#Project C4

[thatguywiththetumb1er]

For anyone who isn't following the power struggle to be the heir of Disco Elysium...

We currently have three announced games (Project C4 [title pending], Hopetown, and XXX NIGHTSHIFT) that DEFINITELY aren't just Disco Elysium again with the serial numbers filed off and female protagonists (can't believe Disco Elysium is woke now, smh).

Speaking of protagonists, Darkmath Games just released a four page writeup on the protagonist of XXX NIGHTSHIFT and there's a ~100 word paragraph dedicated entirely to how hot she (and, by extension, her mother?) is underneath a header adorning every page featuring her in what appears to be underwear. (So it's not woke then? Is that how that works?)

Like they lampshade it on the fourth page but even still it's a ChoiceTM. So in other words game dev is going GREAT. Anyone ready to pay $60 for it? Or splurge for the $90 DELUXE edition?

[headless-faln-rider]

Two of the Disco Elysium successors, ZA/UM and Longdue Games, have released trailers/previews for their new games

PROJECT [C4] - ZA/UM

Hopetown - Longdue Games

[gebo4482]

PROJECT [C4] - Teaser Trailer

Website

[astragatwo]

Limbus cat doodle dump I've accumulated over the last few weeks 🐈

[c4tto626]

also underrated dialogue btw. checking on him 👀

[malakaie]

oh my

[cherrych4]

i don't understand project pan because the fundamental idea is great for people with shopping addictions (not buying a new blush until theirs is fully used for example) but every time i see a post about it they're just trying to use things up as fast as possible 😭 girl WHAT

[latest-gaming-news]

BREAKING NEWS: Here's a teaser trailer from ZA/UM, the studio behind Disco Elysium (though many of the developers at the studio have since left). The title is simply called 'Project [C4]!'

[goatgoesmbe]

Bluecollar!reader >O<

TF141 x reader

You're a construction supervisor, in charge of overseeing the building of a new barracks at the Taskforce 141 base.

John Price who greeted you with a smile and firm handshakes, hoping you wouldn't notice how his hands were a bit clammy and how he was feeling like some lovesick highschooler on the inside.

He was obvious about it, and everyone could see their captain be obvious about it, but they didn't dare to say anything. Meanwhile, you were too focused on your job, reporting to the captain about the progress with your eyes sharp, squinting from the blinding sun above. And John contemplated on lending you his hat.

Simon Riley who caught the sight of you talking to his captain and immediately whipped. And so here he was, being (not so) discreet watching you work as he hid in the shadows (it's high noon, the sun is hot, he's just under some tree in the yard, he looks silly). The sight of you commanding the construction workers woke something up in him.

Kyle Garrick being the gentleman he was, approached you when he saw you helping your workers to carry some sacks of cement. You didn't question it when he offered to help and simply gave him one of the sacks before walking away with two left in your arms. Kyle was taken aback for a bit because he expected you to let him carry them all, so he insisted on helping more. And that's how the sergeant spent the rest of the day helping with the construction under your supervision instead of helping the recruits train. But Kyle wasn't complaining and just smirked when his captain found out what he had been doing.

John Mactavish was a menace. When he first saw you, he immediately put on that infuriating smirk and laid it on thick with the flirting, making it harder for you to do your job. The sun was blazing above, you're sweaty, this uniform is uncomfortable and made your skin itchy, if you're not irritated before you sure are now. But Johnny didn't seem to mind having you yell at him in front of everyone, if anything he just seemed to be happy about having your attention on him. However, you were too annoyed to notice, but your workers truly did with how they exchanged glances with each other.

And when you finally put in the report after the construction was finished, John made a mental note to only hire your firm for future projects.

While Johnny was off planting C4 around the new shiny barracks so you would stay longer.

Fortunately, Kyle found out and yelled at Simon for help stop him.

I want hot girl summer where it's working under the sun, sweating and hissing at every little thing while some handsome military men are admiring uwu)

[sixofwandsss]

messages from someone you love (and loves you)

pick a card

c1 - c2

c3 - c4

collective 1

"i'm sorry i've been barely paying attention to you lately, i've been stuck in my work and i tend to get really obssesed with it.

"i work to give you (us) the life we deserve"

this could be a parent or a partner, it depends on your situation. they accept that they neglect you but in their head they are doing it for a bigger purpose. they feel the need to give you a higher quality of life in the materialistic sense.

they just haven't achieved the perfect balance between their affections and their work. they are truly hardworkers and kind people, please don't get too upset at them.

maybe they are stuck at a job that doesn't fulfill them but they feel as if they have to suck it up to make ends meet. they haven't realized they can have a fresh new beginning in another career path that isn't too taxing on them.

song: sex, money, feelings die - lykke li

collective 2

"you are done learning, you've learned enough, stop working on it. stop doubting yourself so much. you are almost a natural at it"

this could be an spirit guide or a deity. even a deceased loved one. they want you to acknowledge how far you have come in your journey. you are wise enough now to make hard decisions and act on what you desire.

i feel as if this could be regarding love and attachment issues (or not, take what resonates), maybe you are ready to love someone and not get lost again. you need to put your skills onto practice in order to progress to the level you want.

whatever your situation is, you died and came back stronger with firmer boundaries. use them in whatever field you desire.

song: savage daughter - ekaterina shelehova

collective 3

"you don't need to be the perfect-most healed version of yourself to go after your dream life. don't let your impurities keep you stagnant. do not ovethink this. you are worth whatever you desire. work on self-love"

this could be a deceased family member (maybe a sibling) or a chilhood friend. this could be regarding a career move of yours.

an extra message is that you dont need someone to complete you. you are whole just by existing. you also have the natural talent to pursue your dreams. you possess great knowledge. keep working hard towards your dream life, my dear.

don't wait until you feel ready, just start now, with your emotions as your fuel.

song: still bummed - nouns

collective 4

"there is a fated meeting, even though it is not in your timing. work on your independence, creativity and passion-projects"

this is most probably a guide of yours. they are orchestrating a lover in your life. someone who is right for you. however, they don't want you to stay stuck in the timing of the manifestation. they want you to have no expectations once you meet this person. having a lot of them will distract you and delay your meeting. master your craft and your personal goals first.

abundance is also fated for you. i see a prosperous future for you if you get your shit together.your meeting will bring a emotional new beginning for you. but everything takes time remember.

[lostintransist]

Broken Beyond Bearing | Part 6

-. —- / .-. . -.-. —- .-. -.. … / . -..- .. … - / ..-. —- .-. / …. . .-.

Part 1 found here | AO3

Johnny watches. He’s good at it. Not many notice that only ticks above his bright smile and well-placed nose are even brighter eyes. Oh, they notice the color, hard to miss his shade of blue, but they missed the brilliance behind them. Quick and sharp, they’ve served him well. Distraction as well as detection.

You stomped from the truck before he could put it in park, slamming both the car and front doors. Johnny followed more sedately as he thought about what you had said. Two weeks without a food delivery, and no one answering their calls. Why didn’t you leave a message? Had you tried Kate? She would have said something, wouldn’t she?

One of the reasons he earned the nickname Soap came from how well he could clean a room. Now that he has you back, he can take in more than the absence of wife. On the couch sat the laptop they had given you, sitting at an angle atop a blanket that spoke of an imminent return. Everything from the cans moldering in the bin to the slight wrinkles in your neatly made bed spoke of intentions.

You had stomped through the house and right out the back door. His coat lay tossed across the counter. A rhythmic scraping of plastic against snow tells a tale. Interesting.

Two weeks without a delivery shouldn’t have sent you sliding down the mountain in your boots. They had left the second vehicle for you, keys hanging in the kitchen. Stepping into the space now Johnny’s eyes were drawn to the hook. It looked exactly as they had left it. So interesting. Johnny can feel his brows pull together as pieces slide around in his mind. It almost makes sense. The picture is forming despite the missing bits.

Turning, he opens the freezer and finds it half full with neatly wrapped hunks of frozen meat. They reminded him of gifts, all packed in white paper and tape. Two roasts and a pork shoulder stared out at him from among frozen veg. You didn’t eat much, and there was enough food in the house to keep you sustained for more than two weeks. Pulling out a roast, Johnny set about getting dinner ready, keeping one ear out for you. With the other, he pops in a headphone and calls Kate. The roast is in the crockpot, and the potatoes on the counter before she answers.

“Laswell.”

Kate’s voice is professional but tired. She had been neck deep in a project they weren’t involved in for months now. It had to be something about you.

“Kate, got a question for you.” Johnny lets his voice reflect a calm happiness.

“If this is about the extra C4—”

Johnny cut in, letting the anger that burned in his bones out. The knife he had pulled from the block to cut potatoes caused his hand to ache from the grip he had on it.

“This is about our new wife, Kate.”

The electronic buzz of silence in his ear told so many tales.

Realizing she wouldn’t be volunteering any information, Johnny takes charge of the conversation. Gently resting the knife on the counter, he lets his body move, finding the cutting board, and begins washing the potatoes.

“Did you know she’s allergic to peanuts?”

Papers rustle through the line.

“No, I didn’t.” Kate bit the words out.

“Why can’t she drive, Kate?” He sets each clean root to the side. Johnny imagines this conversation as a series of tugs on a spider’s web.

“Obviously she was never taught, Soap,” Kate replied, exasperation floating her words.

“She took herself to town on foot because the food deliveries stopped. There is food in the house, but it requires cooking. A peek in the garbage tells me she spent the entire time on canned or fresh food. I’m not a good cook, Kate, but even I know how to throw a roast in a slow cooker. Where did you find her?”

“Soap,” Kate dragged out the word like he would give up his questioning if she held it long enough. Something clicked in his mind. Kate wouldn’t have found her in any normal way. Betas were rare these days and Kate never ended up on projects that didn’t involve some level of fuckery. Chopping the veg, he loads them into the crockpot and dumps enough spices that Simon would whine about a stomach ache if he were here.

“Kate,” her name crunched between his teeth. He growled out his next words. “What the hell happened to her?”

Leaving time and heat to do their work, Johnny turns to the wood-burning stove.

He prepares it while waiting for Kate to navigate the mental hurdles of telling him the truth. Johnny wonders about you. If he were to put you on canvas, it would be a study in contrasts; pastels peering through pockets in watercolor.

“We are two days out from this hitting the news, so keep your mouth shut until after the story drops. Your security clearance isn’t high enough for most of this.” Kate muttered a bit more that he almost missed, “Neither is John’s, for that matter.”

His clearance was pretty damn high, what could have happened that required a higher clearance than what John had currently?

“Better talk fast, then, Kate.”

She does, and with each new sentence, Johnny thinks he is going to be sick.

The stove is cool, and cleaning the ash gives him something to do while he listens to the horrors Kate and her team found in the facility where you had been kept.

While spring had started to unfurl with the appearance of dandelions in the valley, winter reigned here for at least another month before spring could creep beneath the drifts. Lighting a small pile of kindling inside the black stove, Johnny continued to listen. Feeding the hungry licks of heat, he made his plan.

Snagging his coat, Johnny popped down to the truck.

“So let me see if I understand this. You’re telling me that betas lost their rights thirty years back and then were shuttled off in droves to facilities that experimented on them to the point that they discovered the calmers that are being pumped into the water system.” Johnny rubbed the inner corner of his eyes. “But you don’t have her full chart? You don’t know what happened to her?”

Kate sighed, and the distinctive sound of a lighter flaring to life reached him. He pulled open the back door of the truck and shouldered his pack.

“I thought your wife wanted you to quit,” Johnny commented lightly.

“My wife has given me a pass until this is all wrapped up,” Kate replied darkly. “No, we don’t have her full chart. What we do have are records of nearly 6,500 dead betas, and being realistic, there are probably three times that many between all the branches of Scorpio. All we did find was the most recent data about your wife, and it didn’t tell us much, only the drugs they pumped her with the two days before the raid.”

Johnny stared at the stitching of the back seat as he absorbed this information.

“Is there anything else I need to know about our wife, Kate?”

The silence is telling.

“Nothing I can tell you. If she shares anything about what happened to her, would you let me know? We are going to have to recreate Scorpio’s records.”

“I’ll let you know.” Johnny ended the call with a tap to his headphone. He slammed the truck door, watching the body of the vehicle rock under the force of his anger. When he could breathe without vomit staining his throat, he headed inside.

Shutting the front door tight to keep the slowly warming air, he rested his pack on the back of the couch. Digging through the tightly packed clothes, he unearths his sketch book and removes the wall stickers he had found in a tiny shop outside of a base he couldn’t recall the name of. Sprinkles, for you. Johnny set them on top of your laptop. Everything is shoved back into the bag as best he can manage; it gets left by the stairs to deal with later.

With that settled, he headed to the back door to invite you inside. The interior had reached an almost cozy temperature. The sheriff’s office had refused to give up your phone, coat, and the cards that clearly stated your name. John would call to rip the entire office a new asshole once he heard what had happened.

Johnny watches you. Feet spread wide, head down, shoulders tense under your shawl, and your fist tight around the snow shovel tells quite a tale. Sliding the glass door open, he watches as every speck of you shrinks. When you turn, there is no snarling beta who sent the deputy into a tizzy by singing made-up lines to nursery rhymes or a wife who would rather scar him with her teeth than accept his concern.

He eyes you over dinner. Johnny, with his blue eyes that would cut if they were ice, smiled with closed lips every time he caught your eye. After two weeks of suspicion, it rankled.

“Stop staring,” you mutter the words as you stab a potato that has taunted you. Cleaning was a skill valued in Scorpio. Cooking? Not so much. You didn’t dare open the cooking oven for fear of something happening.

“I missed you.”

The sincerity in his words whispers to you like the demons that lived below the floorboards. An offer too good to be true. The mask that kept you safe in Scorpio, calm and sweet with big, sad eyes, slips as you glare up at him.

“There she is,” he says, sounding pleased.

“Who?” You roll the question off your tongue with the hesitance of a base jumper on their first dive.

“The beta who nearly sent a deputy to murder with nursery rhymes.” Johnny smiled with his whole face, cheeks pulled up, and bright eyes wrinkled at the edges.

The heat suffusing through you rivaled that of the stove. You dropped your gaze to the plate before you. Only streaks were left from dinner. There is no good way to soft-step through the differences he had seen today. You were so careful before they left to play that submissive, quiet beta that everyone could accept. Nearly a decade of pretending slid off, bleached by the sun, and cleaned the crows that kept you company.

With a wink, Johnny stood from the table. He took your plate and set them in the sink.

“Let me take care of those!” You squeak out as you jump to your feet.

Johnny gives you a lopsided smile and steps out of the way. Turning on the water, you focus on the sensation of the water and soap on your skin and not the heat of him at your back. He stays for longer than you anticipated, but after the first plate is clean and placed in the drying rack, Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your temple.

“I’m going to shower. You’re up after me, I doubt the sheriff’s office took good care of you.”

His scent lingers in your nose and in the air even as he walks away. The shower is still running when the dishes are done. Deciding that the suggestion was a good one, you head to your room. The main bathroom is opposite your room. Turning left from the kitchen, you spot Johnny’s open pack, shirts spilling from the gaping top. Without a thought, you snag one. It is nestled neatly under your pillow.

You don’t think about the shirt again until you are tucked behind the bathroom door, Johnny and his body wash clogging up your throat. He had knocked on your door when he had finished up. The warm water washing over your skin prickled with a tad too much pressure. Something was off. Turning your back to the spray, you let your hands wander, sometimes your beta side couldn’t come out and tell you what you needed, but you had learned to let it out by degrees.

Both hands settle at your breasts, kneading and plucking at nipples. This remains your focus for long enough that you start shifting from side to side, needs rising. Running your tongue over your teeth, you decide you can indulge this need, but you need to be clean first. When you reach for the soap, since you did your hair before the internal unease had escalated, the one wet from Johnny’s hand is the one you lathered into your cloth.

The scratch of the rag on your skin escalated the need settling between your nerves. Cleaning to your toes, you rinse off and wring out the cloth. Adding more soap you focus on cleaning between your legs and ass cheeks. Bringing the rag back to the stream of water, the mixed scent of slick and Johnny’s body wash simultaneously causes a rush of need and a stream of terror to rocket through you.

Fuck. Your heat was coming.

Broken Masterlist | Masterlist

@lucienofthelakes @gg-trini @talia-the-gemini @thriving-n-jiving @z-wantstowrite @asialovesyou09 @literallegendicon @canthavetoomuchchaos @reinekoya @jsptmoche @demothers-empty-blog @hbaasaad @sun-daddy-yoriichi @wiciclesatmidnight @kaoyamamegami @little-mini-me-world @corvid007 @skeletonsucker @feyresqueen @dreamland08 @sweetybuzz25 @minxx3d @ovxlovxy @night-shadowblood-writes2

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Chevrolet Corvette ZR-2 Prototype, 1989. A C4 fitted with a 454ci big block V8, Z51 performance suspension and a six-speed manual transmission. Although the ZR-2 could offer ZR-1 performance at about half the cost of the Lotus-engineered LT5 32 valve DOHC V8 the big block V8 struggled to meet emission and fuel mileage requirements. The project was abandoned

[emsterish]

youve got to be shitting me??? zaum announced mobile Elysium and another game

imagine your game and universe which you dont own anymore being turned into a mobile game for a cashgrab??? like no disco is not a game to play on your phone but the worst thing is I can kinda see it becoming popular

also the c4 project trailer has some of the most soulless writing ive seen and it clearly tries to mimic discos. genuinely sounds like chatgpt did it im not even surprised though.

no I will not pay for these games and anything added or removed from the disco universe I will not consider as canon cause the people at zaum are not who created the world. how can I unlearn this information :( this is very not disco and so so disrespectful to the many original makers of the game PLS DONT BUY THEM

[random-stuff567]

C4-621/Raven recovering from augmentation surgery and Ayre in the body of an android from my Armored Core 6 x RWBY fanfic series Skies of Remnant.

Commissioned from @thefruitloop-chan

[silverwhittlingknife]

snippet

“Nobody is going to die here,” Dick says, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel.

If this were the Titans, he’d probably get some acknowledgement.  Titans together.  A clap on the shoulder.  Something.  But it’s not the Titans, so instead Cass Cain flicks a glance at him and then goes back to scowling at the wall, and Jason says, “Would you fucking quit it with the inspirational speeches, leader-boy?” and Tim says, “I think we should prioritize getting Dick out,” as if Dick isn’t even here.

“I’m fine,” Dick says.  Because he is. Mostly.  It’s not like it’s exactly fun to get whipped and then tied to an ominous black altar in a room with no obvious doors after successfully talking a cult into deciding you’re the optimum sacrifice of their four captives.  But it’s certainly better than the alternative scenario in which the Dark Leader Whatsisface had listened to Tim’s pitch.

“Weakness in the wall,” Cass says.  “…Here.”

“Yeah, weak walls would be great, if we had C4,” Jason says.  “Except for the part where we don’t have C4, because somebody took my stash and my helmet.  Some fucking insufferable team of fucking idiots who like to mind everybody else’s business—”

“Kick, maybe,” Cass says to Tim, who’s still trying to pick the lock on one of Dick’s manacles.

Tim frowns.  “I don’t think even you can kick a wall hard enough to—”

“Not… the wall.  Kick him,” Cass says, nodding at Jason.

“Oh fuck you very much,” Jason says, with more heat than Dick expects.  Jason’s edgy, beneath all the bluffing, and it’s hard to tell why, because although the situation admittedly isn’t great the countdown timer still has half an hour to go before the cult starts punching whatever buttons outside the room that will set Dick on fire—or get him eaten by a dragon, it hadn’t been very clear through the chanting.

Anyway.  They have time, even if Cass’s shoulders are tense and Tim’s face is strained and Dick’s back is killing him—they strapped him with his back down after the beating, and he’s trying not to think about the likelihood of blood stains on this altar thing—and the sweat from the heat is getting in his eyes.

A hand.  Tim’s wiped the sweat away, which is both a comfort and kind of humiliating.  Tim’s lips are pinched—he’s furious at Dick, it’s obvious, only not acting on it because they’re in front of Jason and Tim, at least, understands the importance of presenting a united front.  So it’ll be a fight, once they get out, but Dick’s not sorry.  If he’s totally honest, he’s a little angry himself.  Trust me, Tim had muttered, when they all first got grabbed, and then he’d raised his voice and asked to speak privately to the leader, and Dick only realized too late what he’d been after, when the cultists came back and explained how Red Robin was going to be their sacrifice to the dragon-god and everyone else could live and watch in order to marvel at their lord’s demonic glory or whatever.

“Cass, listen,” Tim says.  "I think if you help me with the manacles—”

“No,” Cass says.  Tim’s been trying to get her to come back to the altar to mess with Dick’s bindings; Cass has been ignoring him.  A splinter in an otherwise seamless partnership.

"If you put pressure on the other side while I pick the lock," Tim says.

"No," Cass snaps. Cass doesn’t believe in united fronts, Jason or no Jason—Dick should know, she once threw him into a wall—but Dick doesn’t think she’s actually mad at Tim, just impatient.  “Manacles broken, not broken… doesn’t matter. No good if we’re still here.  Need to get out.  Then Nightwing.”

“I vote we leave him here, actually,” Jason says.  

“Jason, shut up,” Tim says.

“What, is this suddenly not a democracy? Do I not have the right to an opinion? Are you against voting, Replacement?”

[nonnewtonianracoon]

Okay, I was listening to music and my mind hurt my own feelings so I spent four hours expanding on that! All characters and storyline is from @scientificallywrongsoap and his heart wrenching countdown series on tiktok, the song lyrics are Thank You by The Jolly Rogers, and the pain is ours to share. Grab a pet or stuffed animal, some tissues, and whatever other comfort you need, and strap in because it's long and painful 🙂

We all laugh and tell old stories

Just sittin' in the dark

And not one of them knows that

When we land I'll disembark

Pain, unlike Smith has ever felt. He thought he knew pain, but fuck, it feels like Zed injected lava instead of Ed’s serum. Cuts, breaks, bruises, even bullet wounds he’s nursed time and time again, but this is different. All consuming, stealing his breath as his body begins to mutate. He can feel it before the changes become visible, and he gasps and tenses, hands trembling as he rips off his mask. His desire for privacy is overtaken by the desperate ache in his chest, lungs screaming for fresh air, and he barely notices Zed’s eyes widen as he sees his face, *his* face, for the first time. It’s like looking in an old mirror, the streaks and chips distorting it slightly, a myriad of scars that don’t match, but the base is the same, faces nearly identical even as they’re currently masks of a Venn diagram of expressions: one shocked, one tortured, both terrified. Smith’s racing heart sinks in his chest as a cold feeling of dread washes over him.

We've spent so much time together

Out prowling on the sea

That somehow this strange group of men became a family

Family. What a strange concept. Foreign and familiar all at once. He’s got the Shadows, certainly, but since coming here it’s been…different. He loves his brothers, deeply and fiercely, but it feels almost programmed into him to do so. Not necessarily an obligation, but an unquestionable fact. But the others, the men he’s met since coming to help the doctor with this project, the ones he begrudgingly calls friends only within the privacy of his own mind… they grew on him, like a particularly stubborn fungus, or a wart he just couldn’t dig out the root of. Love is a bit of a strong word, but as his mind whirls through years of memories, he’s surprised to find a lot of them are from the last few months, as opposed to the collage of solely memories of his unit as he had expected. They say the last seven minutes of your life, your brain tries to comfort you by playing a highlight reel; who’d have thought this bunch of chronically ridiculous bastards would have wormed their way into mine so quickly?

We started out no more than boys

With more guts than brains

Doing what they said could not be done

They thought we were insane

But of course, as expected, there are many memories of his brothers. Well, brothers and sister, he mentally amends. I wonder if she’ll ever work up the courage to tell Graves. We all know he’d accept her, but I also understand the fear. How my heart was pounding almost as fast then as it is now when he followed me to that bar, and how worried I was about his reaction, and his dumbass idea was just to throw a paper airplane of “wingman” tips at me with a wink, leave a list of resources and surprisingly helpful books on my bed, and an offer to listen or pretend it never happened. Memories of explosions, fireworks and C4, laughs and screams, kites and drones, life and death, all flashing before his mind’s eye even as the ceiling blurs above him, tears and sweat stinging his eyes as his hands tangle in Zed’s shirt, fighting to stay as aware as possible, time warping around him.

One by one they wandered to their bunks, ready for another day

And I'm left alone here with the stars

Where they can't hear me say:

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Nobody knows. Nobody but Zed and Doc. It was never even discussed to tell the others; not the specifics, anyway. Everything was relatively normal tonight, heightened emotions and anticipation hidden by a practiced facade of disinterest and sarcastic humor. The König brothers had made dinner for everyone; Jack found a new recipe for some ridiculous dessert. It was so bad, but everyone mutually agreed to eat it anyway and choke it down with a smile. The kid had worked so hard on it, and nobody wanted to hurt his feelings. While Jack is a grown man too, every bit as capable and vicious as the rest, he has a fragile quality that tugs at Smith’s protective side. Not quite like WZ and his ridiculous projected naivety, he thinks as a choked laugh bubbles in his aching chest and burning throat, the stupid little pink cat ear headphones he manipulated his way into possession of popping into his head unbidden. No, Jack has an optimism and hope that’s managed to stay untarnished through everything, and the way the kid had literally started radiating a soft yellow when everyone complimented his efforts was worth the horrendous experience of the dessert currently re-appearing all over the floor, forced from Smith’s body as he writhes in agony as a raw scream tears from his throat.

We have seen success and we've watched our fortunes grow

And we have shared more happy times than many men will know

We were all there together when each of us found a wife

Love was something he had never envisioned for himself. Didn’t think it to be possible before coming here, not for someone like him. Stained from the moment he entered the world, designed instead of conceived, honed instead of raised. But watching Swagger and 7-1, as well as WZ and Ghost, he had started toying with the idea, and now the what ifs swirl through him, as bright and hot as embers in the breeze, pinpricks of pain that have nothing to do with the serum overtaking his entire being.

And we proudly watched the children grow

And have a happy life

Childhood. What a novel idea. The thought of being so small, so defenseless and helpless, utterly dependent on the adults around you… it terrifies him. Children terrify him, he’s always known he wanted nothing to do with kids, even as Graves made sure they had as much of a chance to be kids as he could provide. Decorating a Christmas tree, brightly wrapped boxes, chalk and stuffed toys mixed in with new weapons and survival guides. Days where they’d run around a training field with paintball guns or bubble wands instead of actually doing something useful, or watch animated movies with popcorn and candy, building impressive but sloppy forts with blankets and pillows. Graves has his faults, to be sure, but he also did his best to balance what their existence was curated for with the life he said they deserved, and Smith finds himself more thankful for that now than ever before.

And we have shared great tragedy

That none should bear alone

And with every loss and heartache

Our brotherhood has grown

I'm not the first to leave, it's true

Some have gone before

I know without me the crew

Will reinvent once more

Zachariah. Victor. Aaron. Jacob. Eric. They’re skilled, but they’re not perfect, and sometimes good plans go bad. It’s like losing a limb every time, a part of his soul going cold, a corner of his mind going dark, a nail in the coffin of his sanity every time one of his brothers falls. But they always come back stronger, angrier, out for revenge. Some of their best ops were carried out in the name of vengeance. He distantly hopes nobody that doesn’t deserve it gets hurt, the only ones at fault being himself and Ed. Zed and the rest have no blood on their hands, they don’t deserve retribution for his choices.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and foe all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

As the pain intensifies, Smith hears yelling. A small flicker of hope in his chest as the doctor walks in, but it quickly fades as Ed’s eyes fill with disgust and distant loathing, looking at him like nothing but the bodily fluids pooling around him on the floor, cold and clinical, nothing like the warm amusement he thought had been there mere hours ago. Broken tools aren’t worth their space on the shelf, he thinks bitterly, hands tucking under his chin as Zed shoves them off him. A bolt of panic shoots through Smith’s heart, sharp and white hot. “Please,” he tries to say, but the thick, swollen lump of his tongue won’t move right and all that comes out is a disheartened wheeze as his teeth enlarge and change shape, morphing to razor sharp fangs within his gums. Please, he thinks desperately, please don’t leave. I don’t want to die alone, I don’t want you to go, please don’t walk away too. Don’t leave me, please….

With that the coughing starts again

The crimson hard to hide

Hands, on his throat. A sharp pinch, different enough from the agony of the mutations that it stands out. Heat flowing into him, but not the burning flame of the serum; comforting, like sunshine on a spring day. His eyes fly open, eyes he didn’t realise had fallen shut. The foolish engineer crouched above him, silhouetted against the glaring fluorescent light like an angel, even as he curses himself for thinking something so repulsively, dreadfully cliche. But Zed is visibly irate, trembling with righteous fury even as he handles Smith like he’s made of porcelain, touch achingly tender as he monitors the flow of something into the cannula he’s inserted into Smith’s jugular. The substance becomes apparent as the mutations slow, the pain easing slightly, and hope buds again as he stares into the same eyes that greet him from his reflection, as dizzying now as every time before. The weirdest deja vu, even with his unit, he’s never been able to get used to it.

I'm sorry my brothers

Hope you never know I lied

Omission. The guilt is eating him alive; he thought they’d never need to know. His friends here, his family there, he was foolish enough to believe he’d be able to handle this tonight and go back to life tomorrow. Hubris, pure and simple. He had too much faith in himself, and didn’t think to so much as leave a video or note. He thought he was being noble, thought he’d be doing a good thing by helping them, but now he just feels selfish for not having a backup plan for this. He’d had too much faith in the doctor, blind faith, and now he’ll be little more than a cautionary tale once they find out exactly what happened.

But this one won't get better, lads

And I know it's true

So I choose to walk away before I burden you

The pleasant warmth is fading, the australium not doing enough to counteract the serum, and Smith now knows with certainty he’s going to die tonight. There’s no peace, no grim satisfaction of a job well done, no morbid excitement at the possibility of reuniting with his fallen brothers, just the cold claws of failure sinking into his heart as Zed’s tears fall on Smith’s face, the former having noticed the pain creeping back into the latter’s eyes and reaching the same bitter, cold realization.

I will say the time is right

For me to go my way

And I know you'll understand

Or at least that's what you'll say

The excuses he’d made when he came here, the cajoling and borderline begging he’d had to do to try to get permission, the way it failed and he slipped out in the night because this felt so goddamn important he was willing to risk everything to help. The excuses he’d made to himself to justify it, staying in contact with a couple of his brothers to keep them from panicking and launching a search party. How he’d had the lecture of his life when Graves found him and called him back, and he had to explain everything and promise seventy three times, in ninety two ways, seventeen silly voices, twelve ridiculous accents, and four languages to ***be careful*** and here he is, dying on a cold tile floor because he overestimated his abilities; something they’d all been warned against from the start. He’d been so sure he was making the right call, but now he’s no longer able to justify it to himself. The harsh reality is unforgiving and he finds himself wishing for just one more. One more stupid movie in a blanket fort, one more adrenaline crazed mission, one more stupid dad joke from Ghost, one more day of chasing bubbles in the sun and drawing chalk flowers and practicing penmanship on the concrete parking lot, one more godawful meal that’s somehow undercooked and burnt but still tastes better than the most expensive restaurant because it was made with care…

I will wish you luck and watch you sail upon the sea

For the first time in forever

I will just be me

What will it be like? To not be part of a unit? Every day, dozens of iterations of his own face swarm around him. Tiny differences, but nearly identical. He’s always had his own opinions and preferences, but he’s never been a singular person. Even here, he’s nearly a carbon copy of Zed. How nobody ever noticed is beyond him….. He’s never considered the afterlife, never really felt drawn to; now is probably the best time to do it, he muses as his mind starts to separate from his body and the growing distance between his mind and the soul shredding agony allows his thoughts to begin to clear and grow more cohesive. But what’s the point in speculation? He’ll be finding out soon enough, anyway.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and for all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

A conversation, words exchanged between himself and Zed, each breath growing more shallow and ragged. Tears from both men, twin expressions of guilt for different reasons, and a twin hatred for the man they butted heads over for so long. Animosity for each other morphing and joining, aimed at the doctor who’s hands are now stained with Smith’s blood even though it’s Zed’s that spilled it.

Thank you, lads, for all you are

And all you've been to me

Thank you for the laughter and

For all the memories

Thank you, for being there

Through the good times and the bad

And thank you for being the best mates I've ever had

Forgiveness and acceptance, even as the fire within him grows unbearable, even as words start to lose meaning and become abstract shapes in his ears, the world going dark around him. Hearing is the last sense to go, and through the heavy darkness overtaking him, Smith hears a variation of the same vow he himself has made, five times over. A vow of revenge.

Thank you for being the best

Mates I've ever had

I hope you laughed and cried, and I am immensely proud of this so be nice or I might cry. Alas, Glitch has set these characters loose in the world and they have been plaguing me, so I decided to take the muse and skedaddle. (Also this is my formal written apology for the Graves slander in your comments, Glitch. I hope it suffices.)

I hope I did them justice, and I hope you suffer as much reading this as I did writing it 😁💜