painful and punishing but even then the words burble out through the cracks. Another hand clamps over his eyes, and he shrieks and thrashes as his words gather to a crescendo.

A hand tears the paper from his grip. There is an acrid whoosh of smoke. Jon drops like the rigging of a ship being torn down. The hands at his mouth and eyes lower quickly to loop around his waist, catch him and hold him up.

Jon sees Tim, wide-eyed and shimmering with terror even as his skin burns gold and his feathers shine and there are only sooty flakes left of Jonah’s statement, scattering down from his palms.

He thinks it’s Martin behind him. Jon folds further, all his weight pitching forward and Martin’s forced to come down with him as he retches the leftover words in his mouth; king of a ruined world, he vomits up with bile and ink, and it splashes with a disgusting slop over the living room floor.

Sasha’s partially webbed hands are holding back his hair as he hacks and gags, his lips stained black, his stomach heaving as he chokes on everything that comes up, his stomach roiling with an overwhelming nausea. Conduit of fear, he brings up, dribbling from his lips like paper pulp.

After a long while, it’s over. Sasha carries him to the bathroom, and helps him clean up, although Jon has little memory of it.

He wakes, feeling like a shipwreck, and Tim is there. Sat nearby, his head in his hands. His fingertips stained with ink and soot. He can hear Martin and Sasha talking in low tones nearby.

They're still here. Even now, he’s surprised that they haven’t left him.

And Jon has no words remaining, so his body betrays him with airless, silent tears, at all he could have wrought upon this world, at all the suffering he could have brought to their door to still be granted forgiveness for.

It is not the end. It is an interlude, a reprieve. In some ways a kindness, and in others, waiting is its own cruelty.

They’ve bought blankets to the beach in order to cushion the hardness of the stones rounded by tide and time. It’s the first time they’ve gotten Jon to come outside for more than a few minutes. The scratches up the column of his throat healing. His voice still damaged, scratchy and scraped from misuse.

They’ll have to be moving on soon. To make plans for whatever future they need to avoid.

She sits up, and stretches out from where she’s been lying against Tim’s thigh. Glances at Jon, barely four metres away on a separate towel. Grey-haired and tired-eyed. Martin’s holding his hand, the left one crinkled by burns, as they talk about something treasured for its meaningless. Despite everything, Jon’s face practises relearning its smiles, even as he touches tentative at the marks around his neck, the bruising at the edges of his mouth.

The tension has not faded from Tim’s shoulders. His plumage sharp and strange even now. Her own scales patchy and bare, whole sections that have not grown back.

She considers her battered but striving shoal, and wants to show them that their past is not all there will ever be. That there will be an after-this, whatever that looks like. She wishes they spoke her tongue, so she could gift them names, new names, for the things they have become, this things that they have survived, and all that has survived them.

“Martin!” she shouts over, a sudden inspiration seizing her. “Want to come in the water with me?”

Martin’s expression barrels through at least three iterations before it hovers between wary and uncomfortable.

“I – er… I might just be better off here, actually.”

“No pressure,” she tells him, and she means it, for all she remembers that he has never had the chance to know the sea as she has, to feel his whole weight held up by the water. “But I am a pretty spectacular swimming teacher. I promise I won’t let go.”

Martin, to his credit, thinks about it. Gnaws on his lip, stares away from her and at his knees. Next to her, she can feel Tim bite back an enthusiastic declaration of encouragement for fear of spooking him.

Martin stands gingerly, and she is so proud of him.

“I haven’t got a costume,” he says.

“Your boxers will be fine.”

“We want something pretty to look at, show us those legs, Martin!” Tim says. He times the tone playful, the perfect balance of joking and complementing, and it works, with Martin’s blushing and ‘shut it Tim’ distracting him from the enormity of his decision as he neatly folds up his jeans, and takes off his shoes and socks. Sasha peels off her long skirt, rolls down her tights. She dislikes shoes on principle, and rarely wears them.

The rocks dig into the soles of Martin’s feet as they waddle down to the shore, slow going and interspersed with wincing.

She takes his hand as they stop, stand a foot from the border between land and sea.

“We’ll just go a little way out,” she promises. “The water’s fairly calm but for your first time…”

“I don’t think I can do this,” Martin whispers. He hesitates, and she waits for his decision. And then, he creeps forward, and she follows. He swears vehement as the water hits his toes, and he almost balks to feel the frigid temperature, but he pushes forward, his swearing getting more and more creative the further he walks out against the tide.

From the headland, someone cheers, likely Tim.

“Don’t look at them,” Sasha says. “Come on, this is all you, ok?”

Her legs unfuse into her tail, and she shivers out a feeling like cramp, luxuriating in the sensation against her skin.

Martin tentatively wades out. He’s tall, but there’s a point where he stops, knowing to move forward means his feet won’t touch the ground.

“A little further, yeah?” Sasha encourages, and he nods jerkily, a frantic up-and-down, his expression petrified. “You can do this. Don’t look at the water. Look at me.”

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she pulls him slowly into deeper waters. His fingers are pressing rounded marks into her forearms. His leg gestures are sloppy, thrashing, and at one point he dips below the surface with the disturbance he’s making, and he splutters as he resurfaces, surging up, eyes bulging in a betrayed panic. She continues to reassure him and doesn’t let go as they stop and simply float, the shoreline easily in sight.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“Wet,” he grumbles. Clearly concentrating, he treads, kicking out in a motion that gradually finds rhythm.

For a long while, it is them and the sea. The waves rub up against the bare patches in her scales, but the reminder is not painful.

Martin’s breathing calms. His terror recedes, and he looks down at the obscured water under them.

“Can we go out a bit further?”

She’s not doing as much pulling now. She shows him how to use his arms to push himself through water, and stopping and starting, correcting his gestures and posture and breathing as they go, they drift further out before stopping again, hanging suspended above the depths.

Martin smiles at his own unexpected success. He lets out a long, satisfied sound like something’s loosened in him for the first time.

His eyes, completely black, reflect the dour and overcast midday sun.

“Martin, your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Martin says, but no – he doesn’t say, he barks, and then gasps, and then barks again, stunned, unsettled. He doesn’t look upset. He’s bitten his lip with his too-sharp teeth that now line his gums, and he touches the sharp pain it has caused with incredulity, his still human fingers marking out the sensation of the new.

“What’s happening?” he asks and Sasha grins, and says “I don’t know, Martin, I don’t know” and he’s splashing, a seal without skin, something entirely himself, shivering minutely in the cold shock even as his smile shows off his pointed teeth. He barks again, the sound almost jolted out of him as he figures out how it works, and she trills in delight, and it sets him off grinning and kicking. And for the moment, for this moment, the Lonely is banished entirely landbound, and there is only them treading water, surrounded by the endless sea and trusting they will not drown.

They have to go back to land eventually. The waves around them start to wash choppy, the sky colours grey with the surety of rain. They swim back, and sometimes Sasha lets go, bobbing near his elbow as he swims slowly but steadily on his own.

Martin’s teeth flatten when they crawl onto the shore, panting and burbling out the dregs of their laughter. Tim and Jon have come over to greet them, Jon holding the towels and garments like an overladen clothes tree. Tim chucks Sasha a towel to fold around herself into a makeshift skirt before her tail bisects back into legs.

“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Sasha says excitedly, waving her hands and gesticulating. “Did you see, did you see?”

“See what…?” Tim starts, but he glances at Martin, whose eyes are slow to fade from black to blue, and Tim might not realise what exactly has happened, but he senses the tenor of the mood because he’s barrelling in, knocking into Martin, wrapping him in a hug and nearly smothering him with his wings. Once released, Jon approaches slowly, putting his burdens down. Martin glances up at him, almost anxious now that the initial buzz is wearing down, but Jon goes softly to his knees, and his smile spreads across his face like paint in water.

The grey of the sky feels far off as they allow themselves the momentarily uncomplicated gift of being happy.

#the magnus archives #tma #cw emotional manipulation #cw ableism #cw potential suicidal ideation #cw emetophobia #cw being sick #ask to tag #jonmartin #sasha james #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 22 _ A Flawless Order

First

The factory was alive. Parts and sections once cold and silent, now howled with the intent of struggling through a monotonous existence in a world that would forsaken it. After however many years it lulled since the contraption ground into inactivity, it is remarkable that the place still mostly worked. From within the bowls of the construction arose indignant grinding and screeching, the whole of the operation not entirely seamless. It might yet come undone at the seams and rip itself apart.

For the time, he supposed, the child was on some sort of mission. Or something. It was too much to hope that the boy was not in the heart of a prelude to a disaster.

Hunched awkwardly in the doorway to the office, the Thin Man scrutinized the reverberating clashing and mincing with a raised brow. He wondered what the factory produced… or what it once created. Certainly not televisions. The Signal Tower provided those. He did feel an inkling of sympathy for the lost children.

The pummeling din dampened a great deal when he shut the door. It was far too much activity, energy, such a… racket. He would wait for now, let the child fulfill his compulsion for exploration. When the kid was ready, he would resurface. That’s how this usually worked.

Beside the little package of food tossed onto the desk, an intercom receiver and control pad lay embedded in the dusty surface. It didn’t matter if the device forgot its purpose, could no longer carry the current and fulfill its role. For so long the device has been inert, lonely and neglected.

He swept his hand over the tarnished panel, the lights beside the scribbled slots blinked. The static thrummed, physically manifesting in vibrating particles.

“M͘҉͟o̡͡no͞,” he projected, through the receiver. From beyond the thick cinderblock wall, his projected call reverberated with a metallic echo. The Thin Man sat at the desk and bent forward, as if he needed to speek directly into the contraption. “P̧a̶gi̢͢n̷̡͞g̡̕͠ ̛M̴o͘͡n̸͝o͢.̵ ̵̨̕W͏̢͝o͢u͠l͟d҉͡ ͜Yo̢͜u̡ Has͠t̸̵̸e̶̸n̢ ̶̕Y͞o͝u͞͏r̴̶͟ ̶C͏u̷̶r̸r͟e̡nt͟ Ą͡cti̢v̴͝i̴̕͝t̴͞ies̴͏,̴͢ A̧n҉d̸ R͟e͟p͢o̴͡r̢̧t͘͜ To҉ ̸̷T̸҉h̢e͏̨ ͠Ma̸͢͞n͜a͏̢ger̶̨’̵s͜ ͠O̢̡ff͠i̸c҉҉ę.̷”

Perhaps the child would get a kick out of that. Or not. It might remind the boy that he was still waiting. Alas, some things never changed.

On the other side of the factory, or more to the middle, or off center of the near center.

The strange flower growing from the cement pillar garbled some speek. Mono paused on the catwalk and gave it his attention, but hesitantly. Only because the flower was unusual and sounded like the Thin Man, but he wasn’t certain what it was saying. It was distorted. Also, why was the flower speek? Trick? Did flower catch the Thin Man?

For a while he stared down from his perch with his hands on his knees, tilting his head. It couldn’t get him from up here, he thinks. The flower didn’t say anything else, but maybe he wasn’t moving. Some nasties only reacted to movement. It didn’t know where he was.

He pushed up into standing and hurried away, checking along the metal grate for something he could lift. Some pieces of metal, a little bit of pipe (too small), this ratty old glove. He spied a canister a little ahead, and rushed to snag that. Racing back over to the flower, he chucked the canister off the platform and managed to knock the whole funnel off the wall. Direct hit!

On a path below choked by vapor, emerged the mechanic, glaring down at the shattered flower spread across the ground.

Yeek!

Mono ducked back a step, but it was meaningless. The Mechanic turned its glare upward, and if he could easily see the creature below through the grate, then there was a good chance it saw him as well. This suspicion was confirmed when the heavy clatter of boots began pounding below, a snort trumpeted out. A ladder was somewhere down there, but he didn’t remember specifics. He took off on the walkway in the direction he had initially been going, gaze sifting for a way down or cover. The catwalk was tol, and ahead the rail bent aside.

An earthquake shook the surface beneath his feet and he nearly lost his balance; walking on the uneven and porous surface was challenging, now he was at a full dash with a boulder rebounding across the floor. If that wasn’t enough, a bleating crack tore out and a large metal tool smashed against the rail. Right above his head!

Mono stumbled and grabbed for his hat. Though the metal piece was quite large and very solid, it’s impact would easily scatter him to the furthest corners of the city. Fortunately, it ricocheted over the handrail and zipped out of sight. Far off into the factory.

Plenty more where that came from.

Mono grabbed the support bar at the bend of the walkway, striving not to lose speed as he whipped around onto the new path. He leapt a sequence of steps and roughly hit the bottom rung, but with a little grumble recovered and stole back his pace.

Steam gushed and the machinery squealed, heaving pistons thrummed around him; it was hard to breath with how thick the air was. He wasn’t used to being so heated through, and the sauna seeped into his lungs, choking out his ragged breaths.

Nonetheless, his pace never faltered. Not even when a fuse clattered against the floor, too near and much too loud. The crash splint his hearing, and suddenly the rumbling groan of the factory became distant. The vibrations through the platform rattled up his thin legs, threatening to splinter his bones right inside his body. If… he had bones, like Her, that is. That was still a mystery....

The Mechanic is catching up. It’s catching up, it’s pace quickened as it closed on its quarry. A bellowing cough tore through the space between them, the force of it blunted by Mono’s impaired hearing. But he can feel it; the rocketing footfalls thrashing his swift but shorter strides. The creature has something in its clutch, he’s certain. He can’t see, won’t look – Flee! It’s right on top of him, but hasn’t decided if it should kill outright or maim him beyond recovery.

Off the side from the platform, a section of moving parts of the machine lumber methodically through their mindless operation. Mono doesn’t second guess the leap and dives off the side, aimed for one of the gears a little below. As he falls and his coat swooped around him, the dilemma of his timing surged through his mind.

Was too soon? Too late? Low. But is far!

Nonetheless, he braced his body for the impact trusting he had momentum. He dropped short, his fingertips barely catching grip of the eroded tooth of a gear. It swings upward in its clockwise motion, carrying its feathery cargo. Mono heaved up, trying to fit himself into the dip before the other tooth of the reversed gear can clench—

The tool swatted against the gear, an inch beneath Mono’s toes. His fingers popped loose, and he fell, first smacking his shoulder against a bolt in the center of the gear, then spiraling three or five full turns in his terrible descent. Somewhere in the vortex of his plunge he smashed into a corroded slate, with wires strapped across the length. In a panic he grappled for a hold, but the steam and grease wouldn’t permit anchorage. He skid backwards reaching still, and suddenly nothings beneath him….

Falling!

He crashed to the floor at last, landing somewhere beneath a canopy of winding pipes. Without allowing a brief to recover, no he shoved himself upright and scrambled for better protection among the sprawling networks. In some patches the pipes have a base extended to the cement, massive bolts skewer a plate in place. These clusters Mono shuffled around or beneath when he could, some expelled waves of heat. Other pipe bundles have a lattice frame built around them, while others have caved over time. Patches of light from the factory ceiling gleamed down, he can see enough to get around without several concussions.

Little by little, his hearing began recovering from the calamity it endured. The wheezing of machine guts and rattle of something within the pipes, pilfered through his muddled senses. It wasn’t totally restored, everything was more off and he couldn’t recall how booming the place was before the short reprieve.

His musing is abruptly shattered when a ragged gloved-hand stuffed down into a space of the pipes, not far from where he was hunched low. For a moment he stalled and held his breath, holding perfectly still. Through the clog of machinery, he couldn’t figure where the Mechanic was now. The thick, cracked fingers clawed at the gravely floor, stretching and poking to their extent. Blindly.

If move, see? Did see but didn’t grab? Miss?

Mono wasn’t sure, but if he stayed put for much longer, an eye might peer into the opening. The blackened fingers still grappled at the vacant space, sensitive to movement, maybe even smell?

Right when the hand began shuffling away, he made his move. Easing in closer to the pattern pressed into the dirty floor where the hand had clawed… he zipped by and kept going! Faster and picking up as much speed as he could, while in his half-blind-folded stance. Above somewhere a breathy snort carried over the racket of hissing pumps, the hammering boots trailed his swift trajectory somewhere to the side. The pockets of scarce radiance flickered against the swift dash of the Mechanic, bearing down on the knotted canopy but barred from an opening.

Mono didn’t chance a glance, all his focus maxed in diving in among the pipelines and anchors punched into the cement. He dropped and skid on his knees, upon reaching a barricade loaded with debris. He scrambled over himself, backtracking a few feet and took an opening in the mesh of a grate. The hole wasn’t large enough for him to push through, he barreled into the rusted metal and kept going when it vaporized with minimal resistance.

A screech shot forth overhead, too close! The pipes arched above him caged him from the Mechanic and a clear reach – maybe-MAYBE it could squeeze its hand into a gap – but not quick enough to grab for the flighty Mono. He barely glimpsed up, only to check once where he was headed in relation to his cover.

It was a little too late for him to register that the next opening he squeeze through led onto the open floor. Not even a pathway, but a break between one collision of mechanical limbs chugging away, and another Tetris of gears and hydraulics hammering away. All at once he was free of the overbearing heat, the steam evaporated and the confining embrace of the pipes shrugged away from his coat.

Mono spun around, his dry coattail swept across his knees. Go! GoGoGo!

He darted to the other side of the metal amalgamate, charging at an open portion beyond a narrow trench. A gasp of steam chuffed a meter or more off, but what caught his attention was the heap of melted skin and chains creeping through. When Mono locked view with it, the Mechanic dove toward him.

With every ounce of his dash power, Mono peeled towards what he hoped was a narrow opening beneath the grate. He stuffed his shoulders through the fence by the path and tumbled, barely making it back to his feet as he galloped awkwardly toward the crevice. The fence slowed the Mechanic but a moment, he simply hopped it and was once more clomping towards his target, gasping on the acrid fumes.

The opening was narrow and too small for the Mechanic to reach within. However, it was also very not long. It was a trap he would be cornered within, and Mono didn’t even hesitate to take in what was beyond the little tiny haven before he was hurtling out once more.

For a second, the Mechanic was stumped. It grumbled to itself, voice becoming distant and distorted by the howling conveyor belt shrieking nearby. Mono was still in the open, but he had the chance to take in the area. Get out of sight for a wink. Enough to lose the grotesque focus of the creature.

Thick cables rose high in his path, the eventual end fading from view high above. He stuffed himself between the narrow space, nearly swimming as he heaved through among available spaces. The narrow passage at least too miniscule for the Mechanics reach, quite possibly, beyond its vision. From elsewhere, a gruff bark announced its agitation. That still sounded too close.

The floor gave out suddenly, and Mono lost his grip. He toppled down a steep incline into a lower basin beneath the chugging machinery. With haste he rolled over into a crouch and gave the area a sweep with his eyes, searching for movement through the veil of fumes and ripples of heat. The edge of his hat was saturated with sweat and his scalp drenched, be blinked at the salty sting in his eyes while he struggled to peer through the blur. He thought the Mechanic was nearby again, but it hadn’t made a sound yet. It could be prowling….

Or could be sneaking up behind him!

Nothing was near which should warrant any panic. Mono kept skimming his gaze around the thick pillars, swinging machinery, all-in-all, whatever was moving. Before rising to move, he pulled back his coat from his leg and checked his knee.

A red blotch stained the pants. It didn’t hurt, or he couldn’t feel it. The cut might’ve reopened, but he did fall pretty hard. For now, he left it alone and made note on it. Worse would happen if he didn’t keep his wits, got distracted with pointless distractions.

He weaved through a pillar thicket, following beside the steep slope he skid down. At times he climbed over a broken gear or other castoff equipment, such as pipes or a random tool – usually rusted and coated in thick grease that had a foul odor. Even the twisted body of a Viewer found its way down here, but likely toppled in from the ceiling. By now, the factory was so thick with fog he couldn’t see hardly anything beyond the spires of cranking metal limbs.

Movement to the left, behind a stairway and a mesh of fortified scaffolding, spooked Mono into diving low. Even if he’s too far away and likely obscured by steam, he takes no chances and tracked the malicious shadowy patterns drifting beyond the barrier. He’s certain it is the Mechanic by instinct (and how his luck has been today), and abruptly began sifting among the pipes and dips in the floor. He detached from following the side of the slope and opted to cut directly through the corroded jungle, to the best of his ability. Down here there lay no landmarks, everything was the repeated meshing of mechanical portions gushing steam, twittering, or bellowing heat.

It takes a while of his dodging and cautious navigation – every time a pipe hissed he tucked down and hid, even if he knew it wasn’t the Mechanic - but finally, he reached the other side of the dip and another ramp. With no indication of the Mechanic, and going a while without catching that horrible thunder of boots, he’s feeling much safer. Make no mistake, Mono knows he will never be safe – him or the Thin Man – with the creature sneaking around. It lost his trail, but that wouldn’t last.

He had a hard time trying to scale up the slope, to the regular floor. It’s not that steep, but the surface has a fine swill of grease and dirt, and his feet are sort of wet too. The drama is actually tiring him out, and he relented for a while to pick his way further along and find a space that wasn’t so icky.

The floor proves to be as much of a hinderance as the Mechanic. He probably doesn’t skid around on the flat surface, on account of the layer of dirt. He can’t climb up the slant by conventional means, but it’s okay. He climbed the side of a section of scaffolding near the slope, and from there gained enough height to leap off and nearly reach the edge. When he hit the peak of the incline, he flailed his arms but managed to flop forward. With a tremendous heave, he vaulted over the slant and stands on flat ground. At last!

Where is he? This place is different, but it’s all the same factory. Vibrating wheels, tugging long conveyor belts above the floor – sometimes higher. Pipes with the little round things sprouting like weeds. He hiked along, crossing through an open path and went to the fence on the other side. So far no sign of the Mechanic; that is not good. He’s happy to not do the flee, but now where is it? Somewhere, watching?

Mono turned his gaze up, and spun around as he moved among long metal vents stretched across the floor. One of the elevated pipes forced him to crouch down very low, the surface and air about it heated, and broiled his skin through his ever faithful coat. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this dry, he felt like a crispy leaf discarded from a tree.

The boundary of the drumming machinery ebbed little by little, and he reached another fence. Nothing on the other side appeared out of place, aside from it looking much more open than a pathway. First confirming no movement among the fringe of heated vapor, he squeezed through the bars and examined the floor. A path was still open, but it was much wider and littered with ruble; from the ceiling, he thought. Through the haze above, something hovered, like a walkway, but higher. He followed a clear path towards a sequence of steps, which rose to a platform upon a cement block.

From this new vantage point, he gave the portions of the surrounding factory a hurried scan. With his scout satisfied, he checked on the tall stand fitted to the platform. It was almost too high to reach, if not for the chair anchored beside it. He hoisted himself onto the ratty seat and from there leapt to the slanted surface.

The corroded panel carried colored buttons, like a television remote. But many-many more. He accidentally knelt on one, and a rackety clunk rebounded from the fog above.

Mono nearly jumped out of his skin when a chain thudded to the cement floor, generating a head-splintering crack, as well as forming a shallow crater in the path he had been on.

LOUD!

He fumbled on the controls, something he hit or knocked made the chain recoil by an inch or more off the floor. Not so loud, but still! Flee!

Carefully he let himself down from the stand and took off, sliding beneath the rail and dropped to the gritty floor. He made it to the nearest fence and zipped through the bars, exactly when a racket of boots bombarded the scene. A little more cautious and not as panicked, Mono maneuvered low among the pipes and coils of wiring stretched beneath a layer of rotten, black texture.

Out there and above, the boots descended into view from a ladder he previously overlooked. It was directly behind the podium he was clambering all over!

In the dark he crouched, watching as the Mechanic plopped heavily to the floor and orbited the platform. Snuffling, grumbling to itself. It rubbed at the knob of its head beneath the cap. He hoped this time he didn’t drop anything, but he didn’t linger around to find out. He crammed himself between a narrow space among the wiring and kept going. Ever and always mindful when large pipes broiled, or a random space gushed a thin thread of steam.

For a very long while, Mono lost track of the Mechanic. A feat which never ceased to make him nervous, but he kept silent and more astute of whatever he was handling, if he had to leap onto something else. It was mostly navigate the floor beneath the machine, and one other time he climbed a chain to reach the height of the catwalk which stretched above the factories convoluted shape. Somehow in all this exploration, he didn’t hear or see trace of the creature.

He did find a doorway! More like a large bay entrance, it is something he recognized from a book. A supply entrance, for stuff to make goop! Or to send colorful boxes away. Whatever it opened up for, it was a way out to somewhere else. He found it by following a big path, which was a kind of a small road. But not like the chewed up roads that lay among the cities crumbling buildings.

A lever to the side wall should open it, he thinks. The stretched cords go to the doors at the top. Unfortunately, when he dangled from the lever, nothing happened. It drooped under his weight, but… it needed a fuse.

He let go and inspected the current fuse in the slot. It had nothing in it, he could tell by just the feel of it. Mono had hoped he was wrong, but no. Another fuse had to be around, a good one. Maybe he could take the one that awoke the factory.

But how far away was that? And dragging it, among the ruble and collapse? With the Mechanic lurking? That would be hard, if not disastrous. He’d keep the option open and try to find his way back, but the course encircling the factory was not without hazards. The whereabouts of this door remained a mystery, but if he followed the wall as closely as he could, he might manage to make it back to the other fuse.

In places, a portion of the wall caved in. Didn’t collapse entirely, but it was a wall within a wall, and not a way out. Some paths lay bloated with ruble, or parts from the machines interwoven pieces. With all the swirling fumes, he couldn’t see far, and didn’t know exactly… where he was, at any time. It was impossible to maintain a sense of direction, but a strong unknown power might be at work.

When he emerged from a division among the pipes and twisting vents, he found an area of the wall intact. Which left his route open for exploration. What caught his interest immediately was an open door and what looked like a window, but the glass was dark. And there was no rain of boards on it. Some sort of clothing or uniforms, like what the Mechanic wore, lay draped on the floor and across a bench by the wall. Belts too, with a few tools. The Mechanic did have a fuse at one point, maybe he’d find one here!

However, approaching the open doorway did spook him a bit. It reminded him… of the Hospital, for some reason. Maybe being alone, and it was dark inside. Did the lights not work? The fuse woke up the factory, but didn’t make the bay door work. The office light came on, because of the Thin Man.

Mono blinked at the ceiling. Slowly he raised his hand toward one of the lamps dangling by a cord and tried to focus, on ‘asking’ the light to come on. Asking may not be right. The Thin Man didn’t do anything, he just stood there. How did—

The first two bulbs burst in a firework of sparks, and Mono catapulted backwards. He scooted back on his butt scrambling to get up, but a sound – a not too scary noise – ensnared his attention. Poised by the bench, he looked around. It was very faint, beneath the howl of the gnashing and hiss of the factory itself. Sounded like metal-on-metal clink. He looked up.

It was easy climbing up onto the bench, and there he found a box. A shut up box with two clasps on one side, and hinges, with a little strap atop. He leaned against the side and tapped.

Nothing. Hmm. He shuffled and scooted the box, trying to get an easy reach at the clasps.

Something inside moved! He heard it!

Mono bounced back and crouched at the bench edge, glaring at the box. Something was inside that. Something alive. Maybe an animal. He kind of knew it wasn’t any sort of animal. But… it could be just an animal. It could.

Inching over to the box once more, he shifted it around until he could view one of the clasps. Whatever was inside thumped around, the random settling of weight there or here made it difficult to really move the clunky thing. At last, he could fix a firm grip on one clasp and tugged it. This or that way, the thing was latched hard. Like glued to the container.

With a sigh he stood back, and gave his area a good search over. He needed to stay focused, getting caught wouldn’t help anyone. He could always come back. If he got the— no, that was a dumb idea. Even without the Mechanic getting up to no good, it wouldn’t work. The worst could happen, and he didn’t want to think about that danger.

Electing no grace, Mono just rammed his shoulder to the container and let it plunge to the floor. It wasn’t a far fall, but unexpected it would be. The clasps still faced him, and now faced skyward. He plopped down onto the front and pried at the sturdy latches. With every ounce of his mightiness, he braced his feet and knee to the surface and heaved! Shoved!

Clack!

One undone. He paused to catch himself and rally up for round two! Good thing he ate before leaving. With a firm struggle, grinding his teeth, nearly losing his grip twice, the second clasp sprang free. He toppled over the lock, a little winded and sore, but completely fine. He just needed to gather his wits.

The lid was open, but he didn’t hear anything inside. He shuffled over to the opening and pried at the now visible crease, forcing it wider by a foot.

“Hey,” he whispered. Maybe it was just an animal. Whatever, he wasn’t about to climb down in there. “Psst?” he hissed. “Hai?”

At last, the whites of something eyes peered back up at him. Mono gazed in, and the contents of the box glared back. He shifted on the top of the box, forcing the lip up a bit more. The face was dirty and cheeks gaunt, he couldn’t make out the clothing. Rags, it seemed. The eyes felt so barren and accusatory, as if he invaded. Was it just the one kid?

Must’ve been, because they shot out through the side of the container, away from Mono, and hit the floor running. As he recoiled backwards, he watched them veer off to the fence and the machinery beyond, until the figure faded in the choking haze.

That wasn’t weird or anything, he reflected. Briefly, he checked around and within the container – only a peek – in case there were other kids. That… he wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not. He settled on not thinking about it.

At least he didn’t have the awkward dealing with a kid that wanted to pack. Not that he didn’t want to pack, it was confusing right now. It would’ve been nice to have someone to help, and keep an eye out. For a little while, at least. Until they didn’t want too anymore, or something like that. He would understand this time. Sure.

Mono slipped off the container and ventured in the direction the other kid went. They likely found the space he came out of, but he needed to find another passage through the machinery. He would try and reach the office, and check if he missed any fuses.

First however, he slipped between thick cement pillars and scooted into a substantially cluttered space, overburdened with pipes and thick vents. Sleep was impossible with the sweltering fumes and the churning machinery, but he needed to stop moving for a bit. Curl up by a pipe and rest his eyes, but no sleep. Not even half sleep.

The kid bailing didn’t bother him. He understood. Getting locked up like that. Caught. Doomed. Kids helping other kids out of traps and cages wasn’t a thing. Risky business, and why bother? The kid got trapped, they were pretty bad at the one rule. Caught, you’re as good as dead. Some didn’t get as far as caged.

He shuddered.

All in the past. Focus here and now. He can’t let his guard down. He nestled down in his coat and pried one eye open, again searching the fog swirling among the cables. Clear. No movement. Alone. No one to watch. No second set of ears. No one to catch him if he fell. Just him.

Mono.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #thin dad #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #i did like building the factory environment #its kind of Maw reminiscent

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of-tatooine · 4 years

Text

honor him. | chapter 3 - ready or not

an Empress is killed and a new era of constant guilt dawns upon you.

Gray tiles over the rooftops contrasted the clear blue beauty of the Dunwall skies on the 18th of the Month of Earth. The uneven skyline decorated with the light smoke rising from the numerous chimneys scattered around the peaks.

The Tower stood tall and pristine, overlooking the gloomy city. White blocks of stone reflecting the sunlight, light blue drapes, embellished with the Kaldwin family crest, swaying ever so slightly to the beautiful dance of the wind. Flowers flourishing across the vast gardens of the Tower, the waves of the river licking at the edges of the walls.

It was an unusually beautiful day to be a royal. Years back, when you were fighting off stragglers and gang members in the streets of Karnaca, even dreaming about being this close to royalty had been out of question. You never had time for such useless fantasies when the reality had been proving to be nothing less than ruthless and cold.

It was quite ironic - in contrast to the deeds your kin would commit, it was as if the Outsider had cursed you with sunshine and warmth to make you never forget the moments to come.

Commotion. A deafening, sickening sound of machinery turning in its cogs and screws, digging into your skull like daggers. Screams, thick boots thudding against the wooden floors, making the entire ground shake. Your younger feet descending the carpet-covered stairs of your apartment rapidly, heart about to burst out of your chest. The usual faint whale songs you would otherwise gladly welcome in your mind then subdued by the creaking music echoing through the narrow foyer - to be replaced with the cries of the one you loved the most.

Every single little detail about that night was still alive and burning in your mind, just like how the events of the present day would hurt your conscience for years to come. There you stood, up on the rooftops of the tower, leaning against one of the chimneys which concealed your red-leather clad figure, the higher up vantage point giving you an unobstructed view of the gazebo.

So far, everything had been going according to the assault plan Daud had spent a couple of months perfecting - couple Whalers holding up the smaller edge closer to where the target stood, with Daud waiting alongside them for an easier transversal. The remaining Whalers all positions up on the roofs, blending into the navy blue tiles, some setting up lookouts on top of the water lock, and you staying on the lookout on the furthest end of the to ensure a safe escape route. There was no room for error, not even a single breath could be taken out of order.

This was the mission that would change the Whalers, affect every single living piece of soul of the Empire and the blood would soon be all over your hands. Every one of your fellow assassins felt it inside - felt the balances and the energies shift in haste of what’s to come, some sort of dark hunch in all of their souls, yet no one could put it into words nor admit it.

Many of those who noticed you merely guarding the furthest tower away from the gazebo, very much unlike the key roles you had in past contracts, did not dare confront you or Daud about it - they simply knew better than to be scolded by the master assassin to focus on the mission of their lives. Nothing escaped the sight nor the quick wit of Billie Lurk though, you remembered, as she appeared right near you, causing you to shift your position to face her.

“What’d you do this time to make him mad?” she would ask in a tone you could not discern beneath the muffling of the vapor mask, combined with the ringing in your head with the added stress of the mission.

That had caught you by slight surprise - although you were used to Lurk’s teasing intrusions and insights just about everything as you would train together and plan out how to approach missions, you had been silently hoping every Whaler to be so preoccupied about the job at hand as they should have been, that they would not pay attention to one assassin’s uncharacteristic task. You would only shrug at her, tilting your head slightly and letting out a muffled breath. “Just following the old man’s orders.”

If only she knew. If only she knew the resolve it took for you not to crumble right there and then, how hard it had been for you to sound emotionless and nonchalant.

She would change towards you, talk different and act different, you did not have a single doubt about that. Maybe she would look at you with pity, or she would remove all her trust from you for being such a weak soul unable to get anything done because you were so caught up in your memories.

Either way, revealing the truth was something you could not afford.

The seasoned assassin shrugged with a simple mumble of “fair enough”. Billie knew better not to dive into personal details during high-risk missions, or during anything else - she had been an enigma of her own, ever since Daud had brought her in. You did not mind.

Her, you could look at. You could even sneak glances at the Empress’s silhouette with her famous up-do, her hands against the marble fences of the gazebo as she gazed over her city, unaware of her approaching demise. Hiram Burrows, the sick man behind this litany, talking to her with his hands clasped behind his back, with his crooked face and sneering attitude that spoke of no rainbows and sunshine.

But your covered orbs beneath the mask would not dare sneak a glance towards your master, who stood rigid as ever in his position minus the mask he adorned usually. He did not dare look at you either - after all, you had been two souls who knew this was wrong, so wrong, this entire mission was all sorts of wrong and it must, under any circumstance, be stoppe-

The loud thuds of the water lock bringing in a skiff echoed across the walls all of a sudden.

The hairs on your neck rose in response to the sheer suspense - according to the plan, no guests were expected to the Tower in the morning. The damn water-lock was supposed to be sealed towards any outside traffic from the river. That bastard Burrows himself had assured you no one would intervene when you landed on the gazebo after he was done briefing the Empress. Besides a few corrupt guards and maids, no other key staff to royalty was supposed to be on the premises.

Billie’s alarmed stance found yours, no doubt having the same racing thoughts in her mind as you, whereas the stress of the unknown pawn in your mission made you finally manage to look at Daud. His jaw was clenched as he shook his head at you, sensing your gaze on him, his gloved hand held upwards in a closed fist as he signaled his small army to stand by till someone could identify who was coming. You could feel the nerves of the fellow assassins tightening - it was vital everything went according to the plan, word by word, minute by minute on a mission as impossible as this. The Whalers could not afford any last-minute unknowns into the equation, not this time.

“Corvo! You’re back!” you hear the young girl exclaim in the happiest cute little voice you have ever heard as she ran towards the tall figure waiting to take her in his open arms.

No. No, no, no.

He was not supposed to be here till the 20th. The Royal Protector being away was the main guarantee Daud had made sure when he was taking up the mission. This was not supposed to happen.

When this was all done, if you survived, you would give your heart and soul to the Outsider just to stab one of your sharpest blades into that crooked, scrawny throat of Burrows, for omitting this piece of information that changed everything.

If there had been anyone who deserved to die that day, it would have been that sniveling bastard. But no, he just had to hire you to do his dirty work for him and his forsaken conspiracy. You knew one thing - he would not omit the supposed presence of Corvo unless he had something to gain from it.

Just how he planned to use him in the grand scheme of things was still a mystery to you, one that made your blood go cold.

Transversing closer to the edge of the roof with a clearer view of the lower tower entrance, something inside you was on the verge of breaking as you saw the Lord Protector hug little Emily, the child inviting him towards the back gardens for a quick game of hide and seek.

Innocent and pure, the total opposite of the acts you would commit later on. Of the world the little girl would be thrown into after her mother has died - a world of corruption, hatred, fright and cruelty.

Just like the one you had been thrown into without a choice, all those years ago.

Jaw-clenched, you walked with a certain quick determination towards the chimney Lurk was still holed up near, overlooking the strike point yet her mask was focused on you. The way you approached with a certain rigidness and unease now even more evident in your movements and they certainly did not get unnoticed by the assassin. Your fists clenched as you held onto the tiles, crouching. Waiting, as well as you could, with your heart beating out of your chest.

Just how many lives would be ruined that day? At that point, you had lost all hope in counting. How many would be stabbed and how much blood would be spilled all over the crisp white marble? Souls left to perish, so one more rich bastard with less than honorable motives could rise to the throne and throw the entire Empire to dust?

The clock was ticking against your favor. The Lord Protector could already be seen making his way towards the gazebo, the little girl trailing just a couple steps in front. The crooked bastard Burrows lingering to exchange some words with him before he reached the Empress.

All of these thoughts, these truthful yet dangerous ramblings in your mind making your ears ring, shots of adrenaline and some sort of determination started to coax through your veins. Something needed to be done, someone needed to stop this right then and there, before Daud sent the first wave of assassins in. Only the Outsider knew what would happen next if you did not intervene - after all, you personally could confirm no one was a match to Corvo in a duel, if the years hadn’t changed him.

You needed to reach Daud and get him to call this entire thing off. Fast.

Suddenly, you caved into your morality as your hand lifted up, engulfed in darkness, and your body lunged forward quickly - only to be stopped by a forceful wind blasting you back, as you tumbled backwards with a muffled gasp escaping your mouth. The blast muting your fall as the sheer power in your hands ceased. Under the skies of Dunwall, the intimidating mask of Lurk was standing over you, shadows lurking around her gloved hand directed towards your frame.

“This is meant to be. This one, you cannot change, Lieutenant,” she spoke, crouching to your level. The sickening clangs of swords mixed in with screams as your chest heaved with breaths. Daud had sent his first wave in.

“We can only watch.”

So you did.

Each second passing adding another flame to the frustrated fire burning inside you, you got up with a quiet snarl, leaning against the stones with your sights set towards the gazebo.

You could only watch when Daud slapped the Empress before wrapping his hands around her throat.

You could only watch as she fought him helplessly before the assassin put his blade through her weakened body.

You could only watch when Thomas grabbed the poor little Lady, with the Lord Protector disheveled and damaged on the floor. And you could only watch as Billie gave the signal to head back to base.

It killed you.

It killed you to your core, made your bones go stone cold, your heart break into a million pieces into the Void. The droplets of royal blood leaking on the floors from Daud’s blade felt as if it had been your own blood spilled. It hurt as such.

It was the Void’s parting gift to you that your master ordered to travel back to base before you could witness the corrupted bastards hold the helpless Royal Protector accountable as the one person he had sworn to protect died in his arms.

#breaking point #ooooh #hope you guys like this #more to come #val writes #writing #my works #fanfic #dishonored #dishonored 2 #emily kaldwin #corvo attano #daud #whalers #corvo attano x reader #corvo attano / reader #corvo attano x you

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youngster-monster · 4 years

Text

After me comes the flood

christmas gift for my dear friend @baronetcoins. love you bud, and merry christmas ✨

[set in an AU where their Awoken Hunter, Ayin, came in time to save Cayde during Forsaken, but not his Ghost.]

Ayin paces outside the hangar like a cabal warhound waiting for its beastmaster to cry havoc. The City has been long emptied by the late hour. She’s thankful for it. There is no one here but the Traveler to witness her agitation, the way Light bleeds out of her in fiery sparks trailing down her fingers. She hasn’t had such a weak grasp on her Light for years — not since she was a kinderguardian — but tonight she doesn’t care to control it.

She’s not supposed to be here. In fairness no one’s supposed to be anywhere but in bed at this hour, but she in particular was meant to be out of the City two hours ago, bound for Europa on a mission with her team.

Something came up.

Something is yet another group of Guardians in the Crucible encasing their opponents in ice coffins. Something is the Kinderguardian she met earlier, who turned to stasis out of curiosity. Something is the complete silence from the Vanguard while the protectors of the City collude with the Darkness.

If they won’t do anything about this, then it’s her duty to convince them… before she does it herself.

Resolution renewed, she strides into the hangar.

It’s empty as expected, mechanics and engineers gone to catch some shut-eye as ship traffic slows for the night. The only source of movement left is the flicker of an old camping light propped up on Holliday’s workbench. Cayde is bent over it, grumbling over some piece of intel or other. Every so often he’ll shift and obscure the feeble light, casting his long shadow over the floor.

She clears her throat lest she catches a knife in the throat. He gets jumpy without Sundance warning him of approaching people.

Cayde whirls around, lifts a hand to his chest as if to still a beating heart he doesn’t, technically, have. “Oh,” he says, relaxing. “It’s you. Hi!”

“Waiting for someone else?”

“Kind of expecting Ikora to come drag me to bed, actually.” He turns to fully�� face her and folds his arms with a tired sigh. “Lemme tell you, if you’d told me during her Crucible days that she’d be such a mother hen I’d have called you mad.”

Ayin is hardly prone to mothering anyone, let alone Cayde, but even she can’t deny the spark of concern igniting inside her at the sight of him. His eyes are dim with exhaustion, whatever machinery that keeps him alive running on a third of the power it needs. But more than that he looks weary. Havy. There’s something weighing him down that wasn’t there before.

(Its name is grief, the same one that hounds his footsteps since the Prison of Elders, taking the space Sundance used to fill. He’s better than he used to be — better at hiding it in the daylight at least. But here, with only her as a witness, he lets the full brunt of it show plain on his face.)

“You look terrible,” she says, because it’s easier than I’m worried about you.

“Thanks,” he replies, only half sarcastic, because it’s easier than putting into words the anger-grief-bittersweetness that comes with pity or concern (both interchangeable). Like so many things, Ayin only knows to notice it because she’s done it herself, learned it from him. “So, what can I do for you, Crusader?”

The nickname is affectionate, an in-joke. It’s also a reminder, though he never means it that way.

“I have…” She pauses, unsure how to bring it up. “Concerns.”

“Concerns?”

“About Guardians using stasis.”

“Aah, that’s what I thought.”

Cayde chuckles, but his whole demeanor changes as he steels himself for a serious conversation. She’s more familiar than most with the seriousness he hides under his jokey behavior, but it’s always a relief to see him take this so seriously. Even if everyone stopped listening to her, she knows Cayde would always let her say her piece.

“Do you know what I saw in the Crucible today?”

“No?”

“Ice bursting through armor. Tornadoes of hail. Stasis, everywhere. And all Shaxx had to say about it was that it’s a tool. ‘A weapon like any other’. He let it happen, like it’s not the very thing we’ve been fighting against all our lives.” Again she starts to pace, almost against her will. Tension runs through her limbs, fingers curling around the hilt of an imaginary knife. She hates this game of politics, of begging the Vanguard to take action when it would only take a word from them to unleash her on this new enemy. “This can’t go on, Cayde. You — the Vanguard — can’t turn a blind eye this time. The Darkness has already taken Io, Titan, Mercury- and now it’s taking Guardians? It’s not going to stop. Not unless we stop it. And this? This ain’t it.”

Out the corner of her eyes she sees him shift, tilt his head in consideration.

“So, what are you suggesting? That we should ban stasis?”

His sceptical tone makes the spark of righteousness flare. He doesn’t get it— be he will, soon. He has to understand she’s right on this. “Yes, exactly!”

Calmly, almost placating, he replies, “People are gonna try their hands at it whether we allow it or not.”

“But if you forbid it, I can hunt them down for it. Bring them to justice.”

Her voice rings in the heavy silence. For a moment, nothing breaks the silence but her breathing and the soft whirring emitting from Cayde. Then,

“Ayin...”

He sounds nearly pleading, but she can’t allow him to interrupt her. Not yet. She can still convince him, she knows it. He has to see her point. He must.

Breathing deeply, she tries to leash her enthusiasm lest he mistakes it for fanaticism.

Without his support, she can’t reach the Vanguard, and without the Vanguard, there’s nothing she can do. She learned that from the new Dredgens, and the Renegade who runs after them. It takes more than a single man to take such widespread evil down. Aying doesn’t have that much time. She needs resources, the space and power to lock up her targets, keep them off the streets. She needs the system on her side.

“It’s our job to keep the people of the City safe. Our duty. How can civilians trust us to do that when any Guardian could be another Dredgen Yor in disguise? How can they trust us, when nothing is done to keep them safe from ourselves? We can’t bother with compromise with so much on the line-”

“Ayin.”

She stops her pacing, turns around, ready to beg for a moment more of his attention—

His eyes stop her in her tracks.

Why does he look so sad?

Cayde holds her stare for a second. His shoulders are tense, betraying his seemingly-relaxed position. He looks just like when he has to announce the loss of one of his Hunters, or when he has to send a fireteam on a mission they’re unlikely to come back from unscathed, if at all. Like the words are stuck in his throat, tangled in the wires.

Eventually he gives up on words altogether — she can see it in the working of his jaw, the way the light behind his teeth dims as his vocal processor goes idle again.

Slowly (like he doesn’t want to do it. Like he’s afraid he’ll spook her) he offers her his hand, palm up. Under her watchful gaze, he shifts his fingers minutely—

And frost blooms over the leather of his glove.

Ayin’s breath freezes in her lungs.

Silence settles over them like the second before thunder. Both stare at the ice crystal suspended over his hand. Ayin with mounting horror, and Cayde as an excuse to avoid her eyes. Then, a flick of his wrist shatters it. The shards turn to fine glittering dust on their way down, and then to nothing, never touching the ground.

For a moment Ayin is overwhelmed by feelings — shock, betrayal, sadness, fear, burning anger. They tangle together, blades interlocked into a sharp ball of hurt, until all she can feel is an odd sort of numbness. Like she’s been cut open and sedated.

“Why?” She whispers.

His sigh turns into fog, briefly leaving his face as nothing but two burning eyes staring at her through the faint cloud.

“You know why I hate being Vanguard so much?”

Ayin snarls at the non sequitur.

She’s not usually so prone to losing her temper, but the betrayal lit a fire inside her she doesn’t feel like quenching.

“Is this really about hating your job?”

She hates the way her voice cracks at the end, but Cayde, mercifully, doesn’t react in any way to it. He just shakes his head, faceplate shifting minutely in frustration like he’s trying to explain something and can’t find the words that will make her listen.

“I wouldn’t- It’s about doing the damn job.” He rubs his head like he has a headache, pushes his hood back as his hand trails down to the back of his neck, resting there for a moment. “You said it was your duty- you know what’s a Hunter's duty? It’s being out there, charting unknown places, going where no one’s gone before, all that jazz. Not being stuck in the City. Being a Vanguard, it means sucking at being a Hunter, and- I’m good at being a Hunter, right?”

He’s got the stereotypical recklessness in spades, that’s for sure.

Not, that’s unfair. Cayde has a core of steel that won’t let him back down in the face of insurmountable odds. That’s what makes him a good Hunter. Reckless as it may seems, it’s a true quality, one she admires and has always tried to emulate. It only makes her angrier at the powder ice still caught in the folds of his clothes. He should have known better.

Unphased by her lack of response, he continues.

“Turns out that might not even be true, huh? Told them spending that much time in the Tower would make me go soft.” He does that heartbreaking thing, where he tilts his head slightly like he’s expecting Sundance to appear just over his shoulder with something witty to say. “But- it made me think about it. The whole duty thing. I spent all of my time as a Vanguard doing everything I could to go back in the field like I’d do my job better there- and when it went wrong, I had to reflect on like- my mistakes and stuff. And I thought- maybe I approached the issue the wrong way, you know?”

“You’re not answering my question.”

She’s proud to hear her voice stay level despite her frustration. She wants to trust Cayde, trust that he’ll eventually get to the point and explain to her… What? That it all makes sense? That it’s going to be fine? At this point Ayin’s not sure whether she’d rather hear reassurances or apologies.

Actually she might punch him if he apologies. He’s made a terrible choice: the only thing worse than this would be that he’s unsure about it himself. And as little as she’s willing to be convinced— she wants to be. She wants, for once, to be proven wrong, to see that stasis isn’t as evil as she assumed.

Anything that will make Cayde’s use of it more bearable.

“I’m gettin’ to it! What I mean is- Hunters are s’posed to scout ahead. First ones in the field, to gather intel and make sure everyone’s got the info they need to do their job and come back safe. We’re the literal vanguard. And with the Darkness moving into the system- we need that kind of assurance. We need someone to jump into the unknown and tell us how far the bottom is.”

“Somebody always needs to go first,” Ayin says softly, like muscle memory.

Cayde doesn’t bother finishing the saying. She knows it as well as he does. “I can’t do much without a Ghost, but I can do this. I can be there when Guardians need someone to turn to when their new powers go awry. And… yeah, I can be here when one of them needs to be stopped. That’s good enough for me.”

Ayin crushes the hint of pity that rises in her. It wouldn’t go appreciated: Hunters, as a rule, would sooner die than be pitied. And if she lets herself feel pity then she’ll start to think about it.

She’ll think about the fact that her best friend, her family, is running out of time.

It’s already a miracle he survived the Prison of Elders. Most ghostless don’t make it an hour past their Ghost’s death. But she was there, and she couldn’t save Sundance, but she could save him, and she did. When the night is dark and she finds herself regretting not being fast enough, she always turns to that thought for comfort: she got him out alive. He won’t be there forever, but at least she has a few decades left with him before he ends up like Banshee and starts forgetting her face.

(If she told him about that fear, she knows the first words out of Cayde’s mouth would be “I’d never forget you”. But he doesn’t get to choose. She’s long given up on hoping for the best.)

And now— now he looks her in the eyes, and he tells her he made the one choice that’s sure to shorten these years they have left. She’s seen what happened to Eramis. She can’t bear to imagine it. The dark ice crawling over his limbs, choking what’s left of his light.

It breaks her heart.

Not only because she loves him, and she doesn’t want him to be hurt. But because he made the one choice that could drive her away from him.

Taking in the Darkness, supporting the Guardian who made the same terrible decision, accepting help from the very enemy you seek to destroy. This— this isn’t a mystery that needs to be solved. This isn’t terra incognita that needs to be charted. At least not by them. if anyone should do it it’s one of the Awoken Techeuns, or the Warlocks already banished from the City because of their heretical research. Hell, even Eris could do it. Someone who’s already dipped into the dark and is eager to learn more.

Someone who’s already lost.

Not the one person Ayin can’t bear to lose.

She swallows past the lump in her throat. She closes her shaking hands into fists. Her heart beats unevenly with anger and grief. She pushes all those useless signals aside, tries to find her way to the rational mindset that earned her the nickname of Crusader.

Don’t think about the implications. About the pain and the loss. Set it all aside. Just like in battle.

A great calm settles in her.

“How… could you.”

Her voice is nearly as cold as the power she came here to plead against.

“I’m sorry, Ayin, but-”

“Don’t. Apologize,” She grits out through clenched teeth. “You’ve seen what happens to those who use stasis! How could you be so- so stupid?”

His eyes narrow, light dimming ever so slightly. “I’m not an idiot, Ayin. I know what I’m doing.”

There’s an edge to Cayde’s voice this time. A note of warning.

But Ayin is far past listening to the sirens. She is the warning. The receding of the water before a tidal wave; the purple skies before a hurricane.

“Do you? What is this, then, an overly complicated suicide attempt? I didn’t save your ass in the Prison of Elders so you could throw it away-”

“Throwing it away? There’s more to fighting a war than killing the enemy faster than it can kill you. At least I’m helping people.”

The anger simmering in her guts flares, shattering her artificial calm. Her whole body tenses like it’s getting ready to go for the kill.

“Are you saying I’m not?”

He takes a step forward, gestures toward the Hangar — the damage from the Red War that they never got to repairing, the pictures of Guardians swallowed by the encroaching Darkness they pinned to a wall as a memorial. Proofs of past catastrophes.

“Nothing we’ve done so far managed to stop the Darkness. Maybe stasis will help, maybe it won’t, but we have to try.”

“And risk playing right into their hands?”

“If that’s what it takes to survive, yes!”

“We’re supposed to fight the Darkness, not join-”

“World’s changing, kiddo. We do what we have to do to survive-”

“Don’t. Call me. Kid.”

Cayde is reckless, impulsive, and he doesn’t know when to quit. Dogged determination has gotten him out of problems more often than he can count.

But sometimes, it also means he doesn’t think before he talks, and he says things such as,

“Why should I, when you’re just as naive?”

The silence that follows is a living thing. It stretches until it fills every inch of the space and curls around Ayin, swallowing her as well. It’s like she’s trapped inside of her own body, deaf to anything but the hammering of her heart and the roaring of the fire inside her chest. Her mind is stuck in a loop—

(how dare you how dare you how dare you)

(why would you cut me off like that why why why)

(betrayer)

When she comes back to herself there are sparks slowly dying on her fingers, and Cayde’s pinned against the pillar he was leaning against.

They make an odd tableau, the two of them. Her, hand outstretched, still as a marble statue, and Cayde, stopped mid-movement, his own hand reaching for her as if to apologize again, a knife sticking out of the hood of his cape, inches from his neck.

“Ayin, I didn’t mean-”

Then why did you say it?

She doesn’t voice the thought — doesn’t trust herself to stay calm, to miss the next time a knife slips from her fingers. She flexes her fingers, forces herself to relax, slows her breathing.

He lets his hand drop.

When she leaves, she doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t call for her.

#writing #destiny 2 #cayde-6 #ayin seeks

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blueraspberryrodimus · 4 years

Note

Hey, I just I sent a Ko-fi request for Wheeljack that was 15 dollars (iirc), and I just wanted to let you know that you don't have to do 15 dollars worth of words! I gave 15 just in case you needed some word wiggle room! The scenario can be even 500 words and you can keep the rest as tip lol! I hope things get better for you soon!

hewwo anon! i wanted to say thank you for the kofi support!

as a message to everyone here: my ko-fi is reserved as a tip jar and not for requests (since requests are closed) and commissions should be DM’d to me so we can negotiate the scenario and happenings for your piece! commissions are always open so be sure to message me for this directly! be sure to go through the correct avenues for your paid writings! :) there’s no way for me to refund this since everything from ko-fi directly deposits to my bank, so i will fill it for you here. i worry for future “kofi requets” because i do have absences from this blog (although i’m trying to be more active again!) so if i didn’t check in on my kofi or the blog, i would have missed this and you might have been out $15 :( so just be sure that next time (or for anyone) that y’all send me a message before paying as i don’t even take payment until the commissions is finished anyway. i hope all this makes sense? i appreciate the support (especially in these trying times for me) i just want to make sure that both sides benefit from it! if anyone is just leaving a tip for tip’s sake, those are always welcome! ;)

anyway, here’s your fill! hope you enjoy~

request: “May I request a scenario where G1 Wheeljack is stuck to a wall and is trying to confess to his very concerned human crush who’s currently trying to free him?”

You had just returned from you daily doings and decided to take a trip to the Autobot base. You had nothing left to od with your free time so might as well go check up on your friends. And Wheeljack. You were eager to see him, but you couldn’t be over eager. You always tried your best not to be obvious about the way you felt about him. Plus how could he put you before his science? It just did not seem plausible. But still, even if you were just to remain friends, you could live with that.

The base was quiet. Odd. Normally this time of day there was a bustling amount of action about the base. Whether the bots were getting their afternoon briefing or free time racing around the area, there was always something going on. Nothing. It almost worried you. But you decided to go looking for whatever trouble you might find. Afterall, they might just need your help.

If the bots are in trouble, that could mean Wheeljack is also in trouble! you thought, heart beginning to race in your chest. You needed to keep calm. Whatever has happened, you could help. It will be okay. Your footsteps quickened as you beelined it for Wheeljack’s laboratory. If he was going to be anywhere around here, it would be in there. Carefully rounding the corner, you peered into the room. Again nothing. Nothing but the sound of whirring machinery and the slow beeping of the technology inside.

“Hey! Who’s there?” you heard call out from in the room. You gasped, covering your mouth to keep from making anymore noise. “I can hear you, I know someone’s there.” Wheeljack’s voice. You let our a sigh of relief and showed yourself to the room.

“W-wheeljack?” you hesitantly called out.

“Yeah, it’s me! Is that-? Ah! It is you! Hey, I could really use some help over here…”

“Uh…?”

“Oh, don’t mind the mess. I was in the middle of doing something when all of a sudden I’m stuck over here now.”

You eyed the scientist stuck up on the wall. He didn’t seem to be hanging from anything, and he didn’t seem to be struggling either. You folded you arms and quinted up at him.

“How did you even get stuck like this, Wheeljack?” you said, pacing back and forth, fingers drumming on your chin. You contemplated over and over how to get him down, so maybe figuring out how he got up there would show a solution.

“I just don’t know. One minute I’m working on an experiment and the next, poof, I’m up here. Ya know, I’ve actually been up here quite a while before I asked you to come help me. It was almost relaxing at first,” he chuckled. You rolled your eyes. Of course there wasn’t an explanation for this. When it came to Wheeljack, his experiments were always ones of spontaneity. But in the end, they always worked. Well, mostly always.

You surveyed the wall again. Metal, as was everything else on the base. Could it possibly be a magnetic response?

“And it’s not magnets either.” It was like he could read your mind. “Listen, I’ve thought of everything before you came in here. A sticky situation to say the least.”

“Oh boy, okay. This is going to take some major work. We are really going to need to think outside the box on this one,” you muttered to yourself. You looked up to meet his optics and you knew that behind that face shield he would be wearing a sheepish smile. “We will figure this out. Together.”

And it took all day. You learned so much about his current research and experiments. You learned that the Autobots got called to a mission and that the Decepticons were causing yet another commotion. In a weird way it was nice to spend some quality time like this with Wheeljack, despite the current situation. You didn’t understand some of the vocabulary he was using when he tried to coerce you to do different things to help him get unstuck, but he had all the patience in the world to help explain it further. After all, he had no where he needed to be in the near future.

You both got to talking about so many different things that you’ve never shared with each other before. Wheeljack told you about his old home of Cybertron and how the streets were always bustling with life, how the engex at Maccadam’s was always the best in town, where he got his finish polished at. So many different aspects of the life and times on another planet. And you shared with him some things you never thought would be worth talking about, too. You didn’t think anyone would be interested in the domestic life on Earth or where you went to school or the pets you had. You never had someone get so excited to learn your favorite color before, at least not since preschool. All of these things intrigued Wheeljack, and he promised once he was able to get down from this Primus forsaken wall he would indulge in this Earthly life of yours.

“You know…actually, there was kind of something I wanted to talk to you about,” his vocalizer staticked out a bit.

“I’m all ears. What’s on your mind…er, processor?” you asked, looking up at him from the desk.

“Maybe I’m not exactly in the right position to be saying any of this, both literally and physically, but uh…there’s something about you that, well, it just makes my spark swell…” The brightness of his optics were low, like he was trying to look away. He truly had your full attention now. You got up from where you were kneeling and approached him.

“What are you saying, Wheeljack?”

“Ah, nevermind. Just forget it. It was dumb anyway.”

“No, really. It’s okay, just say it.”

“I’m just saying that I guess I kinda like you in a way more than just being friends. You make me really happy when you come around and see me, and I know you and I are very different but, maybe, we could, uh…make it work?”

“Oh! Wheeljack, I-I don’t know what to say, I-“

“No, it’s alright. You don’t need to say anything. I should have just kept it to myself.”

“That’s not it at all. I like you, too. In a way more than just being friends,” you could feel the blush prickling at your cheeks and ears. “I just didn’t want to say anything in case you thought it was weird.”

“Me? Think something is weird? Nonsense! Have you met me?” He laughed and your laughter joined in.

“Well, before we can do anything about that, we still need to figure out how to get you down,” you said, smile wide on your lips.

“Hey, you humans have that thing in movies that fixes everything, don’t you? What was it…true love’s kiss? Maybe we could try that?”

#anon #commission #tf #transformers #reader insert #tf g1 #g1 #g1 wheeljack #wheeljack #maccadam #blue writes #blueraspberryrodimus #hope you enjoyed!

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whiskeyworen · 5 years

Text

Resolutions

"Cyrus? Are you up here?" Moryggan called, climbing the metal steps to the observation dome. She proceeded slowly, not wanting to intrude on anything if he wanted privacy.

It had been a few weeks since the end of Kralkatorrik. The Pact had celebrated their victory, buried their dead, and had begun truly aiding the still-unbalanced Kingdom of Elona. It would probably be many years before a true and fair balance would be ironed out between the various factions there, so it was still a hotbed for conflict. Given their lack of association to the Pact, Cyrus had pulled their ship, Forsaken Aspect, away from the fleet. There was nothing the Pact could do to stop them, other than protest; it's not like they could target the ship with their strictly manual cannons. Not with the Inquest cloaking device active on it. That, and the sheer destructive power the Aspect could return would have sunk damned near any of the first and second generation ships the Pact fielded. That's what happens when the ship you're facing contains illegal, auto-targetting, horrendously powerful weapons and more armor than three ships-of-the-line combined.

As the ship returned to the vicinity of Lion's Arch, each of the team had broken away to different parts of the ship, intent on their own things. Tenna had returned to her labs, buried in the belly of the ship, to study Forged gear, decode even more of Scarlet's files, and make her own advances in biology and technology unhindered by the Council.

Verula had gone down to the gun-decks to monitor the maintenance and upgrading of the ship's various weapons by the semi-autonomous servitors that were a crucial part of a ship the size of the Aspect. Though the servitors were intelligent enough and reliable enough in a pinch, they didn't innovate, which required someone with a true mind and a keenness for machinery to guide them. Both of which the matronly Charr was in spades.

No one knew what became of Vaela Toma, but no one particularly cared; her popping in-and-out of Mist rifts had become so commonplace that it was just assumed that if she disappeared somewhere, she'd come back some day.

So, out of the ship's small living crew, only Moryggan and Cyrus were left out of sorts. Neither one had much to do, but Moryggan had noticed how unsettled Cyrus was after Aurene had self-evolved/grown. Something about that fleeting touch they'd all felt had left him staring off into space.

To a degree, it worried her. As much as she tried to keep a professional distance from him, Moryggan was sylvari, and so was far more attuned to people's feelings than she cared to admit. When he'd disappeared after a meal, she'd gotten such a bad feeling that she simply had to find him and figure out why.

Which had led her here, to the stairs to the observation dome near the top of the ship. It had originally been designed as a kind of lookout post for when sensors were disabled, or as a primary star-finder for direction, but had been repurposed quickly as a kind of private getaway everyone used for some peace and quiet. This far up the ship's superstructure, you couldn't even feel the low hum of its power systems, the throb of the engines, or the hiss of the ventilators. It was... a quiet place.

There was no answer from the platform, so Moryggan stepped over to a monitor on the wall, clicking a button on it. "Aspect, are you sure he's up there?"

The Forsaken Aspect was a unique ship. She had a mind of her own, initially designed by the mad Scarlet, but refined and perfected by Tenna's technical genius and Verula's skill. She had a kind of consciousness of its own, and thankfully, was quite fond of its crew. So it was no surprise when Aspect replied to her question. "Yes, Miss Moryggan. Cyrus entered the dome approximately twenty-five minutes ago."

The golem eye embedded in the console rotated slightly to face her. "He has not left it. Is there anything wrong?"

Moryggan bit her lip. She didn't want to worry Aspect; the ship thought of Cyrus as something between a big brother and a father. Aspect was essentially a very large, very powerful, very innocent child. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

"Alright. Please let me know if you require anything further. I will send a watchwork servitor if you need anything." The golem eye retracted till it was flush with the wall, before going dark as Aspect turned her attentions elsewhere.

The sylvari mesmer turned away from the console and slowly ascended the stairway into the dome. As her head cleared floor-level, she could see him, sitting on the edge of the platform. The way the dome had been built was a kind of flying bridge, with a large platform hanging out in the space under the windows. Cyrus was sitting on the edge, his legs hanging off into the void, not even turning to look at her.

"Cyrus? What's up?" She asked cautiously, stepping closer to him. She didn't step up beside him; he hadn't even acknowledged her yet. But... suddenly she realized he wasn't wearing his usual gear, his armor and all his technical toys. His heavy leather coat, with its coolant systems and things she barely understood was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he seemed to be dressed in actual clothes. Street clothes. He never dressed that way. There might have been three or four times in the last few years that she'd ever seen him in anything other than his combat gear. Something about his determination to be prepared for anything, and his paranoia kept him from relaxing much at all, no matter how he'd acted in public. At least, that was the impression she'd gotten from him. On some level, it'd been reassuring to know there was someone always prepared, who was as suspicious as she was. She could trust that.

The summer hoodie he had on, simple pants and whatnot...it didn't seem like him at all. The only piece of tech he had on was the glider backpack; these days NO one who had one went anywhere without one. And the Dynamics college had come up with an absolutely perfect design; small and unobtrusive.

"....Cyrus?" She asked quietly. "Hmm?... Oh, hey Mory." Cyrus finally shook himself free of his reverie, glancing over his shoulder for a second. "Not much. Just... been thinking." "What about?" The sylvari stepped up behind him, before kneeling down. He'd never called her 'Mory' before, except when heavily drunk. And certainly not quite so pleasantly. "Is everything okay?" "Yeah. Everything is okay." He nodded. He lifted a hand, flexing his fingers slightly. There was still a tingle there he couldn't shake. From that psychic touch. When Aurene 'spoke' to him. "I'm... trying to figure out something. I don't know..." "Is there anything I can do to help?" She asked, scooting closer. She no longer could feel the sense of doom he'd been giving off at dinner, but there was something else. A sadness. "No." He replied. Then he paused, thinking. "At least, I don't know." "You don't know?"He turned slightly to look over his shoulder at her. With his eye, surrounded by the unnatural marking he'd been 'gifted', he carefully watched her face, her expression, taking it in. Taking in the worry in her eyes. The glow of the scar on her own face; it always struck him as coincidental that they both had facial scarring after a fashion, on the same side. Made things a bit more familial, in a sense. "....When was the last time you talked to your Mother, Mory?" He asked softly. At the mention of the Pale Tree, he saw her pupils tighten in anxiety, and her minty glow pulse faster as her heart suddenly accelerated. She took a breath, trying to calm herself, though her scar's bright glow belied the controlled expression on her face. "Not since Lion's Arch fell. I couldn't face her after... after that thing tried to take control of me." She didn't elaborate beyond that. There was pain, and shame hidden under the flat manner of her speech. It was too carefully said, too well enunciated to be entirely truthful. Cyrus knew neither of them believed she could say something like that so simply and not feel anything. He let the silence hang for a moment, before sighing. "I need to... I need to talk to her. But I don't know if I can do it. Or if I'd even be permitted to talk to her." "The Mother does meet with travellers, you know." Moryggan pointed out. "She's not exactly hard to meet." "But she might refuse to speak to me, Mory." His mouth twisted. "I was an Aetherblade, remember. I helped Ceara.... Scarlet. Both of them. She might not forgive me for being responsible for what happened to Ceara. Or what Scarlet did." Moryggan smiled softly, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Cyrus... Do you know the teachings of Ventari? The ones most of my kind try to live by?" "Kind of. I tend to forget some of them though." He shrugged, and they both chuckled. "The second teaching is 'Do not fear difficulty. Hard ground makes stronger roots'. And the Fourth is 'All things have a right to grow. The blossom is brother to the weed'." She smiled weakly. "Between the two, it means that self-determination is key, no matter the outcome, and that we get stronger through difficulty, because we learn. We can forgive." She sat down on the rim beside him, patting him on the forearm. "The Pale Tree will always grieve when one of her children dies, or turns to evil. But she is also capable of the greatest forgiveness. At least, that's what I believe." "Then why haven't you gone home and talked with her?" He asked heavily, his eyes shadowed with sadness. "She would probably forgive you, right?" Moryggan's smile faded slightly, and she looked out of the dome windows, considering. "...Because even though she would forgive me, welcome me back with open arms and branches... On some level, I can't forgive myself." She sighed. "I thought I was a strong person. Physically. Mentally. Perfectly strong and controlled, and damned proud of it. And then..." She grimaced, reaching up to rub her scar. "Then that thing... Mordremoth... just walked into my mind and nearly crushed me. If it wasn't for you, I'd..." Cyrus watched her, seeing that pain again. He reached out to pat the hand she had on his arm. "Then, I think we need to go home, Mory. At least, to your home. I need to talk to your Mother, and... I think you need to have a chat with her yourself." Moryggan nodded slowly, exhaling heavily. "Yeah. It's time to go home. I-I need to tell her what's happened. To me." "Yeah. And I need to tell her things. Important things." Cyrus added. "If I'm lucky, she won't have me thrown in the jail." He pulled both of them to their feet and gestured for the stairs. "Let's go. We'll be in L.A. in a few hours." As they descended the stairs together, the monitor on the wall activated, the eye blinking on. Aspect called out to them. "Miss Moryggan? Cyrus? Do you need anything?" "No, Aspect, thank you. But if you could chart for the usual docks in Lion's Arch? We'll be spending a few days on ground travel from there. Please let the others know as well, when they have the time." "Acknowledged, Cyrus. Making course change for the Lighthouse dock as per your order. Maintain Illusion matrix?" "Yep. Make us look like a merchant airship, and adjust trim and docking ports to compensate. Make sure there's plenty of room around us so no one collides with the illusion." "Aye aye, sir." Aspect replied cheerifully, before signing off. **** It did not take long. Once they were docked in Lion's Arch, the two of them paid transit through the Asura gate to the Grove, and were there by nightfall. They rented a room-pod in the lower levels of the Grove, where the night air was filled with luminescent pollen and the whisper of soft leaves. It was actually quite beautiful, peaceful even. While Moryggan visited old companions for the day, Cyrus had wandered the halls and chambers, chatting with curious Saplings and laughing at their innocence. It was refreshing to say the least. When they got back together in the evening, Moryggan had some surprising news. "I talked to some of the Wardens, and they got word to their leaders; we've...we've got an appointment to see the Pale Tree tonight." She looked quite embarassed, face suffused with glow. In a small voice, she added. "Mother apparently cleared her other meetings just for us." That filled Cyrus's veins with a sudden dose of icewater. There's no way they should have been granted a meeting that fast, or with that kind of response. It wasn't... normal. How many ambassadors did she just piss off, to meet with us? He asked himself, trying to hide the shock on his face. "Well... Uh... I guess we should go meet her as soon as we can then?" He replied, unsure. ****

They stood before the final seed elevator before the Tree's Omphalos chamber, and every instinct in his body told Cyrus to flee. He glanced upward to the Tree's immense branches, all the various levels and platforms. The soft, pink and purple-hued petals on the long, smooth vine that swirled down from the core in the farthest reaches. It shifted softly in the night breeze, the petals seeming to gesture upward, though that had to be an illusion.

She's three miles tall, twenty miles across if you include the roots, houses an entire city in her boughs...and she wants to see us. Cyrus mulled over in his mind with incredulity. Beings like the Pale Tree weren't supposed to care for the meanderings of mere mortals, at least that's what he'd always thought. "I...don't know if this was such a good idea, Mory."

"Last minute misgivings?" She chided him, giving him a shakey smile. "If me being here can get you to go up there, maybe you being here can get me to go up there. What do you think?"

"....Deal." He nodded, and sat uneasily in one chamber of the seed pod. Moryggan took the other half, the leaf/door raised, and a gust of magic gently blew the seed up through the many supporting platforms of the tree to the Omphalos chamber.

Safely in place, the door flipped open again, and the two travellers carefully stepped out onto the lush, soft, green grass platform suspended near the top of the tree. Looking around, Cyrus realized he could see no Wardens around; from what he'd heard from Moryggan and other sylvari, the Pale Tree's avatar was attended by at least a squad at all times. Did she dismiss them? He couldn't see them with his cursed Discernment eye; they weren't hidden under Mesmer magic anywhere nearby.

"Come. Please come here." A soft voice called. It sounded like it was right beside them, but both of them knew it was the Tree herself projecting her voice to guide them to her Avatar. "I am always happy to have visitors, and, I think, the two of you are long overdue?"

There was a playfulness to her tone that made Cyrus unconsciously smile. An immensely powerful, massive entity, and she was making jokes. There was something ... likeable about that. It clearly carried on in her children, since he'd spent the afternoon having good laughs with Saplings and Menders.

"Hello, Pale Tree." Cyrus knelt respectfully. "I'm afraid I don't know if there's a title I should refer to you by, like I would with Queen Jennah or the Imperator."

"...Mother." Moryggan knelt as well, closing her eyes. "I am... home." The Pale Tree's glowing avatar stepped forward gracefully, her bare feet not leaving impressions in the grass as it gently parted of its own accord around her descending step. She laid a hand on each of their shoulders. "Greetings to you both, visitor, and child. Cyrus Sigismund, and Moryggan Deraleth. I have been expecting you for some time."

With but a touch, she guided them back to their feet. "I had hoped, children, that you would have talked to me far sooner than now." She tilted her head, the movement causing a release of glowing pollen from the flower that made up her 'hair'. "I am curious as to why it took so very long?"

They looked between each other, unsure, before Cyrus rubbed his gloved hands together. "...I was unsure if I would be welcomed, Pale Tree. I don't know if you know, but, I was a...friend... of Ceara's."

The Tree's ersatz eyes widened in surprise, but she merely nodded.

"...I was also a friend of Scarlet's." He added more leadenly. It was hard to meet her eyes, but he forced himself to. "I was with her as she started to descend to madness. I...was forced out and away from her when she became too unstable. But I had one final chat with her before the destruction of her machine in Lion's Arch."

The glow suffusing the Omphalos seemed to fade a little, dimming for a mere moment before rising back to its usual glow. The Pale Tree looked at him, pain and sorrow in her eyes, but also compassion. So much compassion that it was so very hard to look her in the face. She reached out to touch his cheek, gently, so he wouldn't look away in shame. "...What of my daughter then, Cyrus? I grieve for her daily, but I take solace in that she has been freed of her madness. If you have any news for me that the others have not brought me..."

Cyrus reached up and held the hand against his face. He knew the Avatar wasn't truly a physical thing, but however she managed it, her hand felt so real. It was like the softest leaf he'd ever felt, but one with a pulse. It was warm, and welcoming. It really felt like a Mother's touch, and it broke his heart. In spite of his control, he felt a tear slip from his eye. "...She was sorry. She had had the best intentions, but... the damage done to her had twisted those intentions. What she did... was not...what she'd meant to do in the first place."

He wiped the tear away. "She had wanted to protect you. Protect all of you, and all of us. But... what he did, even with his sleeping mind..." Cyrus's face collapsed into sorrow. "She wasn't Mordrem. But he'd devastated her mind just by touching it. She'd resolved to kill him at all costs but along the way, she forgot what her goal had been. The damage he'd done had slowly erased her goals. The denials and declines she'd gotten from the other nations ate at her mind. She..."

"I know." The Mother cut him off gently. She held his head in both hands, and lowered her forehead to touch his. "Even though she had cut her ties with me, defied my pleas for caution and stepped beyond the mental shield I put up to keep my children safe... I realize she was trying to fight back." She stroked his hair as more tears flowed from him. "At no point did she ever turn her weapons against the Grove."

"The machine. The Breachmaker." Cyrus grated out. "It was meant to kill the Beast. Not feed it. She knew at the end that she had screwed up badly. She was so terribly, terribly sorry about that, but unable to do anything about it. Not at that point. Not with the Pact at her neck, and not with her madness tearing at her. She could have escaped, but she chose not to. She knew...there had to be some justice. Some peace."

"Cyrus. Thank you." The Pale Tree stepped back, smiling sadly, and gave his cheek one last touch. "I can sense how much you grieve for her. For Ceara and Scarlet both. I can see how much her pain hurt you. And how much of a friend you were to her, no matter what she did. Thank you for that."

"As you say." Cyrus rasped, throat tight with emotion. He wobbled slightly, unstable with such a powerful release of emotion; the pain, the memories, and the sad, wonderful, freeing feeling of confession. He glanced over at Moryggan, and was shocked to see tears streaming down her face as well. "Moryggan..."

"Daughter." The Pale Tree turned her attention to the rose-skinned sylvari. "You share his pain so openly. I remember you as a Sapling, always hiding your emotions, or at least trying to." She smiled. "There were times you wore your heart on your sleeve. In the past, you would never admit to feeling compassion for others, though I always know you did."

She tapped the side of her head, winking playfully. "The Dream tells much, especially of our inner selves. But it seems you have your own story to tell me."

Moryggan blinked, tears still staining her cheeks, before bowing her head in shame. "I'm sorry, Mother. I... I am ashamed. I was weak. If it weren't for Cyrus, and by extension, Scarlet Briar, I'd have been..."

She paused, searching. She was almost shaking, now that she was in front of her mother. The words just wouldn't come.

Then she felt someone touch her arm. Cyrus reached out and was giving her arm a gentle stroke. I was there for him.... He said he'd be there for me. She reminded herself, drawing strength from it.

"Mother... If it wasn't for Cyrus, and the things he'd gotten from Scarlet, I'd have ended up one of the Crazed. One of the Mordrem, probably. " She raised her head, staring with haunted eyes at her mother. "The Dragon... he didn't just reach into my mind. H-he crushed it underfoot. Tried to crush me. But for Cyrus, I-I...." In one fluid movement, the Pale Tree drew upon her, wrapping her arms around her daughter and burying her in the glowing petals of her body. She crooned to her lost daughter, whispering loving words and encouragement, while Moryggan broke down into grateful sobs. She clung to the Pale Tree's avatar tightly, releasing all that pent up pain, misgiving, and shame.

Cyrus stood there, watching silently but wanting to reach out to his teammate. The Pale Tree cuddled her child gently, as a mother should. She glanced at him, making eye contact. The look in her eye said it all, but she verbalized it anyway. "Thank you once again, Cyrus. You bring me sad but welcome news of my long lost daughter, but you also saved one of my daughters from the clutches of the Beast. I have many children, but each one of them is dear to me, and you have returned one to me I had thought I would not see again." She stroked Moryggan's frond hair gently, before laying a soft kiss on her scar. "Welcome home, Moryggan. Know this; you will always be welcome here in the Grove, in the Dream. We are always here for you... I am here for you, if you wish it."

"Thank you.... Mother." Moryggan said shakily, reluctantly drawing back from the Tree's embrace. "I am no longer afraid to come back... no longer ashamed..."

The Tree nodded and turned to Cyrus, raising an eyebrow. "And you, Cyrus?"

He smiled a little and shrugged. "I honestly thought I was going to end up in your jail for being associated with Scarlet. So...walking out of here and still being allowed to visit the Grove is more than I might hope for."

That made the Tree laugh, a pleasant, melodious sound. "Cyrus, you aren't going to end up in my jail. There is no crime you have committed here. If anything, you are to receive a boon if I can come up with one, for what you have done."

He shook his head. "I don't need medals or titles. If you permit us to trade and offer materials and other things, that would be more than enough." Cyrus crossed his arms. "That is, if you'd be willing."

"Tell you what." The Tree smirked a bit, gliding back to a patch of glowing grass and settling down on it. She reached out and patted the ground, a trail of luminescence sliding from her hand to light up two patches in front of her that seemed just the right size for the two of her visitors. "You and your associates can do business here so long as you don't deal in illegal or illicit goods, and you will be titled an honored guest of the Grove and of Myself... if you two will sit here and tell me your adventures."

She smiled, as they came and sat down on the grass, which wove itself into soft cushions at her thought. "I want to hear about everything you've done, why you did it, and everything else. Your friends... your family."

Cyrus chuckled a bit, and glanced over at Moryggan, who covered her mouth to hide her own chuckle. "Well... my story is going to take a long time, my Lady."

"That is quite alright!" The Tree replied primly, gesturing upward with one hand. From some other level, a vine swirled up, items balanced in its curls. With a flourish, it laid out an imported Krytan tea set, complete with hot tea and a service tray of assorted pastries. "I shall provide the confections if you provide the entertainment. And I have plenty of time."

They all had a good laugh at that, and Cyrus poured them all a cup of tea as he tried to explain his home... ---- Author note: I didn’t actually write this for the Writer’s Event for @tyrias-library but it might just fall under a bunch of the prompt guidelines anyway. If it’s not actually entered in it, that’s cool with me because it wasn’t planned that way. LoL. That said, enjoy. I’m still debating how close these two actually are. Or will become. It’s far too easy to write ships, but at the same time, it seems so appropriate. I’m also debating something with the Forsaken Aspect... time will tell of course. ;)

#gw2 fanfiction #tyrias-library #My characters #Cyrus Sigismund #Moryggan Deraleth #The Pale Tree #sylvari #Forgiveness #Home #Travel #confession #resolution #sadness #loss #shame

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totallyrhettro · 5 years

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Ravenvale, Chapter 12

Word Count: 2172 Rating: This chapter: PG-13; overall story: explicit Warnings: Blood and violence, character death Summary: On their way home from another case, Agent Seaborne and Agent Roach find themselves in the strange, fog-covered town of Ravenvale. Notes: Seaborne and Roach AU where, years after the events seen in the YouTube series, they manage to become FBI agents.

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“Roach!” Seaborne shouted, his voice cracking a bit. He wasn’t normally one to succumb to fear; he wasn’t scared of the dark or of being alone, but this place wasn’t normal. Far from normal, it was impossible. There was no way anyone could transform a working library into a run-down, forsaken dump in just one night. Not without a great deal of help and machinery. The scale of such a project in such little time blew Seaborne’s mind. Then there was the void, the impossible cavern that lay beneath this massive building. Staring in that darkness had been like gazing into a pit of utter nothingness.

No. Seaborne refused to let his logic fail him and clung to it tighter than ever. There was a reasonable explanation for everything, he just hadn’t figured it out yet. There wasn’t an endless void; their light just hadn’t been bright enough to see the edges. Transforming a clean library into an absolute mess overnight wasn’t inconceivable, just very difficult. Everything that seemed out of this world had very down-to-Earth explanations, and that gave Seaborne comfort. Roach hadn’t disappeared into thin air; he had just wandered off… for some reason.

Seaborne folded the picture he'd found and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then, with a candle in one hand and a glock in his other, he ventured back into the great hall in search of his misplaced friend. Surely Roach was just around the corner, continuing his eternal search for proof of aliens and waiting for his partner to join him. Slightly comforted, Seaborne fully expected to see Roach immediately, yet the hall, like the records office, was devoid of anyone, Roach or otherwise. The light of his candle didn’t shine nearly as much as he would have liked, showing far less than even half of the long room. Silent as the grave, the library gave no sign of where his partner might be. There was not a whisper, not a footstep, nothing.

“Roach?” he asked into the darkness, much quieter this time as if scared that something other than his friend might be listening. Luckily or not, there was no answer as he crept forward into the room. The candlelight shone a good twenty feet around him before quickly being eaten up by the shadows beyond. Seaborne’s footsteps didn’t echo but felt small and powerless against the silence as he crossed the enormous space, ever watchful for a crack or hole in the wooden floor. Everything looked the same as earlier, as far as he could tell, and moreover he saw no sign that his partner had come through here but he didn’t know where else he could have gone. With most of the shelves knocked over there wasn’t a maze of paths to traverse that would lead to other rooms. It was hard enough just going from the front door to the records office.

“Where did you go?” Seaborne muttered to himself, pausing to peer into the gloom. He couldn’t believe that Roach would have just up and left him all alone in this place, nor could he bring himself to think that someone could have taken him away. He had to be here, somewhere. Hopefully nothing else was lurking in the corners, waiting to jump out and eat him. Normally Seaborne wouldn’t cater to such fears, but right now the fear center of his brain was working overtime to counter his more logical side.

“I swear, if this is a prank...” he grumbled, choosing to become angry rather than let his fear take over. Anger he understood. Anger he could deal with. Being afraid? Afraid was not an option. As he approached the center of the room and the hole he had created and nearly fell to his death through, the floor creaked under his foot and he froze on the spot. Holding his breath he listened for anything that might have heard him, for footsteps approaching or a voice calling out. He let his breath out slowly, inching forward, around the gape in the floor. Another creak but this time he kept going. It was just the wood of an old building, nothing to be worried about.

Something moved in the darkness, just at the corner of his eye and he whipped his head around to see, but there was nothing there. A shadow, a phantom, nothing but his imagination, surely. He continued on, slowly, carefully, giving the chasm a wide berth with his steps. Then, a scraping noise, faint as if from far away, yet it could have been right in his ear. He paused again, looking for the source of the noise but it seemed to come from nowhere and yet somewhere very close by. It got louder; like nails being scraped against wood, it wasn’t constant, Seaborne realized, but punctuated like a slow but steady heartbeat.

Almost as quickly as the sound met his ears, it vanished. Silence once again filled the space and the only sound was Seaborne’s shaky breathing. He suddenly realized that his hands were cold, his shoulders were pulled up tight to shield him from a rapid drop in temperature. He didn’t know what it had gotten so cold in here but now he wished he had a free hand to rub his arms to keep warm. Was that his breath? Was it really that frigid? His teeth started to chatter from the bitter chill. He had to find Roach and get out of here, and soon.

Inching past the hole he thought it couldn't be far now, but just as he started to look around to get his bearings, a new sound met his ears. Was it the wind? He hoped it was. It could have been the wind, though it sounded far more ominous. It sounded like a strained hiss, long and shallow. Seaborne’s heart raced and his breath quickened and even though he begged his feet to continue forward, they wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t move. His entire body tingled with the surge of adrenaline now coursing through his body but he just couldn’t will it to move. Another hiss, this time closer. This time he felt a chilling breeze upon the back of his neck. He turned...

Nothing there. The sight of nothing actually made him feel a million times better. It comforted him that it was only the wind. It hadn’t been a ghost, or some other supernatural being. It was only cold air moving through an old building and making strange noises. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. Nothing unusual or unexplained. Seaborne let out a deep sigh of relief, lowering his arms and chuckling to himself. Just the wind, as he had previously assumed. Everything was going to be fine, that much he now knew. He was anxious for nothing. Taking in a cleansing breath, one that tasted of clean, summer air, he reassured himself one last time before turning back around.

Blazing eyes flashed in front of his face, seven of them, furious and crazed. The creature had the face of a demonic raven, mixed with that of a giant spider; huge mandibles flanked a serrated beak that was open in a deafening screech. Seaborne dropped the candle as he raised his hands to cover his ears from the horrible sound. Beyond the head, a feline body bigger than any lion or tiger Seaborne had ever seen, almost as black as the darkness surrounding it. Each leg ended with a three-clawed talon that looked capable of shredding him to pieces. Behind it, two huge wings that defied physics, being both feathered as a bird yet made of shifting shadow. The entire beast screeched again, rearing back to strike, but this time Seaborne reacted. Raising his gun, he pointed it directly at the beast’s heart and fired, getting off several rounds in just a few seconds.

The bullets seemed to hit their mark, but there was no blood, no wound. As they struck the body of the creature, the whole thing dispersed into shreds of darkness that drifted off into the shadows with one last shriek. Seaborne fired off one last shot just to be sure, but the massive creature was gone, perhaps back to whatever hell it had initially crawled out of. He was still shaking as he stared at the spot the creature was occupied, not sure if he was hallucinating or dreaming. It wasn’t enough to blame a trick of the light anymore. It had been far too real, and far too close for comfort.

“Seaborne!” called a voice. Seaborne looked towards the sound; it was coming from the other side of the room, where the exit from his awful place hopefully still was. He didn’t have his candle anymore; it must have gone out after he dropped it. There was light, however, coming from the source of the voice. It had to be Roach’s lighter.

“I’m here!” Seaborne called back, hope swelling in his chest. Moving faster now, he headed towards the light, hoping to find his dear friend at last and be done with his library for good. Over piles of dusty books and around a bookcase or two finally brought him to that which he sought. It was Roach, lighter in hand, handsome as ever.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he was saying, making a sweeping hand motion to demonstrate ‘all over’. “Where you been, man?” Holstering his gun, Seaborne actually felt a smile cross his face.

“I’ve been looking for you, ya jerk,” he explained. “I turned around and you were gone.” Now, surely, they could leave and continue their investigations elsewhere. Roach just shrugged and smiled.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he promised. “I thought I heard something over here, but it turned out to be nothing.” Seaborne could definitely relate.

“I think this place is messing with our heads,” he agreed, shaking his head. “Did you at least find anything that would make this trip worth it?” Before Roach could answer, their conversation was interrupted by a strange, eerie hiss. Dread came over Seaborne’s face but Roach didn’t hear a thing and looked at his friend with confusion. Behind him, out of his line of sight, a dark figure rose up, huge and terrifying. It was the demonic raven, its eyes glowing bright, its maw opening wide, its claws prepared to strike.

“Look out!” Seaborne managed to shout, backing up as he went for his gun. Still confused, Roach turned on the spot, coming face to face to a mass of black feathers. Slowly he looked up into the face of a demon, his own face turning pale as a sheet. “Run!” Seaborne told him, still fumbling for his weapon. He didn’t understand why he hadn’t found it yet. Glancing down, he pulled aside his jacket to see the holster more clearly. It was empty. ‘But that’s impossible,’ he thought, remembering clearly how he had put his gun away just moments ago.

While he looked around on the floor, confident that it had just fallen somewhere, the beast pounced on his best friend. Roach cried out as vicious talons slashed at his midsection, a savage maw snapped at his face. He fought back with every ounce of his strength, but it was no use; the beast was three times his size. It moved in a flurry of feathers and claws, tearing through his clothing and flesh in kind, wings flapping excitedly behind it, a long forked tail swooping back and forth like a cat.

“Seaborne!” Roach managed to scream. Giving up on finding his gun, Seaborne grabbed up a large chunk of wood and wielded it like a thick bat. He tested the heft of his new found armament before turning around and preparing the swing. There was darkness; Roach’s lighter had been extinguished and it took a few seconds for Seaborne’s eyes to adjust. He no longer heard Roach yelling, or the sounds of an attack or scuffle. He crept forward as he became accustomed to the new light level and saw the creature was gone, vanished, having left Seaborne’s his partner and friend lying on the floor. The man wasn’t moving.

“Roach,” Seaborne uttered, softer than he meant to. His voice seemed caught in his own throat. With a shaking hand he picked up the lighter; it took him a few tries for the lighter’s spark to catch fire. The quivering flame illuminated a ghastly scene. Roach’s body was covered in blood and the torn remnants of his suit jacket and shirt. “No…” Tears streamed down Seaborne’s face as he examined closer, inspecting a sight that he could barely stand to look at. Kneeling beside Roach’s twisted and mangled body, he felt for a pulse that he didn’t expect to find. No heartbeat, no sign of life. Though he didn’t want to admit to himself the proof that was there before him, Seaborne had to accept the facts… in mere seconds, before his very eyes, his best friend had been killed.

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Next Chapter More Fics

#rhett #link #rhink #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #ravenvale #blood warning #blood trigger #getting in the halloween mood here #scary #horror #death #reminder of my happy ending guarantee

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fuckyouclarke · 6 years

Note

I HATE the whole Clarke saved them when she fixed the satellite!!! argument like by the time she got there her options were she dies or all of them die. That’s not exactly a worshipable decision, she had no other choice. Spakekru have said their thanks but ultimately they owe her nothing.

Oooohh, I have so much to say here, lol! I had to wait until I got home and had access to my laptop before replying properly.

You said it!! The amount of bullshit I see from biased Clarke stans is unreal, from them claiming over and over again how CLARKE saved them all and “Spacekru owes her a thank you!” “Spacekru needs to treat Clarke better!” “Spacekru is so ungrateful to Clarke for saving their lives, fuck Spacekru!”, etc. etc… It’s so fucking ridiculous, especially since ALL of them had a hand to play in saving each other, yet Clarke stans only look at how Clarke climbed the satellite tower and saved all of them by getting the Ark door open, the end.

But in reality, A) Yes, Clarke got the power on and the door opened; but they all would have died anyways if they didn’t have the oxygenator. B) Murphy was the one who carried that god-forsaken-who-knows-how-heavy-that-motherfucker-was piece of machinery back with his own two hands to save all of them and then came back to save Monty’s life. C) Monty was the one who was giving the instructions to Bellamy on how to hook up said machinery. D) Raven was the one who literally flew that motherfucking rocket up to SPACE and got them off the ground! She was the one who got the idea of using the satellite tower in the first place! E) All of Spacekru literally shared all their oxygen until they all passed out right before the oxygenator came on once on the Ring. F) Bellamy used every last ounce of air he had in his tank before he ran out just to get that oxygenator going to save them all. G) While believing Clarke had died on the ground, they honored her memory by remembering what she sacrificed in turn and tried to do better even before going back down to the ground. H) Spacekru expressed gratitude to Clarke all throughout season 5…before she betrayed them all. (Murphy: “She died so we could live, Bellamy, this is how we do that.” Raven (to Clarke over the radio): “Thank you for saving our lives.” Echo: “We wouldn’t have made it without her. Not even close.”

So while Spacekru does all of this, are heroes themselves, Clarke stans get on their high horse and try and claim that “Spacekru are so ungrateful to her!! They owe Clarke an apology and a thank you!” I call the biggest bullshit there ever was! You are SO right, Spacekru owe NOTHING to Clarke; they don’t owe her a thank you; they owe her SQUAT. Clarke stans can try and bitch and whine all they want that Spacekru will be rightfully pissed at her next season, and Spacekru shouldn’t be angry after everything Clarke did to them, but it doesn’t change what’s canon in the show:

That Spacekru already expressed how they felt - to her and to each other. And after she betrayed them, tried to kill them, and almost succeeded in killing them, they owe her NOTHING.

#erin answers #anti clarke #anti clarke griffin #anticlarke #ghostinnasa

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dreamfoiled · 6 years

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Wings of the raven carry urgency through the chilled breeze of the Plaguelands, feathers of midnight cutting through the clear sky like an eclipse; it’s shadow bleeding into the lands as an omen for misfortune to fall. The avian is unknown in origin but talons clasp parchment sealed within an envelope, and its path is true--no guidance needed as its senses lead forward, and its hollowed form dives between the treeline in search of the old, bricked home tucked away into the forest.

The Hunter finds himself unaware, hands busied as they dig into the coarse dirt of his makeshift garden, the area beginning to bloom with color as flowers of all breeds have their roots snug and buried. Roses of crimson adorned with thorns are the last to be settled into their new home, still living in the pot they had been purchased in but ever determined to soak up the nutrients this land would provide. While his hands are coated and the hole is dug, there is something that causes Armiin to pause--a sound, that of wings cutting through the sway of branches, but his assumption is that of a pet; of the little black avian he had gifted his beloved only months before. He does not look, but then it cries, screeching for attention as the fence-post is used as momentary rest, and in his startle dark eyes of black and green raise to find that this was not the bird he thought it to be.

“...Um.”

Armiin’s lips part, but before he can even question the beast it had again taken flight only to leave that enclosed note behind. Puzzlement is heavy, but he’s forced to stand; sore joints creaking under the movement as his last pot is forgotten and dirtied fingers scoop up the envelope from where it had been left. The edges are pried open with caution, but even before such his eyes had caught the seal--...dark wax pressed with the emblem of the Forsaken, such a sight that brought anxiety to rise; causing the Hunter’s chest to tighten with knowing. Those digits begin to tremble, but forced is he to pull the letter from its casing, diligently scanning over the inked lettering;

‘Armiin Mossfeather,

You are hereby summoned to continue your duties as a soldier for the Horde, and are expected to present yourself posthaste to Orgrimmar for the next draft to join our forces in overtaking Darkshore from the Alliance.

Details are as presented.’

A date is posted, details on needed supply to bring, and an estimate for the time he will be deployed--but all blurs, and dread begins to fill the sinking sensation in his chest. Oh, how he knew his past stunt in the previous war would come back to pull his World apart, but no choice was given; follow the Horde’s orders, or be marked as a traitor for inability to comply. Jagged teeth clench and chatter, fingers curled into the note with reluctance to release, but with force does he pull himself away from where he stood, back turned to the forest as booted foot carry him to his home of stone.

Already ajar is the door thus he’s quiet upon entering, apprehension lingering overhead as his throat bobs--croaked out with the name of his beloved.

“L-Leandro?”

Armiin calls into the home, and from the seating ahead does blond hair protrude; pale fingers clasped around a tome of leather binding with nothing more than the flames of the fire there to light the words. Blue eyes turn to meet that of muddy green, but the softness they held soon twisted into worry when noting the fear wrought upon the tamer’s features.

“Armiin? What’s wrong?”

The spine of that book is for once untidy, pages placed downwards against the coffee table as the San’layn moves to rise and approach the taller, yet, Armiin does not speak, and those trembling hands only hold forward the letter of ink they clasped so tightly.

Silence in the home is thick as words are read, and Leandro’s features begin to meld with anger and sorrow, eyes of illuminating blue flickered to stare up into the shadowed features of his husband.

“You’re not going, right? Right?”

“Lean, I--I have to--”

“No! No, you don’t have to do anything! Armiin, you’re sick, they can’t--you can’t--”

The stinging of tears wells into each pair of eyes, the newly weds both drowned in dismay; at a loss of what possibilities they had. Leandro’s lips quiver, his breathing hitches, and his smaller body is pressed into the chest of the Hunter when drawn forward. Arms coil around the Darkfallen’s body, the fingers of his right buried into that head of wheat-like hair, and already can he feel the damp tears beginning to stain his collar.

“It--it’s okay. It’s ok-okay. I’m going to--to come back, y-you know that, right? I--I wouldn’t l-leave you. I’ll come back. I pr-promise.”

---

Adorned in leathers of red and the cries of battle fill his ears, the clash of weaponry and the howls of pain as warriors of each side fall if only to litter the sands of the shore in bodies and blood. Fear had stricken, but instinct carries, arrows nocked into their bow of metal and oak to soar and seek their own enemies to displace. His aim is unsteady--his will to fight broken, and he does all that he can to leave his opponents breathing.

He didn’t belong; he had no qualms with the Kaldorei, nor even the Worgen or the Alliance as a whole, but forced was he to join in their fight, that the Horde’s leader culled as many bodies as possible to overtake land that was not theirs. It was wrong--it was SICK, but even then, he did not want to experience the dire consequence of betraying his people, of being cast out for denying their need of bodies.

Armiin quakes, his breathing wracked as he follows the flow of battle; the ache in his chest ever growing, and the nearby treeline is used as cover to take a moment to breathe. His back slumps against the trunk of a withered tree, head dipped back to stare at the darkened sky lingering with the touch of emerald as blight carries to taint the war-torn shores. Breath is visible in chilled puffs, diminishing slow into the air around; his lungs struggling to fill against the cold. He waits, and waits, and waits--the time is ticking, but his fright is rising and unable is he to move, to return to the battle surrounding.

“D-dammit...”

He exhales, but in the same breath a pain begins to bloom; a sudden shock that trails from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers as a damp crimson begins soaking through the bulk of his leather harness. Eyes wide and head snapped, and the feather of an arrow is caught in his sight, protruding from his shoulder to dismantle him where he stood. What--?

Then, another, but this time he moves, tumbling out of the way as a barrage is brought down upon him; only narrowly avoid the bulk of the attack as arrowheads lodge into the tree he previously sought shelter. Armiin bites back a cry when fingers grip against the shaft of the weaponry, yanking free the arrow buried into his shoulder, using the same piece to nock into his bow and shoot blindly off into the darkness. It makes no contact--clattering against the forest floor, but out from the depth eyes of silver shimmer as the night elven makes themselves known. One much like himself--a Hunter of sorts, wielding that of bow and arrow, and at their side, a saber; a companion to sniff out the enemies hidden in the trees.

The Sin’dorei freezes, clumsily lifting himself to a proper stand, and as his hand shifts back to draw from his quiver, the Kaldorei does the same. It’s a test of wills--of who will and wont strike first, and its a near flash of an eye before a bowstring is drawn back and biting through the air.

A gasp, stiffened shoulders, and their eyes wilt downwards as the arrow sinks into their chest between the loops of chain-mail, and the one placed upon their bow is dropped uselessly beside their feet. It’s silent--nothing but the pounding of a pulse in their ears, and those eyes of shimmered green begin to dim as the night around pitches into black.

Armiin’s knees find no strength to hold, his body teetering down with a thump into the dirt, hands desperately grappling against his chest as if that alone could remove the arrow’s pierce. Air catches in his throat, leaving him to wheeze and struggle, and the footsteps of his enemy are waning--retreating, seeking out the next of his kin to triumph over.

“Wai...Wait--...”

Left to plead to a deaf God the Sin’dorei’s sight had vanished as eyes roll upwards, the pain bloomed within his chest fading just as his mind does; just as the darkness coils around his heart and squeezes the very last meek beat from the failing muscle.

---

“--WAIT!”

A cry ripples through the once lamenting silence, body jolted from the dirt beneath in a flurry that leaves the Hunter’s head spinning; his senses but a blur as all around becomes clear.

Where--...where was he? What was happening? The land around begins to piece itself together; the familiar dark shadows of the shore coming clear, but the mess of machinery that spewed green sludge tainted the grounds, and the array of bodies that surrounded him were not unmoving--and they were not unlike his own.

“Wh-what...”

He croaks out, and yet, empty are his lungs and empty would they stay--and memory begins to strike as hands scour to his chest, to find the piercing through his armor and the hole still dug into his flesh. Numb; no stinging of pain, and no spout of blood, but a wound none-the-less that one should not have awoken from. His vision scours, and those beside him begin to stand, their eyes like fire as they stare upon approaching footsteps, and Armiin’s head turns slow to meet them, to stare up at the pale figure adorned in black with his head held high and confidence exuding.

“Rise, Dark Rangers, and serve your Queen.”

#My writing #Toon: Armiin B #This is way too long no one will want to read this lol #so tldr: Armiin is a Dark Ranger now

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crystal-siren · 6 years

Text

Other Worlds (Obi-Wan x Reader) Pt.4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

@dovies666

You’re important to me. I think if there’s anything that will last forever, it’s that. Whether we separate, stay in touch or rarely speak again, you will always be that little someone I really do care for, that I would sacrifice everything for to protect and keep safe. ~ Beau Taplin // Feality

As he followed the Prime Minister’s assistant down many passageways, Obi-Wan began to wonder if this ‘host’ for the clones, had anything to do with the attacks on the Senator and Y/N’s disappearance. His thoughts were interrupted when they suddenly stopped in front of a rather non-descript door.

Waving his hand seems to initiate a doorbell, of sorts. They did not have to wait long until the door slid open and a boy greeted them silently. Obi-Wan noticed that he was identical to the boys back in the classroom he had observed earlier.

“Boba,” the alien spoke, thus introducing the boy. “Is your father here?”

Silences answers them for a short while before the boy nods. “Yep.”

“May we see him?” The Kaminoan asked.

The boy, Boba, nodded again before answering, “sure.” Stepping to the side, he allows both Obi-Wan and his guide to enter the apartment beyond. As they enter, Boba announces their arrival to his father, “dad! Taun We’s here.”

His son’s words draw the bounty hunter out of his bedroom. If he was surprised by the company, he did not show it. His expression remained impassive, even when Taun We introduced Obi-Wan and explained his reason for being there.

“Your clones are very impressive. You must be very proud.” There was truth in what he said and Obi-Wan hoped he sounded convincing enough.

“I’m just a simple man trying to make my way in the universe, Master Jedi.” The complement was brushed to the side as Jango eyed his visitor.

Obi-Wan smiled slightly, not the least bit convinced. “Aren’t we all.” His gaze momentarily wandered over the apartment when something caught his eye. An open door displayed segments of body armour, similar to the one Obi-Wan had seen Zam Wesell’s killer wear. While this seemed proof enough that this man was involved, another item snagged his attention. The cylindrical shape of an all too familiar lightsaber rested against the armour. Y/N. There was no doubt in his mind that that weapon was her’s. What was it doing here?

Jango, however had noticed this silent observation and moved to stand in front of the door, blocking Obi-Wan’s view.

“Ever make you way as far into the interior as Coruscant?” He was curious to see how the man would respond.

Jango answered without hesitation. “Once or twice.”

“Recently?”

Jango narrowed his eyes at the Jedi, “possibly.”

Obi-Wan then decided to take a slightly different route. “Then you must know Master Sifo-Dyas.”

Briefly speaking to his son in a different language, Jango turned his attention back to the Jedi. “Master who?”

“Sifo-Dyas,” Obi-Wan supplied, “isn’t he the one that hired you for this job?”

Jango shook his head. “Never heard of him. I was recruited by a man called Tyranus on one of the moons of Bogden.”

Curious, Obi-Wan thought to himself. Out-loud he said, “No? I thought...”

Taun We then spoke up for the first time since the introductions. “Sifo-Dyas told us to expect him. And he showed up just when your Jedi Master said he would. We have kept the Jedi’s involvement secret until your arrival, just as your Master requested.”

Obi-Wan nodded, deep in thought.

“Do you like your army?” Jango asked, breaking up his thoughts.

Obi-Wan looked him straight in the eye. “It seems to me it’s your army, being that they are all clones like you.”

The man seemed pleased, “they’ll do their job well. I guarantee that.”

No doubt. Obi-Wan did not break eye contact as he spoke, “I look forward to seeing them in action.” Bowing slightly, he made his farewell, “thank you for your time Jango.”

“Always a pleasure to meet a Jedi.” Jango’s words gave Obi-Wan an unpleasant feeling. Was he talking about Y/N as well? Did he know where she was? Was he the one that had taken her?

Upon exiting the apartment, Obi-Wan knew that the Council had to be told everything.

~ ~ ~

Nightmarish visions of his mother had led him here. To Tatooine. Breathing in the all too familiar dry hot air, Anakin led Padme across the dusty marketplace of Mos Espa.

He approached a well known shop with an all too familiar blue skinned alien sitting out the front.

“Excuse me?” Anakin spoke in Huttese, the same language as what the alien had previously been speaking.

Looking up from his work, the creature eyed Anakin suspiciously. “What? I don’t know you,” he continued to speak in the same language as before, oblivious as to who stood before him. “What can I do for you?” His eyes then widened as he took note of Anakin’s attire, “You look like a Jedi. Whatever it is...I didn’t do it.” In his panic, he dropped the screwdriver he was holding and swore quite colourfully.

“Here,” Anakin reached for a piece of machinery, obviously in need of fixing. “Let me help you with that.” His actions did not go unnoticed by the alien in front of them, who blinked at Anakin in surprise.

“I’m looking for Shmi Skywalker,” Anakin continued speaking Huttese as he proceeded to fix what he was holding.

His words cause the creature to narrow his eyes at him until realisation dawned. “Annie? Little Annie ?” His suspicions were confirmed when the machinery in Anakin’s hands sprung to life. “You are Annie! It is you.”

Anakin seemed unaffected by the small alien’s surprise and attempt to make conversation. His patience was running dangerously low, “my mother...?” He interrupted.

“Oh yeah, Shmi..”the blue alien scratched the back of his neck and paused a little before answering. “She’s not mine no more...I sold her.”

Anakin didn’t know how to process this information. Blinking he met the creature’s gaze, “sold her?” His voice shook ever-so-slightly.

“Years ago. Sorry Annie, but you know, business is business,” he tried to brush it off but Anakin had no intention of letting him. “Sold her to a moisture farmer named Lars,” the alien said by way of explanation. “At least I think it was Lars, he said thoughtfully before perking up. “Believe it or not, I heard he freed her and married her!”

“Do you know where they are?” The look in Anakin’s eyes and the set of his jaw seemed to get the message across.

“Long way from here,” his former owner murmured, “someplace over on the other side of Mos Eisely, I think...”

Anakin’s expression didn’t change, “I’d like to know.”

Quickly taking the hint, the blue alien led Anakin and Padme inside. “Absolutely, let’s go and have a look at my records.”

~ ~ ~

Now was one of those times that Y/N really wished she had her comlink. Not that it would do her much good with bound hands.

Surely someone would have noticed her absence by now. Y/N prayed and hoped that someone had taken the hint and noticed that while she may have been gone, her precious ship was still there.

This man, the one that held her on this Force-forsaken planet, still had the audacity not to introduce himself. Y/N hated being in the dark. It was as though he expected her to know who he was.

The way he addressed her when he had found her by the foundries, was the way one might speak to a youngling.

Looking down at her hands, Y/N groaned as her eyes landed on a chain that ran from the wall to the cuffs around her bruised wrists. She yanked on them experimentaly and screamed in frustration when nothing happened. “I’m not an animal.” She shouted to anyone that might be listening. No matter how hard or often she pulled, the chain would not dislodge from the wall.

“Then I suggest you stop acting like one.”

Y/N ground her teeth in frustration at the voice. Turning to face him, she sent him a withering look and curled her lips. “How. Dare. You.” Lurching towards him, she was brought to a halt by the chain. “Let me go. Right now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, “you mean you don’t want to.”

The man sighed as though he was dealing with a stubborn child. “The Council has received your distress signal. I imagine a rescue party is on its way as we speak.”

This brought her up short. “But I didn’t send one,” her brow furrowed in confusion. Then it hit her. “No.” Her voice became a strangled whisper. Looking up, she looked her visitor in the eye. “Who is coming? Who did they send?” Her already tormented mind could only think of one name and she prayed that it wouldn’t be him.

“Someone who knows you better than, perhaps you know yourself.”

Y/N shook her head, struggling to keep her emotions in check. “They wouldn’t.”

“Master Kenobi is on his way as we speak.”

That name shattered any resolve she may have had left. She tore at the chains harder than before. “You’re lying,” she hissed. Her heart hammered in her chest at the prospect. “No. Please. Anyone but him.”

The man only smiled coldly. His suspicion was confirmed. For years now, he had kept an eye on her, watching her. In all that time, he found that she only had one weakness and now he intended to exploit that.

As he turned to leave, she tried once again to reach him. The sound of the chain snapping taut made his smile grow. Perhaps his Master was right and emotional torture was worse than physical.

Fighting to keep the impending tears at bay, Y/N watched him leave and the moment the door closed, she let go of the control she had been clinging to. Her scream of denial echoed off her cell’s stone walls. This really couldn’t be happening. It had to be a nightmare, it had to be. Collapsing against the wall, Y/N closed her eyes and her tortured mind went to the only place that would grant it some peace. Oh Obi-Wan, she thought sadly.

~ ~ ~

The moment that he left the building, Obi-Wan was soaked to the bone. Making his way over to where his starfighter was waiting. With every step, he looked to see if anyone was watching. Sensing and seeing no one, he promptly turned back the way he had come. Relying heavily on his memory, Obi-Wan traced his steps back to Jango’s apartment. The moment he entered, he was met with the tell-tale signs of a hurried departure. The bedroom door was thrown open and the body armour was gone. Obi-Wan immediately began to look for her lightsaber, he could not think of anyone other than her wielding it.

Obi-Wan, the sound of his name brought him up short. That was her voice and she sounded so sad. How he had longed to hear her voice since her disappearance, if only to make sure she was safe.

His search for her weapon proved to be fruitless and as he was about to turn and leave the apartment, something small and metal caught his eye. Picking it up, he noticed that this one was her’s as well. Tightening his grip on it, he noticed a small screen off to the side and watched with widened eyes as he watched Jango and his son prep their ship for take-off.

Confident that he had something to do with Y/N’s absence and the attempts on Padme’s life, Obi-Wan headed to the nearest exit and drew his lightsaber.

He lost his element of surprise when Boba alerted Jango to his presence. Thus began the duel between the Bounty Hunter and the Jedi. Managing to deflect Jango’s numeours blaster shots, Obi-Wan resorted to physical combat skills when his lightsaber flew from his hand and skidded across the wet landing platform.

The physical fight that ensued between the two eventually sent both tumbling over the edge. As a desperate last resort, Jango fired a cable into one of the numerous towers, thus causing both to dangle dangerously close to the edge.

Managing to grip onto a nearby railing, Jango severed the cord, sending Obi-Wan down towards the raging waters beneath. Not waiting long enough to find out whether or not Obi-Wan had survived the fall, the bounty hunter climbed into his ship and prepared to leave.

The Jedi had indeed survived. Landing on a platform just above the waves, Obi-Wan ran as fast as he could towards the departing ship. Seeing the loading ramp close and the thrusters ignite, he threw a small homing device onto the ship’s hull.

Hold on Y/N, he thought to himself, I’ll find you soon.

To be continued...

Part 5

#star wars #attack of the clones #prequels #reader insert #obi-wan X reader #obi wan imagine #Obi-Wan Kenobi #Anakin Skywalker #padme amidala #battle of geonosis #clones #darthsidious #beau taplin

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straane · 7 years

Text

Motherworld (Ch.4/?)

Title: Motherworld

Author: strane-stelle

Fandom: Final Fantasy X

Central characters: Tidus

Rating: 12+

Chapters: 4/? Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Word count: 2172

Summary: “The fayth said it’s pointless to keep dreaming. The dream will disappear, he said. What did he mean?” After a long journey, Tidus finally gets to go home.

Warnings: Ton of OCs; drug references; mild implicit violence and some explicit, also mild

Other comments: credit goes to @shuyiin for the idea.(or virtually the star player himself @leviathkand)

Chapter 4 – Grateful

"Spira? Spira, as in...?"

Spira, as in the most miraculous place Tidus had ever known; and the most wretched. Spira, as in the tranquil waves washing over the smooth, hot sand; the long-fallen towers gazing wearily over the shore. Spira, as in men turning their heads away from the dance and picking up their hammers; children crying over the remains of their homes. Spira, as in pyreflies gathering over the rivers at nightfall.

Spira, as in a single searing tear rippling on the surface before dissolving into the cold, thick water. Spira, as in Yuna.

Spira, as in the truth; the harrowing truth.

"Spira, as in..." Tidus stuttered. Edge was still holding him by the collar, and a layer of his skin as well; and nobody could quite bring themselves to defend him any more than he could bring himself. Perhaps nobody wanted to. The undercurrents were still swirling wildly from the confrontation; and suddenly felt chilly to the bone, even against Tidus's water-resistant uniform.

"Tidus," Teri ventured to ask, "did you have something to do with... what happened?"

Tidus had no idea how to answer. Did he? Probably.

"...Guys, I don't know what happened, but I--"

Before he could finish, everyone suddenly turned their heads as the waters shifted directions again; in the wake of a swimmer making towards the team with strong, seasoned pulls and pushes. Tidus had barely recognized the distorted underwater image of his agent, before Leo had already separated him from his assailant with a violent smack; followed with another one for good measure; grabbed Tidus by the arm, and dragged him along towards the gate.

"H-hey, Leo, wait!"

"You don't have the authority!" Edge screeched after them, but only one of them was wearing the required machinery to hear him. Leo, in the midst of all his evident perturbation, even made a mockingly confused gesture upon hearing from Tidus's earphones what must have amounted to distant mutter.

Nobody gave chase; perhaps nobody wanted to.

A consistent stream of profanities washed over Tidus as he was being towed through the corridors by one rather distressed sports agent. Still unsure as to the benevolent intentions behind the action, Tidus tried to wriggle his arm free, but to no avail – Leo had done some serious swimming in his day. And what was the point of Bern, again?

"Leo, please -- I can explain -- or at least, I think I can --"

"Shut up. Just... shut up."

At long last, Leo stopped when they reached the office segment of the building; at what looked like the most unexciting door in the hallway. He wrestled with some keys for a moment, then got tired, cursed, and kicked the door open; to Tidus's mild amazement. He gestured towards the inside, suddenly in a very devil-may-care fashion, letting go of his protégé, finally; and granting him the choice whether or not to follow him. Besides agitation and fresh indifference, there was something else about his manner – something vulnerable; almost sad. Tidus nodded at his agent knowingly before entering – even though at this point, he doubted whether he truly knew anything at all.

Miraculously, the door was still unbroken enough to close. The air in the room was extremely stuffy, and the furniture was composed of nothing besides a shabby desk, two bookshelves (oddly enough stacked with relevant-looking titles), a moth-eaten carpet with the tacky retro Abes logo, a flickering holographic poster of Jecht, and random pieces of blitz gear and field equipment scattered around. Tidus's two guesses were either a forsaken storeroom or Bern's very current office.

“We don't have much time," Leo declared, circling the room; back to neurotic and vaguely aggressive. "Hirans'll be here any minute now."

"Wh-- wait a minute-- he's coming?" Tidus spluttered, sidetracking into indignantly wondering why no one ever told him anything. The last he'd seen of the rich buffoon, he'd showed up at a pre-Jecht Memorial Cup charity match, to get Tidus to sign a contract allowing him to sell either action figures or blitzball cards – his memory failed him here, he'd stopped collecting both when the fifth edition of the Jecht Superior series had hit the stores. He'd grudgingly signed, but Nella had not let their 'coach' off the hook so easily – she had pestered him for some game pointers and diet advice, and even opened up about some very imaginary women's troubles. Just thinking about it, Tidus still wanted to howl with laughter – and right now, cry. Cry like he finally had a good enough reason – for a very gloomy thought was looming larger and larger in the back of his mind.

"Yeah, yeah!" Leo barked in reply. "To discuss your future with the team, the entire board are on their way! It was all going fine and dandy with the evaluation until... well, you know." Tidus had never seen Leo so discomposed. It almost looked as though he was bursting out of himself, eyes first. "That happened."

"Listen," Tidus desperately began an explanation he had no idea how to accomplish, "I don't know what's going on, but--"

"I think you do, kid!" Leo fumed, now absolutely livid. Tidus's eyes grew wide at the extreme reaction, but even as he took a step back, he could tell – against his better judgement – that the agent meant no harm. And that – somehow – he was supposed to be here, at this very moment, having this very conversation with him. Even if Leo himself seemed to disagree, "On a side-note, where's your goddamn self-preservation instinct? That blasted press conference, not even trying to stand up for yourself just now... never mind getting kicked off the team, they would've--"

Tidus couldn't quite get the point of changing the subject and cut him short, "Leo, I know you don't wanna hear this, but I think those fiends are connected to Spira."

Tidus was going to try to give another shot at the ‘Spira, as in’ game, until he remembered that he had, in fact, told Leo everything – almost everything – and it was a miracle he had listened. And never in a million years could he have predicted what the man – who had grown oddly calm at his response – would say next.

"You think... we're all connected to Spira, don't you?"

Tidus froze completely. It was a borderline surreal sight – the way Leo looked as he uttered those words; confident in his assumption, yet confused and scared of his wits. And the words struck him like lightning from a clear sky – unexpected; even absurd, but undeniably powerful. "You said,” Leo impatiently continued, “Spira has its own Zanarkand, one that's been long destroyed. Well... what does that mean for us? Are we... are we long destroyed, too?"

Tidus could hardly believe what he was hearing, and was sorely out of answers. It was then that the notion; the one skulking in the back of his mind; finally registered: a truly horrifying scenario. He finally did have a good enough reason.

"Leo," Tidus began, a sweeping finger instinctively reaching towards his cheek, although his eyes were only dampening. "What if," he was almost shouting as the first droplet fell, "what if she went to the Farplane, Leo?!"

For some reason, Leo did not seem to require further elaboration.

"They told me... we were all just dreams. The fayth said... it's pointless to keep dreaming. The dream will disappear, they said. But the thing is..." No amount of wiping could help him at this point. "It was supposed to be me! I was supposed to disappear! I was going to go to the Farplane, I should... I should be nothing but a bundle of pyreflies by now!"

Leo was silent.

"And of course, I knew," Tidus went on, choking at every breath, "that you... my, my team... everyone here... that all of you guys-- the rest of the city-- that it would all fade as well, I knew! They told me my father... my mother, everyone; that we were all just dreams. That we would all disappear. Should I have... should I have been more sorry, should I have pitied you all more? Maybe... maybe I was too busy pitying myself, and this is how they punish me. By taking-- instead of--"

Drying his face, hands and chest on the top of his uniform, Tidus momentarily pulled himself together. "But-- why-- how-- since when have you believed me about Spira, anyway? What if... what if that was all smoke and mirrors just now, what if I'm... y'know... using?"

"You're not," Leo shook his head, "if you were, I'd know."

"What do you mean, you'd--"

"'Cause I was!" Leo snapped back, suddenly shouting again. "And old Niel took the blame! Said he was gonna retire anyway, blah blah, I was young and I had so much promise, that dense old fart! He almost killed himself with that stunt, 'cause it 'had to look real'! I didn't even make it to the game where he 'got caught', I was so... blitzed! And kid, I can tell you're just going through the motions, but you're-- believe me, if you were pulling what I was, I'd know!"

Tidus stared at him, wide-mouthed. But it added up. Even if it forever changed his perception of Leo; the former pro-blitzer who'd abruptly quit a steady career, citing a ‘desire to pursue other interests’.

"I think Bern believes you too, you know," Leo continued. "He followed you to your house the other day, after you tried to ditch him. And he saw... it, too. Of course, he thought it was just a--- but he told me, and I thought it was just a--" Leo made a long pause, and Tidus studied him; this new bizarre version of a person he thought he'd known annoyingly well. Leo held up his both hands in concentration as he stared into nothingness and spoke, "...Sometimes, I can feel it. It's like gravity. Like I'm... like we're being pulled. Not pulled down... but up. Pulled up... into existence."

Tidus had always felt it. He could still feel it.

"And I feel," Leo added, with a sudden sense of finality, "grateful."

He raised his eyes and they exchanged somber looks. And that's when, with a strident echo; the door hit the wall once more and they both jumped.

"See? I told you."

Apparently, someone had given chase; and had some impressive tracking skills, too. It was, of course, Edge; and Arret, by the looks of it – the self-righteous senior player had always had the somewhat impressionable goalkeeper under his thumb. The three other pursuers; Frion, Riona, and Leno; were standing in the back, still seemingly making up their minds about whom they were pursuing (but certainly doing their share in blocking the exit). Teri wasn't with the group.

"Where's... where's Teri?" Tidus demanded as he observed the fact, fearing the worst for a second.

"Seems to think Nella died of natural causes," Edge replied nonchalantly, with the air of a fearless justice-campaigning hero, "and who cares?"

"Died?" Tidus echoed, fearing a new kind of worst. But judging by Edge's dismissive reaction, he was just being metaphorical – or speculative. Leo tried to extend a protective arm in front of Tidus as he stepped forward from the back, but Tidus wouldn't let him. For the first time since his return, he felt far better-equipped to handle a situation than one of his babysitters.

"We just want to know what happened to Nella," Edge pleaded with him with faux civility. Tidus surveyed him for a moment. Something told him that asking whether he felt a "pull" or introducing the concept of the Farplane were not good negotiation strategies.

Suddenly something jumped out to him. It was the blitzball that Edge was carrying on one arm and hiding partially behind his back. Tidus had never seen anything like it – in this life. But he had in another. The ball had spikes on it.

"Edge... where did you get that blitzball?"

"Oh, this?" He spun the lethal instrument on his finger. "Found it in the changing room."

Tidus narrowed his eyes in disbelief. First fiends – and now objects from the other side?

“Relax," Edge scoffed. "I'll just be holding onto this until the police get here. Oh, and I sent Hirans away, hope you don't mind."

Tidus was starting to think perhaps Hirans was no longer a corporeal part of this world, either; what with his track record of showing up. He was also starting to get tired of this conversation. Perceiving something in his peripheral vision, Tidus quickly peered to his side and made an even quicker decision: it was time to go. He gave a slight shrug as he shot Edge an apologetic glance.

Arret seemed to notice he was up to something, and opened his mouth, but too late. With one well-timed acrobatic motion, Tidus brought his hands to the floor, kicked his legs over his body and flung himself sideways across the room and right past Leo's ineffectual safeguarding attempts; sticking a perfect landing on the desired spot, before diving headfirst for two retired pieces of crossbar on the floor, and tossing one into Leo's very reactive arms.

"A gift from me! I hope you know how to use it!"

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