#Tandem a tale of shadows

[fashionablyfyrdraaca]

# SIMILAR VIBES 🤪 🤪 🤪 ladies edition

[wisismydumpstat]

Tandem remains very pretty as it makes my brain cry. I love puzzle games but puzzle games most certainly do not love me.

[fancypantsrecords]

Guillaume Nicollet - Tandem: A Tale Of Shadows - The Sounds Of Shadows | Monochrome Melodies Records | 2021 | Black

[cinemedios]

¡8 nuevos títulos llegan a Prime Gaming!

¡8 nuevos títulos llegan a Prime Gaming!

Ni steam, ni epic games, esta vez se lució Amazon, sumando más juegos a su catálogo gratuito. recuerda descargar Amazon Games App para poder acceder a esta Prime Gaming de Amazon ha añadido recientemente ocho nuevos videojuegos gratuitos a su catálogo de títulos de mayo. Con la incorporación de estos nuevos títulos, los miembros de la plataforma podrán disfrutar de un total de 23 juegos sin coste…

[zarathesilentgamer]

Tandem: A Tale of Shadows #16 (End) - Zara The Silent Gamer

[1111jenx]

𖤓Synastry series: Sun in the Houses𖤓

MASTERLIST — for more quality posts✨

💘Sun in the 1st House: Beneath the celestial canvas of this synastry placement, a tale as enchanting as a dream unfurls. The house person, akin to a night sky, emanates a radiant glow, echoing the Sun person's presence. To them, the Sun is their guiding star, the source of their joy, their radiant beacon in a universe otherwise cloaked in darkness. A profound contentment envelops them when bathed in the Sun's light, an authentic happiness as splendid as dawn's first light. The Sun, in return, basks in the house person's deep-rooted admiration, mirroring it back like a tranquil lake reflecting the midday sun. This tandem, like a pair of celestial bodies, graces the universe with laughter, an exquisite sonnet of shared joy. Together, they shimmer, illuminating the surrounding cosmos with their radiant togetherness, a spectacle of love that outshines the stars. Yet, within this symphony of love, a certain possessiveness persists, a gravitational pull that binds them irrevocably. They perceive the other as their celestial twin, their sole companion in the vast expanse of the universe. An echo of 'mine' resonates between them, an assertion of mutual ownership that is as potent as the heart's deepest longing. But as is the nature of celestial bodies, clashes may occur, ego battles akin to cosmic storms, threatening to disrupt their harmonious orbit. However, even these conflicts are silver-lined, offering pearls of wisdom and shaping their cosmic journey in profound ways. In the radiant presence of one another, they shimmer with unspoken brilliance. They ignite the best within each other, like distant galaxies awakening to their own magnificence. The house person swells with pride in the comforting glow of the Sun, who, in their unerring wisdom, whispers words that elicit pure, unadulterated joy. They orbit in their celestial dance, two bodies radiating love, learning, and laughter, a testament to the poetic resonance of their shared existence.

💘Sun in the 2nd House: In this bond, we find two souls who naturally stir each other's desires and comforts. Together, they revel in life's luxurious offerings, savoring the finest fruits of existence. The Sun person, like a guiding star, helps the House person grasp their true worth, understand their needs, and appreciate their resources. If the stars align favourably, their partnership blooms into something extraordinary, blessed by the gracious hand of Venus. They see worth in each other, a priceless treasure that enriches their shared journey. The Sun person recognizes the unique gifts the House person brings to the table. Yet, there's a shadow to the Sun's warm glow; a tendency to possess, to control, often without realizing. The House person, drawn in by the Sun's radiance, finds themselves doing more to please the Sun, adjusting to their needs, no matter what those might be. In this dance of connection, they move in harmony, a duet of love, desire, and mutual respect.

💘 Sun in the 3rd House: In their shared space, words intertwine like star-crossed lovers, ceaseless, captivating. Little disagreements dance on the edge of their tongues, only to be silenced by the tender symphony of make-up kisses. This placement weaves a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà vu, as if their souls have crossed paths in another life, another time. An unspoken comfort lingers between them, a tranquility that whispers of home. Conversations flow like rivers to the sea, their intellectual discourse as effortless as the wind caressing the leaves. The House person finds a certain charm in the Sun's words, hanging onto them like a melody that never grows old. The Sun, on the other hand, sees the House person as a precious gem, something to shield from the world's harsh edges. Their interaction is a feast for the mind, a stimulation that sings to those who crave deep, intellectual bonds. In this union, comfort abounds. Each word spoken, each secret shared, peels away another layer, revealing the essence of who they truly are. Their openness is as natural as a flower blooming under the spring sun, a testament to their profound connection. Intimate moments are shared in the small details - the clasp of their hands, a language written in the lines of their palms, a silent promise of enduring togetherness. Inside jokes punctuate their interactions, shared laughter blooming in their personal garden of camaraderie. A timeless dance of love and intellectual stimulation, their union weaves a tapestry of memories, each thread gleaming with their shared joy and affection.

💘 Sun in the 4th House: In the embrace of the House person, the Sun finds a home, an abode that whispers of permanence, a space it never yearns to desert. The sanctuary of their presence is a magnet to the Sun, a refuge radiant with solace. This cosmic alignment is intriguing, for it oscillates between providing profound comfort and eliciting the chill of fear, particularly if the Sun's chart is parched of the life-giving water element. There's an undeniable allure in the vulnerability this placement offers. The House person peers into the Sun, seeing its authentic self, acknowledging its limitless potential, and loving it unabashedly. They are the unwavering shield to the Sun, sometimes blindly so, standing in steadfast support irrespective of the circumstances. In response, the Sun flourishes. It blossoms with an ethereal beauty, basking in the adoration it receives, thriving on the nourishment of support. The presence of the House person is a soothing balm, a calming melody that seems to know the right notes to bring tranquility. The House person, in their turn, reveals a clear soft spot for the Sun, perhaps even forgiving their occasional bursts of tempestuous heat. It's a placement that prompts both introspection and reflection, a cosmic dance that sees them turning inward, mirroring each other's steps. Together, they discover a respite from their armor, a space where they can shed their toughness. They become a testament to the beauty of vulnerability, an echo of support and affection that resonates in the celestial symphony of their unity.

💘 Sun in the 5fth House: A placement I hold dear, is a dance of two cosmic entities feeling as though they've discovered their mirrored soul. It's not just a joyous union but one filled with exhilarating thrills and daring adventures. They revel in their shared laughter, their exchanges brimming with the innocence of child-like banter. Yet, beneath this playful veneer, there lies an infatuation, clear and profound, humming in the spaces between their words. The House person transforms into an eternal flame, a radiant beacon matching the Sun's relentless luminescence. The Sun, in turn, gazes upon the House with a sense of awe, often entranced by their seeming perfection. The House, in the Sun's eyes, feels like an equal partner, a reflection of their inner self. The fifth house is synonymous with romance. It's a fixed house, firmly rooted in its position, a steadfast testament to the House person's feelings towards the Sun. Regardless of their playful mind games, their seemingly flighty demeanor, their feelings towards the Sun person persist, burning with unwavering intensity. To the Sun, the House becomes an escape from the mundane, their daily dose of joy, their most ardent cheerleader. It's an alignment at times witnessed in tales of enemies turned lovers to bestfriends, an exciting dynamic where they continually challenge and dare each other to delve deeper into life's mysteries. It's a placement pulsating with positive energy, echoing with shared giggles, and resonating with playful touches. It's a cosmic dance of two entities, navigating the universe hand in hand, their hearts beating in a rhythm that speaks of love, laughter, and endless adventure.

💘 Sun in the 6th House: In this celestial arrangement, the Sun finds itself nestled in a house of pragmatism and routine, shedding its brilliant light upon the practicalities of daily life. These constellations spin tales not of grand careers or cosmic pursuits, but of everyday work, the quiet rhythm of health and wellness, the structure of routines and the serene act of service. In this dance of the stars, the Sun's light illuminates pathways to healthier eating, disciplined exercise, and even companionship with beloved pets. The Sun, in its radiant role, serves as a guiding beacon for the 6th house dweller, leading them towards the sanctity of a balanced lifestyle. It may inspire a shared commitment to physical exertion, perhaps in the form of joining a gym, or ignite conversations about nutritious diets and wellbeing. The Sun person may even act as a catalyst, helping the 6th house dweller establish routines that reinforce physical and mental health. Yet, the orbits of these celestial bodies might lead them down professional paths that intertwine, potentially finding one in the service of the other. However, with the Sun's position in the practical 6th house, a word of caution is warranted. The equilibrium of give and take must be carefully maintained to prevent the transformation of helpfulness into servitude. It's crucial that neither the Sun nor the 6th house dweller feels overburdened, their efforts unreciprocated.. It inspires a mutual journey towards better physical and mental health, encouraging each to uplift the other, illuminating their shared path with the light of practical wisdom and mutual care.

💘 Sun in the 7th House: In the grand tapestry of the cosmos, this placement is akin to a celestial masterpiece, an ideal constellation in the realm of astrology. The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts its golden light upon the 7th house, a house rich with the resonance of companionship, the solemnity of marriage, the intimacy of one-on-one relationships, the practicalities of business partnerships, the binding power of contracts, and the hidden faces of our alter-egos or shadow selves. In this dance of the stars, the Sun person stirs a longing within the 7th house dweller, a yearning for partnership, perhaps even a hankering for the sacred bond of marriage. The 7th house person may perceive the Sun person as the embodiment of their perfect mate, a mirror reflecting all the qualities they admire yet feel they lack. This celestial alignment weaves a balancing harmony in their relationship, as the Sun person displays characteristics and idiosyncrasies that the 7th house person cherishes but doesn't possess. As the 7th house is the celestial realm of marriage and contracts, the potential for wedded bliss, or perhaps a formal business partnership, is a tangible possibility should their relationship endure the test of time. However, as with any celestial arrangement, there are potential pitfalls to navigate. The two may become so entwined that they lose their individualities, their identities blurring until they cannot discern where one ends and the other begins. It is vital to remember that they are unique souls united, not a singular entity. Additionally, the mirage of the ideal mate may only be visible to the eyes of the 7th house person, with the Sun person potentially oblivious to this perception. The entirety of the synastry chart must be considered to gauge the mutual feelings of compatibility and the potential for enduring companionship. Thus, in this symphony of stars and planets, the dance of destiny unfolds, charting a course of love, partnership, and shared dreams.

💘 Sun in the 8th House: The placement of the Sun in the 8th house is a pas de deux that is not meant for those with faint hearts. It is a dance where the dancers—the Sun and the 8th house person—are likely to be pulled in one of two extreme directions. They may find themselves entwined in an intoxicating whirl of magnetic attraction, an intense passion that seizes them, or they may feel an unsettling disturbance, a disquiet that rattles their core, often swaying between these polar opposites. The Sun, in its radiant role, casts an unflinching light on the profound themes of the 8th house, illuminating the shadowy corners of sexuality, the cyclical dance of death and rebirth, the tumult of transformation and crisis, the journey of personal growth and evolution, the undercurrents of psychology and addiction, the intricacies of finance, and the hushed whispers of societal taboos. These subjects, often shrouded in mystery, may either captivate or unsettle the house person. They might either welcome the Sun person into their hidden depths or push them away. The house person might perceive the Sun as an enigmatic entity, while the Sun person uncovers the secrets that the 8th house person keeps hidden from the world. Should both individuals bear the mark of Pluto's dominance, or have a strong 8th house presence in their natal chart, this union may flourish in mutual fascination. However, if one or both harbor hidden trauma or suppressed shame, this intense connection could serve as a deterrent, overwhelming their senses. This celestial arrangement signifies the potential to unravel each other's hidden layers, maintaining a profound bond that might lead to mutual transformation. Yet, caution must be exercised to prevent power dynamics or manipulative tactics from seeping into their relationship. Ultimately, this celestial alignment can flourish if both are open to exploring the depths of each other's souls, embracing growth and transformation, and traversing the labyrinth of shared secrets.

💘 Sun in the 9th house: The Sun weaves golden threads into the 9th house tapestry, infusing wisdom's domain with the vibrancy of its radiance. This divine dance resonates with the seekers, the dreamers, those who chart the star-studded expanse of their fate, guided by an insatiable thirst for depth and meaning. The Sun, a luminary beacon, casts an ethereal glow on the winding paths of philosophy, spirituality, and the rich tapestry of global culture, sparking a flame in the 9th house soul, igniting the tinder of curiosity and wanderlust. In the sacred dance of their divergent or converging beliefs, they find a melody, a rhythm that binds them in an intricate ballet of understanding. Their shared intrigue transcends the constraints of culture, religion, and philosophy, knitting them closer in the vast expanse of human thought. Together, they traverse oceans, cross continents, and journey through the labyrinth of the mind and the world, venturing into territories unseen and unexplored. Yet caution must be heeded, for clashing perspectives may strike discordant notes, marring the celestial harmony. But through the crucible of understanding and growth, they shall rise, bound by a shared quest for enlightenment and truth. Soaring high, they ascend to the sublime realm of knowledge, guided by the radiant beacon of the Sun.

💘 Sun in the 10th house: The Sun, in its radiant glory, casts a shimmering glow upon the 10th house, bathing the lofty pinnacles of ambition, authority, and societal prestige in golden light. The 10th house individual beholds the Sun, seeing within its fiery aura the embodiment of a mentor, a guiding star, perhaps even a paternal figure. In this celestial dance, the Sun nurtures the dormant seeds of promise within the 10th house soul, kindling a fire that empowers them to scale the towering heights of professional achievement and public recognition. Unseen currents may churn, as the tides of power and authority ebb and flow, wrestling for harmonious balance. Should the rhythm of their hearts align, with the melody of guidance and humility ringing louder than the discordant notes of dominance, their shared journey shall carve a path to victory in the grand stage of career and societal prominence. Together, they'll ascend the mountain of success, guided by the Sun's resplendent glow.

💘 Sun in the 11th house: As the Sun anoints the 11th house with its golden kiss, souls intertwined in this celestial ballet discover a fellowship deeper than mere companionship. They merge as confidants, their dreams and aspirations entwining like tendrils of starlight, fueled by a shared devotion to the grand tapestry of humanity. Hand in hand, they champion noble crusades, threading their bond of friendship through a loom of diversity and acceptance. The Sun, a celestial minstrel, serenades the 11th house soul, inspiring them to dance in the unique rhythm of their being. In turn, the 11th house individual perceives the Sun as a lighthouse of acceptance, its unwavering beam illuminating their path in times of tumult. For hearts fluttering to the cadence of romance, seek reinforcement from other heavenly harmonies, for a profound friendship forms the bedrock of enduring love.This cosmic duet, a symphony of souls, signals unity, mutual respect, and a shared pledge to a future as radiant as the Sun. Their shared bond, an ethereal waltz, tells a tale of harmony, shared dreams, and a commitment to a collective dawn where every dream finds its home.

💘 Sun in the 12th house: As the Sun slips into the enigmatic embrace of the 12th house, its bright sovereignty is shrouded in gauzy veils of mystique, spirituality, and the unseen. To the house person, the Sun appears as an ethereal apparition, a spectral force oscillating between healing and bewildering, like a siren's call echoing through the vast and shadowy cosmos. Shrouded in the silken shadows of the subconscious, their connection pulses like a hidden heartbeat, a secret rhythm known only to them. This clandestine bond invites introspection and self-discovery, a voyage into the deep waters of their shared consciousness. For the Sun person, the depths of the 12th house may feel like a labyrinth of twilight, where their radiant essence is held in a silent waltz, yearning for the symphony of expression. When suspicion or paranoia creep into this celestial bond, trust must be kindled like a beacon in the deep, for their connection thrives on the revelation of buried truths and the unearthing of the divine spark within. With hearts aglow and an attuned awareness of their spiritual dance, they navigate the labyrinthine realms of the soul, transcending the mortal shackles, and ascending into an otherworldly romance. This sacred journey, a testament to their courage, becomes an intimate dance between two souls weaving their way through the cosmic tapestry, seeking the divine in each other.

Thank you for staying til the very end loves, I hope you enjoy this as much as I do, let me know your thoughts in the comment🤍

love,

saint jenx🪐

© 2023 Saintz Jenx All Rights Reserved

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Back again with the swooning series! Here’s some Warriors and my first attempt at writing anything resembling happiness. thank you to my lovely wife, @trippygalaxy for proofreading!

Previous parts are not required to understand this one, they are all standalone.

Part 1 Four

Part 2 Wild

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Between any form of fable, tale or mythos, there is one trope that has embedded itself within the scribes and writers throughout time. That the gods had made everyone inherently flawed. That no matter who you were, what morals you stood for, there would be some fatal flaw to strike you down.

Heroes are not exempt from this.

In fact, Warriors is keenly aware that he is quite deeply flawed. That he as a person and as a weapon was chipped and cracked. He was alive in all its imperfections.

And yet he was not good enough.

Warriors had to grapple with this vagueness. He was only loved or sought after for his skill, or his ability or his potential. Never anymore was he simply just Link. Or, at least, not Link who clung to his mother’s skirt and awed at all the knights. Now, he was one of those knights. There was no room in the eyes of anyone for anything else. He’d never be enough— for even himself.

So, he adapted. He pushed harder and trained longer. He learned and memorised the paths of monsters and how they collaborated and in tandem how to arrange counter attacks and defence with his own arsenal.

His body was broken and remade anew. A was good enough in the eyes of the people.

He was not in his own.

It never caught up to him, though. Not in some karmic matter of being struck down or his body finally giving in to the weight he bears.The war ended, and another began.

He had a new team to memorise and a new opposition to attack. They were the standard to his life, minor adjustments.

The terrain was, too, a challenge. Ever changing and always a mystery, the battlefield was always unfamiliar. The matter of his situation became more pressing, and he rose to meet his requirements.

When you’d fallen upon the crew, unfamiliar to Hyrule as a whole, he was sceptical. It was impossible for him to fully comprehend. You were something other entirely.

You couldn’t be human.

You couldn’t be.

You were far too alluring to simply be ‘standard’ and yet you insisted.

He kept his distance. And don’t be fooled, it’s not due to any standoff. He yearns to be in your company, to share your laughter and bask under the approval of his gaze.

But he fought himself.

He fought the scared within him. That you were, in fact, too good to be true. That in some way you would turn on him and his brethren.

He fought the desire within him. That you’d cause him to stray from what is polite and expected of someone knighted. That his courtship would be declined.

It was such distractions and unbalance in his mind that threw him off track long hours past his hazy dreams. And it showed in his fighting.

The shadow had swamped them with wave and wave of foe. Everyone was battered beyond any use. Potions were passed around to everyone after the fact as they stumbled into the closest Inn they could possibly find. He didn’t care to check who he roomed with, favouring to curl up in bed and rest.

He woke up with blurred vision and a swimming headache. The candlelight was too bright for his aching head as he tried to keep down the pain.

“Woah, alright. You’re alright, lay back down” Gentle hands press him back into divinely warm sheets.

“You’re safe, Link. Your wounds have been taken care of. You just go on and sleep” Immediately he’s tugged back to the edge of sleep. Not focused nor worried about the fingers in his hair or the palm on his cheek. Life is good right here, in this odd moment suspended in time. He’s good here. He’s the most calm and content he’s been in a while. And for once he feels as if he’s loved. Not for any service he’s provided you, as you don’t go searching him out for anything other than company. Not for any gain you could get, you hardly even understand the concept of one of them being a hero (let alone all of them). Not even as some sick joke to play with his feelings.

You make him feel like himself again. After so long of still hiding behind a name or a title, he feels as if once again he’s just Link.

[diavolo-is-babygirl]

Hi. What do I see when I come up with MC x Diavolo headcanons?

This.

In the shadow of the Devildom's impending leadership, destiny's hand selects one to be more than just a lover: they become the Exalt. Charged with attending councils and safeguarding the realm alongside Diavolo and Barbatos, the Exalt assumes a pivotal role in ensuring the realm's prosperity and the Prince's safety.

As part of the Astrals, guardians chosen for their courage and resolve, the Exalt faces unimaginable threats that jeopardize the Devildom's very existence. Guided by Solomon's wisdom, they unlock ancient powers that bind them closer to the demon they cherish deeply.

But it's not just duty that drives them. Only through marriage to Diavolo can the Exalt ascend to become the Prince or Princess, rising in tandem with the King's reign. Their fate becomes intertwined with the Devildom's future, becoming a beacon of protection across realms—the Devildom, the human world, and the Celestial Realm alike.

In this epic tale of love, duty, and celestial power, the Exalt and the Astrals stand as guardians against darkness, forging a legacy that spans worlds and defies destiny itself.

(In other words, me creating an excuse to have Diavolo receive all of the love and therapy he needs. Special shout-out to Fire Emblem: Awakening, which is where the term ‘Exalt’ was first found.)

[ringleaderising]

Can you tell me about the Constantine tab in your lair? I'm assuming Pete is not quite a normal dragon, what about the others? - frgreenmoon

You're completely correct in your assumption that Pete is not a... normal dragon. If we're being wholly accurate, Pete's not been a living thing for quite some time.

And his fellows in the Ever Constantine Mall are not friends, so much as... his most notable cast of victims.

TW: Horror themes, dragon death, 'zombies'/living doll themes.

I Got No Strings...

"...Frontman of metal band 'Half Dagger' found dead in the Ever Constantine Mall mere weeks before its planned grand opening- Ice Flight's authorities are working alongside Lightning's developmental crews to determine if this event is foul play...."

Hungry, resurrected- A new comment, I'm speaking tongues and infected, Atomic. My throat corroded, dissected, I've cut it. Petyr Shacklefrost "Pete" [He/It] [Pre-Reanimation]

Petyr Shacklefrost Better known by simply "Pete" was at one point a promising musician, the lead vocalist of the band Half Dagger and a well known punk in Plague's music scene, Pete spent much of his early life clawing his way from niche obscurity in Plague's music circles to something resembling mainstream success. and at one point, he simply... gave up.

With a loss of will but lingering, cutthroat ambition, he turned to rumor and ghost stories- an interest in the occult had been commonplace within his crew, after all, and among the stories shared over cold, cheap brews in taverns after shows- the tale of a Plague local from some time ago made something of a Goddess- a battle poet, a bard- a Mirror with her bones twisted and reshaped for an escape that still proved entirely futile- who in death offered her blessings to musicians she deemed worthy. But laziness and ambition in tandem do not a smart man make- and a plea to the wrong goddess would seal his fate.

Pete would be given what he sought- his trade made in blood on the grounds between Shadow and Plague where thick purple earth gave way to crawling sinew, he would be given a pendant- and a set of rules by the voice of what he surely thought was the lady of music- a string was a string, after all, Right?

It is unclear what rule Pete broke, or if he simply grew to bore the mistress he accidentally swore himself to- Sixteen cycles after he found the fame he so desperately clamored for- he would be found broken and lifeless in the construction zone of the Ever Constantine Mall.

His death would not be the respite he sought.

WE ARE VOLT-SPIRE ! ! !

Is this what you wanted? A clearer state of mind? Better bite the bullet~! Press down on bruises like wine heals better with time! From Left to Right: Heartb-b-beat (She/Her), RebelRebel [He/they], Ripley [They/She], Arcade [He/Him])

Time moves forward, and despite its rocky start, the Ever Constantine Mall quickly recovers from the troubling events of its grand opening- capitalism keeps Lightning flight at the forefront of invention and innovation, after all! Neon-soaked and a popular hangout with young locals, It's no surprise that it would draw in young creatives, over time- and our plucky young heroes for this story are the teenaged members of 'VOLT-SPIRE!' a pop punk outfit made up of drummer Ripley, lead guitar and backing vocalist Arcade, bassist and lead vocalist HeartBeat, and 'generally here because he's the only one who knows how to do sound tech and how to play the keys' RebelRebel, VOLT-SPIRE! is a project of plucky hope and lofty ambition, naivety turned into wild upward momentum, this little group of friends are the eponymous mall rats- though these days, its unclear if they still go because they like being at the Ever Constantine, or if they're simply guilty about the fate of their former rhythm guitarist, and co-founder of the band, Ducky.

The VOLT-SPIRE! kids are little more than a group of kids trying to enjoy the fleeting remainder of their childhood before they're expected to spread their wings and find a place of their own- friendships strained by strange happenings at their favorite hangout in the twilight hours of their time together, they cling to the good memories desperately.

Unbeknownst to the four of them, though, the Ever Constantine now exists contained in a time-loop, cycling back on itself to allow for the pursuit and containment of INTRUDER- a member of The Host who was created in the initial cataclysm- but the mangled reflection that caused the disappearance of their friend Ducky is not the only thing that lurks among the neon lit halls.

Now: Survive.

Aren't you lucky you're a bleeder?- Do what you need to stay alive. Bast Whipwire [He/Him], Pete [Post reanimation]

A deal made to the Puppeteer is one that the living never hope to escape- Pete had hoped death might be the freedom he sought, cut free of her strings, no longer bound to the will of something he never hoped to understand- no longer a puppet tied to her twisted rules- a new one each day to keep his newfound fame- her mocking laughter each time he nearly broke one.

He is now little more than an echo of what once was. The shambling, wire-bound remains of a once wild-eyed, passionate performer, the "Pete" of today is little more than a hollow doll guided by hunger. it crawls within him, leaves him desperate and moving surprisingly quickly through darkened hallways cast only in pale neons with jerky, unearthly movements as if guided by marionette strings affixed to each point of his body. He does not speak, the once-confident and capable way he carried conversation swallowed up with wild, hyena-like laughter and spilling, streaking puddles of black gore from his maw and injuries in his battle jacket clad pelt, hot like a flame and evaporating as they drip- smoky hands forming to pull invisible strings around his body.

And in the pursuit of the INTRUDER- Agent Bast finds himself the caregiver of the teens now trapped after hours in their practice space, the very music store where Shacklefrost made his final gamble- and lost. Pete is not a symptom of what Bast seeks, nor is it an entity he can cure, but he is a stopping block, and the more prevalent danger to the innocents within the cycle.

And thus, the INTRUDER will have to wait.

@frgreenmoon (bc you sent this on anon like, literal months ago lol)

[dailydemonspotlight]

Mothman - Day 3

Race: Vermin/Wilder

Alignment: Dark-Neutral

March 21st, 2024

Ohhh, Mothman. He lifts a man off the ground because he's in a new town. This beloved cryptid hails from Point Pleasant, West Virginia, well known in cryptozoology circles for his elusiveness... and popularity, as he's almost a cultural icon in West Virginia. This wayward moth has a museum, several books, an entire festival... his popularity cannot go understated! However, why did this legend arise, and why is he a demon?

As with many demons, the Mothman is a myth of sorts, though certainly a far more urban one. In 1966, Point Pleasant Register published an article detailing a harrowing report: A man-sized, bird-like creature flying far above the TNT area, marked with two glowing red eyes that shone almost like headlights in the murky black of the night. One man shone a light at it, and it kept back, clearly afraid of the light. Since that night, Mothman became a feared monster in the shadows, a beast stalking the broken-down power plants peppering West Virginia and soaring through the sky with nary a sound past the flap of its impossibly large wings.

Ever since the book "The Mothman Prophecies" by John Keel, Mothman has forever had a link to the paranormal and unknown, as the book drew a link between the urban legend and several disasters that took place in areas where it was sighted, and most notably, the famous sighting in Silver Bridge, which soon then collapsed. Since then, the Mothman has had a widespread appeal as a terror of the night... or a misunderstood harbinger who tries to warn of disaster. His role in the cultural zeitgeist of the Americas almost makes him a modern, American equivalent to such a monster as a Yokai of Japanese myth, a monster whose existence cannot be proven nor disproven, and who inspires stories and wives tales in tandem.

Mothman's appearance in Shin Megami Tensei is... strange. Gone is the dark, shaggy fur, as is the large, humanoid stance, and instead... we get something a lot more cute. The hypnotic glare of the monster has been translated to his wings, now multicolored and downright trippy, and he's a lot more cuddly than the menacing beast that Mothman is typically seen as. His glowing red eyes have small slits to communicate a far more personable appearance, and his variable colors throughout make him transform from a terrifying creature of the night into an adorable little pest.

In the game, Mothman plays the role of a magic attacker, mostly appearing in the early-mid game. With a focus on electric skills as well as disrupting the opponent through status conditions, his strange, almost otherworldly aspects have been translated well into gameplay. While lacking in signature skills, his overall role as a disruptor works wonders in making him viable in several situations.

His weakness to force is a little hard to parse, but I believe it's meant to be a reference to how flying entities may end up getting metaphorically whipped around by the wind, especially given their size- Mothman is, historically, just as large as a human, something that translates to a greater amount of drag while in flight. This is just a guesstimation, though, as quite a lot of the attributes in SMT games feel a bit... randomly assigned? However, his affinity for electricity is easy to understand- Mothman sightings are most often around power plants, after all. In SMT, it may very well be possible that he went there to siphon their energy away for himself, all to unleash it in each attack.

Regardless of this, though, Mothman's unique, adorably weird design and bizarre translation into the game mechanics make him a personal favorite, even past the fact that he's based on my favorite cryptid of all time. I mean, just look at him! Prime goober material!!! This gleepy freak is strange, dangerous, and we love him for it.

[jayluvb0t]

Shadows of the Arena: Defiance Beyond the Capitol

Coriolanus Snow x nb Reader

In the bustling heart of the Capitol, the air was thick with anticipation as the tributes from District 12, clad in somber attire, stepped into the grandeur of the Training Center. Among them, Y/N, a reluctant tribute with fire in their eyes, caught the attention of Coriolanus Snow, the seasoned mentor with an air of calculated charm. Little did they know, the intricate dance of the Hunger Games was about to weave a tale of unexpected connection, as mentor and tribute embarked on a journey that blurred the lines between duty and desire in the arena's unforgiving shadows.

As Y/N's desperation mounted, a surge of defiance propelled them to make a daring escape attempt. In a reckless bid for freedom, they sprinted through the ornate corridors of the Capitol, their heart pounding in tandem with the echoes of approaching guards. The air crackled with tension as Y/N's feet pounded against the cold, polished floors, their breaths hitching.

But fate intervened with a cruel twist, as the guards, armed with cold precision, halted Y/N's escape. A sharp crack echoed through the corridor, and a searing pain shot through Y/N's foot as they crumpled to the ground. The guards, expressionless in their duty, stood over them, a stark reminder of the Capitol's merciless grip, leaving Y/N wounded and their rebellion quashed, at least for the moment.

Y/N's anguished scream reverberated through the Capitol's sterile halls, a haunting melody of pain and desperation. The sound cut through the air, drawing the attention of those nearby, including Coriolanus Snow. His calculating gaze fixed upon the scene unfolding, betraying a flicker of concern masked beneath his composed exterior.

As Y/N writhed in agony, Snow's features remained stoic, a facade of detached control. Yet, beneath the surface, an enigmatic emotion stirred. Whether it was a twinge of sympathy or a deeper acknowledgment of the brutality embedded in the Hunger Games, his unreadable expression left room for speculation. The Capitol's cruel dance continued, with pain echoing through the halls and the mentor's inscrutable gaze fixed upon the unfolding drama.

In the dimly lit mentor's chamber, the air hung heavy with the weight of impending tribulation. Y/N, nursing the throbbing pain from their earlier escape attempt, entered hesitantly. Coriolanus Snow, seated at an ornate desk, regarded them with an assessing gaze that seemed to pierce through layers of facade.

"Y/N, District 12, isn't it?" Snow's voice was a velvety murmur, betraying none of the complexity lurking within. "A spirited attempt at escape. You must understand, survival requires more finesse than rebellion."

Y/N met his gaze defiantly, pain etched across their features. It was a silent clash of wills, a dance beginning in a dark chamber that would extend onto the grand stage of the Hunger Games arena. Snow, the orchestrator of strategy, and Y/N, the reluctant pawn, their fates now intertwined in the unforgiving tapestry of the Capitol's games.

Desperation etched in their eyes, Y/N mustered the courage to plead with Coriolanus Snow. "Please, Snow, you have influence. Take me out of the Capitol, back to the districts. I can't survive this, and you know it."

Snow's steely gaze wavered for a moment, a subtle pause that hinted at the conflict within. "Survival is a delicate balance, Y/N. I can't alter the rules, but I can offer guidance. Play the game wisely, and perhaps you'll find a way to navigate its intricacies."

The mentor's response held a cryptic promise, leaving Y/N at the mercy of the Capitol's whims. In the hallowed halls where strategy and desperation converged, the dance of survival had only just begun.

In a final plea, Y/N, their voice laced with desperation, implored Snow, "I understand the Games are inevitable, but please, help me as much as you can. Guide me, protect me. I'm begging you."

Snow's gaze remained inscrutable, a calculated pause lingering in the air. "I will provide guidance, Y/N, but remember, even in the Capitol, some lines can't be crossed. Play the game, and perhaps you'll find a path that leads beyond the arena."

With a nod that held a mix of reluctant acknowledgment and veiled intentions, the mentor pledged a measured assistance, leaving Y/N to navigate the treacherous currents of the Hunger Games with a mentor whose motives remained shrouded in Capitol intrigue.

As Y/N prepared to face the impending tribulations of the Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow, in an unexpected gesture, extended a delicate rose towards them. The crimson petals stood in stark contrast to the Capitol's cold surroundings.

"A token to remind you of the delicate balance between beauty and brutality," Snow remarked cryptically. The rose, a fragile emblem of fleeting elegance, passed between them as a fleeting moment of connection in the midst of the impending chaos.

With that, Y/N, bearing the weight of the rose and the mentor's enigmatic guidance, was once again sent into the unforgiving embrace of the Capitol's Hunger Games arena. The delicate bloom served as a silent reminder of the intricate dance they were about to perform, where every step could lead either to triumph or tragedy.

In the hushed moments before the grand spectacle of the interviews, Y/N found themselves in a private chamber with Coriolanus Snow. The air hung heavy with anticipation, and Y/N couldn't suppress the nerves that danced beneath their facade.

"Snow," Y/N began, their voice a mixture of uncertainty and determination, "I need more than guidance for the interviews. I need to make an impression. Help me, please."

Snow's gaze, as ever, measured and calculating, softened imperceptibly. "Impressions are delicate things, Y/N. Wear the mask the Capitol wants to see, and remember, every word is a move in this intricate game."

With a subtle nod, Snow offered a cryptic assurance, leaving Y/N to step onto the stage where words held the power to shape destinies. The interviews loomed, a platform where tributes wove narratives that could either enchant the Capitol or seal their fate in the arena's merciless grasp.

As Y/N stepped into the spotlight, the hushed murmurs of the Capitol audience faded into a tense silence. "I'm Y/N from District 12," they began, the weight of the moment palpable. "In the face of this adversity, I offer a song that echoes the spirit of resilience from our humble district."

A haunting melody filled the air as Y/N's voice carried the poignant notes of "The Hanging Tree." The Capitol audience, momentarily captivated, was drawn into the somber tale that resonated with the echoes of rebellion and untamed spirit. The lyrics reverberated, a poignant reminder of a world beyond the Capitol's glittering facade.

As Y/N's performance concluded, the room held a charged stillness, the song lingering like a haunting refrain. The Capitol, momentarily transported to the shadows of District 12, grappled with the unexpected resonance of a tribute who dared to carry the weight of defiance into the heart of the Capitol's grand theater.

As Y/N's rendition of "The Hanging Tree" unfolded, an unspoken tension settled in the air. Coriolanus Snow, perceptive as ever, felt the echoes of a history he wished to forget. The haunting melody stirred memories of a past tribute's betrayal, a defiance that still lingered in the Capitol's collective consciousness.

Snow's features tightened imperceptibly, a subtle mask of controlled displeasure. Yet, beneath the veneer, a flicker of unease betrayed his internal conflict. The song, once a symbol of rebellion, now resurfaced as an unexpected challenge to the Capitol's carefully crafted narrative.

In the clandestine dance of power, Y/N's choice of song had struck a nerve, leaving Snow to grapple with the echoes of a past he sought to bury beneath the glittering spectacle of the Hunger Games.

Sensing the shift in atmosphere, Y/N, with a determined glint in their eyes, shifted the tone. "Enough of shadows," they declared. "Allow me to share a piece of my own."

A melody of hope and resilience filled the space as Y/N, now the architect of their narrative, sang a self-written song. The lyrics wove a tale of overcoming adversity, of a spirit unbroken even in the face of the Capitol's merciless game.

The room, caught between the haunting echoes of rebellion and the newfound warmth of Y/N's original composition, experienced a subtle transformation. The Capitol audience, momentarily disarmed, found themselves drawn into a narrative that defied the expected script.

Coriolanus Snow, his steely gaze briefly softened, observed the interplay of emotions with a masked interest. In that moment, Y/N, through the power of song, had become both a tribute and a storyteller, rewriting the script of their journey in the Capitol's intricate dance.

The Capitol audience, stirred by Y/N's performance, responded with a surge of unexpected generosity. As Y/N's self-written song resonated, viewers were moved by the tribute's ability to shift the narrative, and donations began pouring in.

In the aftermath of the interviews, Y/N found themselves the beneficiary of a noteworthy display of Capitol goodwill. The exact count of donations became a buzz among the Capitol citizens, a testament to the impact of Y/N's performance in the delicate dance of public opinion within the Hunger Games arena.

With the echoes of applause still reverberating, Y/N, fueled by a mix of nerves and anticipation, rushed over to Coriolanus Snow. "How did I do?" they asked, their eyes searching his for any hint of approval or critique.

Snow, ever the composed mentor, considered their question with a measured pause. "You navigated the delicate balance well, Y/N," he finally responded. "The Capitol is fickle, but your performance left an impression. Now, let the Games unfold as they will, and remember, perception can be as powerful as reality."

As the ominous countdown to the Hunger Games began, Y/N sought out Coriolanus Snow for a final exchange of words. In the dimly lit chamber, anticipation hung thick in the air.

"Snow," Y/N began, a mixture of resolve and vulnerability in their gaze, "whatever happens in the arena, I need to know if you're truly on my side."

Snow's expression, inscrutable as ever, betrayed a hint of complexity. "In the arena, Y/N, alliances can be fragile, and loyalty is a fleeting currency. Trust in your instincts, play the game, and perhaps, survival will favor you."

With a cryptic nod, Snow left Y/N standing at the precipice of the arena, where the delicate dance of alliances and betrayals awaited in the unforgiving theater of the Hunger Games.

As the echoing gong marked the commencement of the Hunger Games, Y/N's instincts kicked in, propelling them into a frenzied sprint. They darted through the terrain, seeking refuge in the labyrinth of the arena, the adrenaline-fueled pursuit of survival guiding their every move.

Heart pounding, Y/N found a concealed nook, breaths held in anticipation as the sounds of the initial clashes reverberated through the arena. In the shadows, they huddled, a lone tribute navigating the treacherous terrain, aware that every choice made in these early moments could be a pivotal step toward triumph or demise. The intricate dance of the Hunger Games had begun, and Y/N, poised on the edge, braced themselves for the challenges that lay ahead.

Cornered by other tributes, Y/N's instincts kicked into high gear. With a quick assessment of her surroundings, she seized an opportunity, ducking into a concealed alcove just as her pursuers closed in.

As the tributes hesitated, uncertain of Y/N's exact location, she silently slipped away, utilizing the terrain to her advantage. Swift and cunning, Y/N managed to outmaneuver her would-be assailants, leaving them searching in vain for the tribute who had momentarily eluded their grasp.

In the shadows, Y/N pressed on, a testament to her resourcefulness in the face of danger. The Hunger Games, a ruthless test of survival, had just witnessed the first dance of evasion, and Y/N, for now, had managed to slip through the fingers of those who sought her demise.

As the arena echoed with the sounds of a struggle, Y/N found themselves entangled in a fierce confrontation with another tribute. The clash was brutal, and in the midst of the skirmish, Y/N sustained a visible wound, a testament to the unforgiving nature of the Hunger Games.

Coriolanus Snow, watching from the Capitol's control center, observed the unfolding drama with an impassive exterior that masked the underlying currents of interest. As Y/N managed to break free, bloodied but determined, Snow's steely gaze betrayed a flicker of acknowledgment.

The wounded tribute's resilience had captured Snow's attention, the unpredictable nature of the Games unfolding in a way that both intrigued and challenged the mentor's calculations. In the Capitol's calculated spectacle, Y/N's struggle became a poignant moment of survival, a testament to the intricate dance between chaos and control in the arena.

As Y/N, weakened and injured, sought refuge in a hidden enclave and succumbed to the toll of the Hunger Games, Coriolanus Snow's attention remained fixated on the unfolding drama. In the control center, the monitors displayed Y/N's vulnerable form, a tableau of survival teetering on the brink.

Snow, the puppet master in this grim theater, assessed the situation with clinical detachment. The tributes' struggles were the Capitol's entertainment, a delicate balance of spectacle and brutality. Yet, beneath the veneer of indifference, a subtle interest lingered. Y/N's vulnerability presented a narrative twist, a wildcard in the Capitol's meticulously orchestrated game.

With a measured gaze, Snow monitored the unconscious tribute, pondering the unpredictable turns that lay ahead. In the Capitol's grand design, the fate of Y/N, now resting in the shadows, became another thread in the intricate tapestry of the Hunger Games.

In the hushed aftermath of unconsciousness, Y/N stirred. Weakened but resolute, they pushed themselves onto their knees, the dim light of the hidden enclave casting shadows across their determined features. The arena's silence enveloped them, broken only by the distant echoes of the ongoing Games.

Coriolanus Snow, monitoring the tributes' every move from the Capitol's control center, noted the subtle shift in Y/N's condition. The tributes were pieces on a chessboard, and Y/N's recovery introduced a new dynamic to the intricate game. Snow's calculating gaze lingered, acknowledging the tribute's resilience as a variable that could shape the unfolding narrative in unexpected ways. In the delicate dance of survival, Y/N's journey in the Hunger Games continued, marked by moments of vulnerability and tenacious defiance.

As Y/N rose from their knees, a surge of emotion gripped them. The weight of the Hunger Games, the brutality, and the fragility of survival manifested in their eyes. In a poignant moment of vulnerability, Y/N looked directly into the camera, the lens capturing the raw intensity of their emotions.

"These Games are brutal," they whispered, their voice carrying the weight of the arena's merciless reality. "Every moment is a struggle. But having Snow as my mentor… it's a twisted solace in this chaos. It's a reminder that even in this darkness, alliances can be found."

The sincerity in Y/N's gaze sought to bridge the gap between the Capitol's entertainment and the stark truth of the tributes' ordeal. The camera, a silent witness to the tribulations unfolding, captured a glimpse of humanity within the spectacle—a tribute grappling with the harsh truth of survival, finding an unexpected anchor in the enigmatic mentor, Coriolanus Snow.

Y/N's passionate declaration echoed through the hidden enclave, a vow to defy the very essence of the Hunger Games. "I'll do anything to stop the Game makers. I'll free every tribute in this arena," they declared, the intensity of their words reverberating against the cold walls.

In the Capitol's control center, Coriolanus Snow's expression remained a mask of calculated composure. The defiance in Y/N's words, a direct challenge to the Capitol's authority, elicited a subtle furrow of his brow. The unpredictable spirit that Y/N exhibited posed a complex puzzle within the carefully constructed dynamics of the Hunger Games.

Snow's response, a measured gaze fixated on the monitor displaying Y/N's impassioned stance, hinted at the intricate dance of power unfolding. Y/N's determination to challenge the very foundation of the Games added a layer of unpredictability to the Capitol's scripted narrative, leaving Snow to contemplate the implications of a tribute who dared to defy the established order.

In a moment of vulnerability, Y/N, her gaze lingering on the camera, whispered words that cut through the tension of the arena. "Snow, in this twisted game, I've found something unexpected. I might have fallen… in ways I never anticipated."

As Y/N backed away, leaving the camera to capture the enigmatic confession, Coriolanus Snow's stoic facade wavered imperceptibly. The revelation of an unexpected emotion, a sentiment that transcended the brutal confines of the Hunger Games, introduced a complex layer to the dynamics between mentor and tribute.

Snow's gaze, a mixture of intrigue and calculation, lingered on the monitor. The Capitol's puppet master confronted an unforeseen twist, a tributary emotion that defied the scripted narrative. Y/N, armed with newfound determination, retreated to secure a weapon, leaving Snow to grapple with the uncharted territories of emotion within the meticulously orchestrated theater of the Hunger Games.

In the climactic final battles of the Hunger Games, the Game makers, ever intent on amplifying the drama, decided to release a deadly threat—poisonous snakes. The arena's atmosphere grew tense as tributes confronted this perilous new challenge.

Y/N, navigating the chaos, became entangled in a harrowing encounter with the venomous serpents. The deadly dance of survival reached a critical juncture as tributes fought not only against each other but also against the looming threat of the Game makers' cruelty.

Coriolanus Snow, in the Capitol's control center, observed the unfolding chaos with a calculated interest. The orchestrated dangers of the arena tested the tributes' mettle, and the poisonous snakes added a lethal twist to the final act of the Hunger Games. As the tributes grappled with the serpentine threat, Snow's gaze remained fixed on the monitors, a puppet master overseeing the intricate climax of the Capitol's merciless spectacle.

In a sinister turn of events, the arena succumbed to the onslaught of the poisonous snakes, entwining every tribute, including Y/N, in a deadly embrace. The once-fierce battles were silenced beneath the suffocating coils of the serpents, their lethal venom sealing the fates of those who dared to challenge the Capitol's orchestrated nightmare.

In the control center, Coriolanus Snow watched as the arena transformed into a graveyard of twisted ambitions. The calculated chaos had reached its climax, the poisonous snakes becoming the harbingers of a brutal finale. Snow's gaze, unmoved by the tributes' plight, lingered on the monitors, a puppet master witnessing the devastating crescendo of the Hunger Games. The Capitol's cruel dance had claimed its victims, leaving only shadows in the wake of the deadly serpentine onslaught.

In the aftermath of the serpentine onslaught, the once vibrant arena now lay in eerie silence. As the poisonous snakes slithered away, leaving devastation in their wake, Coriolanus Snow's eyes fixated on the lone remnant — the rose that had once passed between him and Y/N.

A subtle shift in Snow's demeanor betrayed a flicker of emotion beneath the veneer of control. The delicate bloom, now a symbol of the fallen tribute, held a poignant weight in the grand theater of the Capitol's games. The mentor's calculated exterior wavered, if only for a moment, as the gravity of the orchestrated tragedy unfolded before him.

In the quiet aftermath, the rose stood as a silent witness to the fleeting connection between mentor and tribute, a delicate memory amidst the ruthless spectacle that had consumed the arena.

As the poisonous snakes retreated, leaving behind the grim aftermath, a solitary tear traced a silent path down Coriolanus Snow's face. The stoic facade cracked, and the tear, a poignant betrayal of emotion, spoke volumes in the aftermath of the Capitol's merciless games.

In the quiet of the control center, where power and emotion intertwined, Snow grappled with the weight of orchestrated tragedy. The tear, a subtle testimony to the complexity of mentorship and loss, mirrored the bitter dance of victory and despair in the Hunger Games. In that solitary moment, the puppet master himself became a puppet to the intricate emotions that underscored the Capitol's ruthless theater.

Addressing the unseen Game makers, Coriolanus Snow's voice cut through the control center's hushed atmosphere. "This… this was a calculated atrocity," he declared, the weight of the orchestrated tragedy heavy in his words. "We manipulate lives, but there must be a line. This spectacle borders on sadism."

The control center, usually a domain of detached calculations, now bore witness to an unexpected rebellion within its own ranks. Snow's rare moment of dissent echoed through the control room, a plea or perhaps a warning that the Hunger Games had reached a precipice where the boundaries of cruelty had been stretched too far.

The Capitol's puppet master, momentarily shaken by the orchestrated chaos he had overseen, stood at the nexus of power and remorse, challenging the very system he had perpetuated. The aftermath of the serpentine onslaught had exposed fractures in the carefully constructed facade of the Hunger Games, leaving Snow to confront the consequences of the Capitol's insatiable appetite for spectacle.

Amidst the heavy silence, a familiar voice pierced the air. Y/N's defiant shout resonated, breaking the stillness as they emerged from a concealed hiding spot, clutching the lone rose that had survived the serpentine onslaught.

In the control center, Coriolanus Snow's gaze shifted, surprise flickering across his features. The unexpected reappearance of Y/N defied the orchestrated narrative of the Capitol's games, introducing an element of unpredictability that transcended the calculated cruelty.

As Y/N, rose in hand, defied the presumed fate, the arena's shadows seemed to shudder. The delicate bloom, a symbol of survival against all odds, stood as a testament to the tributes' resilience in the face of the Capitol's orchestrated torment. The Hunger Games, for a moment, became a battlefield where the tributes defied not only the Game makers but the very essence of a meticulously controlled destiny.

In a moment of unprecedented action, Coriolanus Snow, driven by a surge of emotions and an unexpected turn of events, bolted from the Capitol's control center. The austere halls of power were left behind as he sprinted towards the arena, compelled by a force that defied the carefully orchestrated script of the Hunger Games.

The Capitol, accustomed to the controlled manipulation of tributes, now witnessed its puppet master stepping into the unpredictable arena. Snow, usually ensconced in the ivory tower of authority, found himself crossing the threshold into the perilous terrain where tributes battled for survival.

As Snow entered the arena, the dynamics of power shifted, leaving the Capitol to grapple with the repercussions of its own creation. The enigmatic mentor, now a participant in the brutal dance of the Hunger Games, sought to navigate the treacherous terrain where tributes defied the script and rose against the orchestrated shadows of the Capitol.

In a surreal convergence of power and vulnerability, Coriolanus Snow, once the orchestrator of the Capitol's cruelty, rushed towards Y/N. As the two figures met in the arena, he enveloped her in an unexpected embrace, the weight of the rose and the complex emotions that had woven their journey in the Hunger Games now tangible in the shared moment.

The Capitol's control center, accustomed to calculated detachment, now watched as the puppet master and tribute defied the boundaries that had separated them. The hug, a poignant breach in the Capitol's calculated facade, spoke of an unscripted connection between mentor and tribute, blurring the lines of power and humanity in the unforgiving theater of the Hunger Games.

Breaking away from the unexpected hug, Y/N, her eyes reflecting a mix of emotions, couldn't help but offer a wry smile. "Well, Snow," she teased, "I didn't expect to see you embracing your softer side in the middle of the arena. Should I be worried that the Capitol's puppet master is turning sentimental?"

The remark, laced with a hint of humor, carried a subtle acknowledgment of the unusual turn of events. In the midst of the orchestrated chaos, Y/N's playful quip became a momentary respite, a reminder that even within the Hunger Games, the interplay of emotions and wit could defy the Capitol's scripted narrative.

Coriolanus Snow, caught in the unscripted intimacy of the arena, took a breath and spoke with a sincerity that transcended the orchestrated drama. "Y/N," he began, his voice betraying a complexity seldom revealed, "this arena, these games, they have revealed an unexpected truth. Amidst the shadows, I find myself feeling something… unexpected. It's more than the Hunger Games, more than the Capitol's machinations."

In that vulnerable confession, Snow laid bare emotions that had long been shrouded in the corridors of power. The arena, witness to tributes' battles, now stood witness to an unexpected revelation between mentor and tribute—a connection that defied the very fabric of the Capitol's orchestrated reality.

Y/N, her gaze holding a mixture of surprise and amusement, couldn't resist a playful quip. "In love, Snow? Is there someone special in that cold heart of yours, or have you finally fallen for the Capitol's grandeur?"

Snow, usually composed, allowed a rare flicker of a smile. "Love, my dear, is a luxury reserved for those who can afford it. In the Capitol, it's a currency, a game we all play. But perhaps, in the shadows of this arena, the rules are different."

The exchange, a blend of jest and underlying sincerity, hung in the air—an unexpected interlude in the merciless dance of the Hunger Games, where emotions, like tributes, defied the scripted expectations of the Capitol.

In a moment of startling intimacy, Coriolanus Snow, defying the expectations of the Capitol's grand theater, gently held Y/N's face and pressed a tender kiss against her lips. The arena, once a battleground for survival, became an unexpected stage for a connection that transcended the scripted confines of the Hunger Games.

In the Capitol, the reaction was a mix of shock, gasps, and a hushed awe. The stoic composure of the citizens wavered as they witnessed the mentor and tribute, entwined in a forbidden embrace. The orchestrated cruelty of the Hunger Games had given way to an unscripted tableau of human connection.

The Capitol, accustomed to spectacles, now grappled with the repercussions of a mentor and tribute shattering the boundaries of control. The forbidden kiss became a moment of defiance against the Capitol's calculated narrative, leaving its citizens to grapple with the unexpected twist in the cruel dance that had unfolded before their eyes.

As the echoes of the unconventional kiss lingered, Y/N, her eyes searching Snow's, asked a question that held the weight of uncertainty. "Snow, will you come with me? Leave the Capitol behind, and let's find a life beyond these twisted games."

Snow, his gaze meeting hers, considered the proposition with a mixture of contemplation and acknowledgment of the complex web of power that entwined him. The Capitol's puppet master, faced with a choice that defied the rigid structures of authority, had to confront the consequences of an unexpected bond that had blossomed amidst the orchestrated chaos of the Hunger Games.

In the lingering silence that followed Y/N's question, the weight of the Capitol's control and the intricate dance of power hung in the air. Coriolanus Snow, usually the embodiment of calculated control, found himself at a crossroads.

Finally, he met Y/N's gaze with a measured intensity. "The Capitol is my domain, Y/N. I've played the game for too long. But perhaps, in your journey back to District 12, you'll find a life beyond the shadows. As for me, I remain bound to the Capitol's whims."

The acknowledgment carried a sense of resignation, a recognition of the unyielding ties that bound Snow to the heart of the Capitol's grand design. In that moment, Y/N and Snow stood on opposite sides of a divide, the arena's shadows casting a poignant contrast against the fragile hopes that had momentarily illuminated the Hunger Games.

Y/N, her eyes filled with a plea for a shared future beyond the Capitol's confines, implored Snow once more. "Snow, please. Leave this place with me. We can find a life outside these games, away from the shadows that bind us. There's more to living than the Capitol's control."

Snow, facing the entreaty, grappled with conflicting emotions. The Capitol's grip was unyielding, but Y/N's plea resonated with the promise of a life untethered from the cruelty of the Hunger Games. The mentor and tribute stood at the precipice, each facing a choice that could redefine their destinies in a world beyond the orchestrated theater of the Capitol.

Coriolanus Snow, his gaze meeting Y/N's with a blend of reluctance and resignation, responded, "Y/N, the Capitol is both my fortress and my prison. The dance of power here defines my existence. I can't simply walk away."

In his words, a heavy acknowledgment of the entwined nature of his destiny with the Capitol resonated. The puppet master, though moved by the plea, remained tethered to the intricacies of the Capitol's grand design. The dance of power, the shadows of control, held a sway too potent to be easily cast aside. The fragile hopes of departure, for now, seemed suspended in the tension between what could be and the unyielding reality of the Capitol's authority.

As Y/N, angered and disappointed, turned to walk away, Coriolanus Snow hesitated for a moment, torn between the Capitol's grip and the desire to follow her. In a fleeting act of vulnerability, he reached out, his hand lingering in the air, as if grasping for something beyond the calculated confines of power.

"Y/N," he uttered, a strained edge to his voice, uncertain whether to let her go or to break the chains that bound him to the Capitol's authority. The arena's shadows, witnessing this struggle, held a silent tension, reflecting the internal conflict that defined Snow's precarious position in the face of an unexpected bond forged in the crucible of the Hunger Games.

As Y/N stood on the brink of leaving the arena, Coriolanus Snow, grappling with the internal conflict, found his voice. "Y/N, wait," he called out, the words carrying a weight of uncertainty and a hint of desperation.

In that moment, the arena's shadows seemed to hold their breath. The call echoed through the silent expanse, a plea that transcended the scripted boundaries of the Capitol's games. The mentor's voice, reaching out to the departing tribute, hung in the air, a poignant testament to the fractures in the meticulously crafted facade of power.

In the pregnant pause that followed, Y/N, having halted at the sound of Snow's call, stood at the precipice of a decision. The arena's shadows, witness to this unexpected tableau, held their breath as the mentor and tribute faced the intersection of conflicting desires.

Snow, having called out to her, approached with a mix of uncertainty and determination. The unspoken tension between them seemed to reverberate, each moment carrying the weight of a choice that could reshape the narrative of their destinies in the cruel dance of the Hunger Games.

Y/N, her eyes reflecting a mix of anger and impatience, turned to face Snow and demanded, "So, what's your decision now? Are you coming with me, or are you staying bound to the Capitol's twisted games?"

The air hung heavy with the unspoken implications of the question. The arena, a theater of power and defiance, stood witness to the clash of wills between mentor and tribute, as the fragile moment of decision unfolded amidst the echoes of the Hunger Games.

Coriolanus Snow met Y/N's gaze, the weight of his decision palpable in the air. "Y/N, the Capitol is a labyrinth of power, and I am entangled in its web," he admitted, his voice carrying a mixture of resignation and conflict. "I cannot walk away, but perhaps… perhaps there's a way we can navigate this labyrinth together."

In those words, Snow acknowledged the complexities that bound him to the Capitol's authority, yet hinted at a shared journey where mentor and tribute might find a path that defied the expected script. The arena's shadows seemed to hold their breath as the mentor and tribute stood on the brink of a tentative alliance, poised at the nexus of power and the unpredictable currents of the Hunger Games.

Y/N, her expression a mix of determination and resolve, spoke with a pledge that cut through the tension. "I'll help you navigate this labyrinth, Snow. We can find a way out together, away from the Capitol's grip. I promise."

The pledge hung in the air, a fragile alliance forming amidst the shadows of the arena. The mentor and tribute, bound by an unspoken understanding, faced the uncertain journey that lay ahead—a journey that held the promise of escape from the Capitol's cruel dance, a dance that had, for a moment, allowed the unexpected alliance to emerge from the ashes of orchestrated chaos.

Days later, the Capitol's grand spectacle behind them, Y/N and Coriolanus Snow boarded the train that would carry them back to District 12. The air inside the lavish compartment seemed to carry the weight of the journey they had undertaken, a journey that defied the Capitol's expectations.

As the train departed, leaving the opulence of the Capitol's control center behind, Y/N and Snow faced the uncertain path ahead. The alliance formed in the arena had forged a connection that transcended the scripted confines of the Hunger Games, and now, against the backdrop of rolling landscapes, mentor and tribute navigated the delicate dance between power, defiance, and the fragile promise of a life beyond the Capitol's orchestrated chaos.

Coriolanus Snow, seated in the train compartment en route to District 12, carried a mix of emotions. The enigmatic mentor, accustomed to the calculated machinations of power, now navigated uncharted territories. Beneath the composed exterior, traces of uncertainty and contemplation flickered—a reflection of the intricate web of alliances and conflicts that had woven their journey in the Hunger Games.

As the landscape outside shifted, so did Snow's internal landscape. The promise of an alliance with Y/N offered a glimpse of a life beyond the Capitol's control, yet the weight of his role in the Capitol's grand design lingered, a burden that could not be easily shed. In this journey back to District 12, the puppet master himself found strings of complexity pulling at the fabric of his meticulously crafted existence.

In a moment of unexpected tenderness, Y/N leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on Coriolanus Snow's cheek. The gesture, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities that had defined their journey, resonated with a quiet intensity in the train compartment.

Snow, momentarily caught off guard, met Y/N's gaze with a gaze that held a mixture of surprise and a flicker of vulnerability. The kiss, a brief interlude in the intricate dance of power, hinted at the uncharted territories their alliance had opened—a connection that defied the Capitol's expectations and forged a bond between mentor and tribute that transcended the cruel confines of the Hunger Games.

As the train continued its journey toward District 12, Y/N and Coriolanus Snow sat in a momentary silence, the echoes of their shared experiences in the Hunger Games lingering in the air. The landscapes outside the windows transformed from the opulence of the Capitol to the familiar contours of their home district.

In the quiet of the train compartment, Y/N and Snow faced the uncertain path that lay ahead. The alliance born in the arena had irrevocably altered the trajectory of their destinies. The Capitol, with its grand machinations and orchestrated cruelty, had been left behind, replaced by the possibility of a life that defied the scripted narrative.

As the train rolled into District 12, Y/N and Snow disembarked, stepping onto familiar ground yet transformed by the shadows of their shared journey. The alliance that had emerged amidst the Hunger Games had become a beacon of defiance—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit against the Capitol's calculated control.

In the midst of the district's stark reality, Y/N and Snow faced a future that held the promise of freedom, tangled with the complexities of power and the lingering shadows of the Capitol. The Hunger Games, with all its orchestrated brutality, had given birth to an alliance that transcended its cruel confines, leaving mentor and tribute to navigate the uncharted territories of a life beyond the Capitol's grasp.

[power-chords]

This is not simply or strictly a gangster cool, though ever since Peter Weir’s The Year of Living Dangerously, and again with the 2012 documentary The Act of Killing, Jakarta has loomed in the Western cultural imaginary as a tropical noir, an urban heart of darkness. Joseph Conrad actually did write a 1915 novel set on Java, called Victory: An Island Tale, and, in tandem with the Dutch classic of political awakening, Max Havelaar, anonymously penned in 1860, it portrays Indonesia as the Asian colony in extremis. Much like the films, both novels are rife with complex cultural misunderstandings, moments of startling clarity, and undercurrents of unfathomable cruelty. Yet none of these works delves much into the spatial character of Batavia, old or new. In contemporary culture Jakarta registers now as a vague haven of criminal reinvention (see Blackhat, by Michael Mann), just as Los Angeles did for much of its history, bathed in the seductive shadows of ill repute. In both cities, though, one finds as much sunshine as noir — and in Jakarta far more day-to-day consideration than corruption.

Abetting their outlaw casting, Jakarta and Los Angeles are both cities of systems, rather than boundaries. Indeed, Jakarta is shaped by the same two dynamic forces as Los Angeles, and their corollary infrastructures: waterflow, though measured in deluge rather than drought; and traffic, though more constant and intense here than in L.A. Either an excess or scarcity of water requires intensive hydro-systemic management, so both cities are coursed by many canals running from their highlands down-basin to their harbors. Too big to bury but too meager to provide riverfront causeways or esplanades, the many concretized and cordoned “creeks” of both cities form a kind of urban subconscious in plain view, reminders of how nature was bought off early, but not forever, by the Dutch East India Company or the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.

[wisismydumpstat]

I'm trying some of the Epic free games and Tandem: A tale of shadows is a GORGEOUS game

[apalestar]

One orthon was difficult enough, three was insurmountable. Yet it was almost plausible. Sent on behalf of Zariel, mercy was a far cry away. It seemed, as Karlach pulled her trusted axe from the face of a fallen devil, that the fiends had forgotten she and Astarion were not about to grant mercy either.

Severely wounded, arm certainly broken, the axe felt heavy in her exhausted grip. Blade to the ground, she aimed to lean on it for just a moment, turning to see what shape he was in, flashing a victorious smile. Her vision darkening and certainly blurred, her body wishing only to collapse and rest - she didn't detect the movement behind her.

Karlach heard it before she felt it. The all too familiar ballad of ripped flesh, cracked bones and blood cascading onto rock. Even then when feeling returned, it didn't in spades. Only when she caught sight of fiery flares branching away from her did she dare look down. She saw it. A blade protruding from her torso, a clean cut all the way through. A dagger, in an orthon's hands at least...

The taste of blood threatened to drown her as she drained. The only thing holding her up was the orthons grip on the hilt, but as he finally gave way, so did she. Collapsing on her side with no time to speak, to fathom what was happening. She had kissed death before in battle. But unlike those times, there was no resurrection scrolls. No Withers.

'Go back...home...' Karlach found herself thinking as the world began to fade, focusing solely on the blur of white amongst all the red. 'Leave...be safe...'

'Live.'

@iron-hearts-ablaze

Idiocy separated them. They worked in tandem. Karlach in front whilst he struck from the shadows, but somehow the orthons had placed some distance between them. Led them down a tragic path in their tale. One where Astarion buried his blade into the throat of one just to see the silver and crimson pierce through his partner's body. "Karlach!" Voice carried across the field.

A cry born of pain and suffering. Of a heart lurched within his chest. The sudden drop of his world beneath his feet. Astarion felt off-kilter in a way he hadn't for centuries. "Get away from her!" He snarled and growled uncaring of his own injuries.

It was the sickening part of all of this. He was already undead. His curse sustained him. Wounds and injuries healed slowly even shortly after being inflicted. He only had to stay fed. Karlach afforded no such boon.

Grief-stricken and adrenaline filled Astarion was a sight to behold. A creature of death and shadow given form. If the hells wanted a monster of him, they damn sure received one. He fought them the orthons blades coated slick in their blood. A man driven to the extremes. Not even Cazador had warranted such fury. He sustained his own wounds as he stole their lives, but Astarion soldiered through. Unless they severed his head, he wasn't so easily felled.

But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Karlach was already still when he reached her. He begged and pleaded beneath his breath. For anyone or anything to reverse this. To suddenly be a full vampire capable of bringing her back. But he wasn't. This was real.

"No, no, no! You weren't supposed to leave me like this! You were supposed to live! Damn you!" Astarion wailed. Voice tainted in his breaking heart. Tears glistened in tracks down his face. His hands cupped Karlach's cheeks. But she didn't breath. She didn't move. She was just a magnificent flame snuffed out by the wind.

Astarion held her corpse in his arms. His face buried in her hair. Cries muffled against her, unwilling to let Karlach go even as her body grew cold. Colder than his own. He had failed her. Failed to live up to that promise of curing her. But he'd bring her back. He would bring her back.

The field green and lush even under the full moon's light. He loathed flowers. Gaudy and trite little things, but she didn't. And this was as much for him as it was for her. Astarion waited for the flowers to burst open. Snow white beneath the pale moonlight. Moonflowers.

The urn in his hands felt heavy like the choking weight in his heart; the tightness in his throat. Astarion stilled himself with a breath he didn't require. Twisted the jar open and let her be free among the flowers she loved. Watched as her ashes would spread and dance among the blooms of white.

Astarion couldn't save her. Couldn't restore her heart, but he could do this. Bring Karlach home. Lay her to rest under the moon and stars far away from Zariel and the hells that wronged her. "Goodbye, Fire Girl."

And in the end Astarion had to live on for her. For the both of them. Eternity was going to be very, very long.

He still hated the flowers.

[zarathesilentgamer]

Tandem: A Tale of Shadows #15 - Zara The Silent Gamer

[halogalopaghost]

Occam's Bedtime

Read on AO3

Once the invasion officially ended, there was a lot of catching up to do. The family spent more time apart than together over those few days, so they had quite a bit of information to exchange once they all had their feet back on terra firma. They stayed up into the latest hours of the night together, all battle-weary and wired from so many hours spent in ninja mode, trying to piece together the events. It was a big sadistic game of connect-the-dots.

Donnie skimmed over his extended capture and interrogation at Zanramon’s hand, April recounted the time she and Casey spent in captivity, and the turtles worked together to tell the tale of their capture by Agent Bishop. They were all so wrung out, emotionally and physically, that they couldn’t even muster the proper tone to voice the horrors that just kept coming. Leo sounded so clinical as he described Bishop and his bone saw buzzing so dangerously close to Mikey’s plastron.

An extra inch—just one more inch, and it would have been a very different story.

When Raph’s head slipped and fell onto Leo’s shoulder with a huge snore, they finally decided it was time for bed. Casey invited April to stay the night at his place for safety, but Splinter overrode him by telling them both to stay the night. He would feel better having them all under one roof, so to speak, he told them.

So Splinter personally saw to it that Casey was made comfortable on the cot in Donnie’s train-car lab, April was tucked in on the couch, and each of his sons made it safely to their own beds. Leatherhead, having skipped Professor Honeycutt’s sendoff in favor of some sound sleep, was still snoring away on the tidy cot he built himself on Mikey’s bedroom floor. Donnie had literally begged him to let someone check on those thickly-wrapped injuries, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

From the comfort of his bed, Donnie made sure the lair was securely locked down and the perimeter sensors were armed before their home finally succumbed to the stillness of night.

  Leo felt like he had only been asleep for minutes when he was startled awake. He laid stiff as a board in his bed, not even breathing as he listened for the source of the disturbance. His heart jumped in his chest when he heard it again. It was downstairs, near the elevator doors. Something was moving around. Something person-sized.

He rolled out of bed soundlessly and grabbed up his swords in the same motion. His heartbeat roared in his ears as sticky fear rose in his throat. Who followed them home, a stray triceraton squadron, Bishop’s men? Who would be holding the blade to his family’s throat this time?

He stepped into the hall slowly, straining his ears to listen for more than just shuffling down below. He recognized Raphael’s shadow across the hallway, doing the very same thing. Their eyes met and without a word passing between them, they formed a plan. Leo nodded to him and stepped out first, hugging the wall. His breathing and footfalls were equally silent, but his heart kept pounding an alarm in his chest that he was sure Raphael could hear.

There were no lights on below, and no flashlights either. Whoever it was, they either had excellent night vision or night-vision goggles to aid them. His instincts rushed him, yelling to hurry and make his move before they got to April on the couch. For all he knew they had already silently slit her throat.

No! He couldn’t think like that. It wasn’t helping the dizzying beat of his heart or the sweat gathering on the back of his neck. He forced his movements to remain slow and silent; whoever it was down there, he had to assume April wasn’t their primary target anyway.

Raphael went around the opposite direction on the circular second floor, looking down from a different angle. He shook his head, indicating he couldn’t see anything down there either. They continued to move slowly in tandem, working their way around to meet at the stairway down. Before they could begin their descent, they caught sight of the “intruder” and both sagged with a synchronized sigh of relief.

It was only Donnie, standing precariously on the very top of the kitchen stepladder with his night vision goggles on. He was messing with something mounted into the brick wall there.

“Donnie,” Leo hissed.

Don startled, jolting so harshly that he nearly fell. “Shell,” he said under his breath. He tilted his face, and the clunky goggles, up to look at them. “Leo?”

“What are you doing?” he continued in a stage whisper. “You’re lucky Raph and I didn’t skewer you!”

“Go back to bed,” he shot back. His voice cracked under the weight of his exhaustion.

Leo hesitated, looking at Raph over his shoulder. He only shrugged. “Not unless you do too. Come on, it’s been a long…days.”

Donnie shook his head stubbornly and carried on with his fiddling. Whatever he was messing with, he broke it free from the wall and took the screwdriver in hand to the poor thing.

Leo’s gaze drifted past Don. He squinted into the darkness and mapped out unfamiliar shadows in this room he knew like the back of his own hand. Vague shapes of furniture—lamps, bookshelves, Sensei’s armchair, were all pulled away from their regular spots and bare. Books were stacked haphazardly on the floor, the lamps were missing their shades, throw pillows had been separated from their covers, and knickknacks were overturned and left in piles.

And the thing he’d pulled off the wall, it was one of the security cameras he had painstakingly restored and modified with his own two hands. He seemingly paid no mind to the precious thing as he ripped into circuitry and plastic casing. Pieces fell around the stepladder like rain.

He was looking for bugs.

Leo turned again and met Raph’s eyes. He appeared to have reached the same conclusion, mouth set in a grim line and maskless eyes dark.

“Donnie,” Leo whispered again. “Let’s go up to the garage so we can talk without waking anyone.”

Donnie paused, but he didn’t move to follow as they made their way down the steps and toward the elevator door.

“You haven’t checked up there yet, have you?”

Donnie remained still, clearly taking his time to think it over. That was alright by Leo, he was used to that much. Once the logic of it broke through to him, he put down his screwdriver and the ruins of his camera to wordlessly follow.

All three of them winced in the light of the elevator. Leo and Raph had removed their masks for sleeping hours beforehand, but Donnie was still wearing his. It didn’t make his tired, bloodshot eyes any less obvious.

Raph led the way out of the elevator and into the warehouse above. While Don’s lab downstairs was mostly for his chemistry and technology-based pursuits, the workshop above was where he stretched his engineering muscles. The place had all of the trademark genius mess to prove it; oil stained rags, wrenches of varying size and shape, blueprints, spray paint, and countless other tools lay scattered about every horizontal surface, including the floor. No doubt that the beat-up Battleshell would be seeing a lot of attention in the coming weeks, and they would see less of their brother in turn.

Day was already well into breaking on the surface, with orange-pink light seeping in between the boards over the windows. Leo flicked on the florescent shop lights and they all winced again.

While Leo and Raph hung back by the workbench near the door, Donnie paced the length of the warehouse and back.

“Have you slept at all?” Leo asked.

Don shook his head vigorously, not turning to look at him.

“Donnie, I know it’s been rough the last couple’a days, but you gotta sleep, bro. You look beat.”

“I can’t sleep until I figure out how he knew.” Donnie didn’t stop pacing, didn’t raise his head. His voice was dangerously low.

Raph and Leo exchanged a glance to confirm that no, neither one of them knew what he was talking about. Raph shrugged, which indicated it was Leo’s turn again.

“Who knew what, Don?”

“Bishop,” he spat out. His hand went to the place over his shoulder, where Bishop had carved samples out of their shells while they were unconscious. The back of that hand had a bandage over it that matched his brothers’, where Bishop had taken a sample of their skin. “He knew about us somehow. I slipped up somewhere, and I have to figure out where so he can’t get anything else on us.”

“Donnie…” Leo trailed off helplessly. His pacing was increasing in speed and fervor, he moved like a restless animal in a cage.

Something they so easily could have become.

“That ain’t your fault.” Raph’s tone left little room for argument. “It coulda been any of us that tipped him off, or somethin’ else altogether. For all we know, he’s in Saki’s pocket too!”

“He’s not!” Donnie yelled. He whirled on them, a few yards away, with his fists clenched white-knuckle tight at his sides. “He was in my security system! I decided not to make it closed-circuit so I could monitor it when we’re away, so I could keep an eye on Master Splinter, and he must have gotten in somehow! I exposed us! I did this!”

Raph and Leo were both stunned wordless, mouths hanging open. How had Donnie convinced himself, in a matter of hours, that this was the most likely scenario?

“There’s no way to know that,” Raph said flatly.

Donnie took a few angry steps closer, and Raph actually took a step back. “He knew!” he screamed. “He knew our names, he could tell us apart, he went right for Mikey!" He took a ragged breath and threw his arms in the air. "How? How else would he have known all that?”

Leo watched him, chest heaving and trembling all over with anger, waiting for the next outburst. When nothing else happened, he approached him slowly with a hand palm-out, the way one might approach a growling dog. Once his hand closed over Donnie’s shoulder, he slowly drew closer until Donnie let himself be gathered into a hug.

“If he’d been in your security system, he would know where we live. That’s how IP addresses work, right?”

“Sort of,” he mumbled.

“He wouldn’t have wasted time chasing us around the city, he would have just come to get us. Right?”

Donnie’s chest kept heaving with labored breath, and Leo could feel the erratic beat of his heart through his plastron. “He has…he has cameras somewhere.”

Raph decided it was safe to come closer, gently placing a hand on each of his brothers’ shells. “Yeah, D, he does. But they ain’t yours.”

Don pulled out of Leo’s hold and pressed his hands to his head. He let out a short huff.

"Donnie—" Raph started. He stopped when Donnie jerked away from his touch.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He rubbed at his temples for a moment, then repeated himself quieter. “I’m okay.”

He wasn't going to be winning any Oscars for that little performance.

“Let’s go sit down,” Leo suggested. He took Don by the elbow and guided him back over to the workbench, where he was made to sit with just a little bit of pressure applied to his shoulders.

He leaned back in the creaky old chair and covered his eyes with a hand. “Sorry guys,” he said quietly.

“Stop apologizin’,” Raph grumbled. The usual bite was totally absent from his tone. He propped his shell against the workbench and crossed his arms over his chest while Leo opted to crouch near Don. “Why aren’t you sleepin’?”

Donnie shook his head slightly, opened his mouth to answer, then paused. “Head hurts,” he finally answered.

Leo perked up a bit. That was something he could fix. “Have you taken anything?”

“About…twelve ibuprofen since we’ve been home.”

The two older brothers sucked in a breath at the same time.

"...The little ones."

If by little ones he meant the one hundred milligram dose, that still meant he'd taken four hundredmilligrams more than the maximum prescription strength dose.

“Have you done the stretches Master Splinter showed you?”

“It’s not a tension headache.” Donnie was quiet for a long moment, then murmured, “Will you turn the light off?”

Raph quickly did so, able to reach the switch from where he stood. The harsh florescent lighting in the garage went dark, along with the ever-present hum. He and Leo blinked in the new, soft half-light created by the lightening sky outside.

Donnie moved his hand to the back of his head and carefully unwound the knot of his mask. They had just enough time to wonder why he would do that, rather than just pulling it off as they usually would, before that question answered itself.

They took in another synchronized hiss of breath.

There were two uniform wounds, one on either of his temples, about the size of a nickel. They weren’t big, but they were blistered, with a spiderweb of smaller burn patterns around each one.

Leo made an aborted movement toward one blister. “Did—did Bishop do that?”

Donnie rubbed at the space between his eyes, squeezing them shut even against the darkness. “No,” he answered softly. “The triceratons had some kind of…mind reader device.” His breath came in little gasps for a moment, and both brothers reached out to touch him comfortingly. “They wanted to know where—where Professor Honeycutt was. I could feel it going through everything, I literally saw my entire life flash before my eyes, but I couldn’t let them know where we live, let alone where the Professor was—“ he cut himself off to take a few deep breaths. “Papa got to me. I didn’t know what else to do—I called for him and it was like he was in the room with me all of a sudden, and then it just…stopped.”

The warehouse was resoundingly silent for a long minute.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” Leo breathed.

“Because there was too much else going on.” He hid his face in his hands again, carefully avoiding the blisters. “It wasn’t important.”

“Bull fuckin’ shit—” Raph started.

“Sorry,” he said again.

“What Raph is trying to say,” Leo began pointedly, giving said brother a look from beneath his brow, “is that you’re clearly in pain. If you’d just told us, one of us would have stayed up with you, or at least looked at those wounds—”

“Does it really look that serious?” Donnie raised his head finally and met Leo’s eyes with his own bloodshot ones. Without his mask, the dark circles around his eyes were even more painfully obvious. “It’s a couple of blisters, Leo. My real worry is what caused them. I don’t know how that thing worked or what it did to my head! I-I think it functioned by emitting pulses of a specific electric current and receiving the data in the form of electrical feedback created by firing neurons…” His eyes went faraway, staring into nothing. “It was like having my skull peeled open layer by layer. It's only been a day and I…already can't remember what happened after Pop managed to break through to me. If he hadn't—" He stopped. "I thought it was going to kill me. I thought they were going to get what they wanted, then kill me.”

Leo, crouching beside Don's chair, silently coached himself through a bout of murderous rage. Zanramon was in captivity, his council was in shambles, and Draximus was heading up the reform. They weren't even in the Milky Way galaxy anymore—they couldn't hurt Donnie again. The downside was that Leo couldn't hurt them. He couldn’t make them pay for what they did to his brother. Yes, his friends, yes, his planet, but most of all, his brother.

Despite the fact that he so badly wanted to put his hands on Zanramon’s throat and not let go until the pathetic creature ceased to draw breath, he gently set his hand on Don’s knee instead. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

“Hey, I’m sure yer noggin’ is just fine,” Raph said gently. He’d scooted a little closer, but remained stubbornly leaned against the workbench. It was probably for the best; if Leo felt so strongly about this, he couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of bloodlust Raph was suppressing. “You just got a headache, Don. After the couple’a days we had, I’m sure anyone would.”

Donnie didn’t say anything in response. The silence was worse than his screaming—Leo almost wished he would get up and start yelling again, pacing and ranting and going off on the next thing. This silence, the hunched-over, quiet, defeated turtle in front of him, that wasn’t his brother. This wasn’t like him. That mind-reader thing and whatever else they’d done to him…they almost broke him. And if he didn’t bounce back this time, Leo would be hunting them down.

"I have to be sure that he doesn't have our place wired," Donnie murmured.

Leo deflated. Back to this. "There has to be a less destructive way to go about that. And maybe after we've all had some sleep?"

Donnie turned his head to look at Leo, and over his shoulder, Leo saw Raphael frown. He didn't have time to even think about stopping him before Raph reached out and brushed a finger against the side of Don's head, just a little too close to the blister.

Donnie whirled on Raph so quickly that he almost fell out of the chair—Leo's hand shot out to hold him up by the shell—and bared his teeth in a snarl eerily similar to the one Raph so regularly dealt out. Raph took a step back with his hands raised placatingly.

As he realized what just happened, Don's face slowly fell. Before either of the older turtles even knew what was happening, he'd launched himself into Raph's arms and tucked his face between Raph's neck and shoulder. Raphael stood stiff and surprised for a moment, arms held out awkwardly, before slowly shifting them to wrap around Don's shell and give him a gentle squeeze.

"We're gonna be okay, bro," he murmured. He rested his cheek very carefully against Donnie's head and sighed. "You gotta sleep, just trust me."

Donnie nodded against him, finally relenting. If anyone could out-stubborn him, it was going to be Raph.

Leo stood and put a hand on Don's shell. They waited until Don was ready to move, then both kept a supporting hand on him as they made for the elevator once again.

When the elevator doors opened on a figure veiled in shadow, all three turtles snapped to attention. Leo and Raph immediately went for their weapons and stepped between Donnie and the intruder. For all of two seconds they were alarmed, and then Mikey shrieked.

Raph leapt forward to clamp a hand over his mouth. "Shh! Yer gonna wake April."

"Mikey," Leo hissed. Did he have no shortage of brothers to scare the shell off his back in the dark!? "What are you doing up?"

He lazily shuffled into Raph's personal space and bonked his head hollowly against his plastron, using the elder brother to prop up his body. He had a blanket slung over his shoulders and one nunchuck in hand. "I woke up 'n you guys were all gone." He yawned and continued to speak through it, undeterred. “Shoulda known you were havin’ a party without me.”

Raph patted him gruffly on the shoulder, then shoved his weight off. “We were just collecting Donnie here, we’re goin’ back to bed too.”

Mikey shuffled in place and grinned sheepishly. “Actually…I was gonna get in bed with one of you. That’s how I realized you were gone in the first place.”

Leo sighed, shoulders sagging. “Nightmare?”

He shuddered theatrically. “Bone saw. Eugh.”

“Alright, come on. We missed a spot, so we have to patch up Don, then we can all pile up in my bed.”

All four brothers crossed the lair in the dark toward the one and only bathroom. Mikey tripped over a stray stack of books and yelped again, which kept Raph busy both preventing the youngest brother from completely eating it and talking his way around explaining how the lair had become a mess while they were sleeping. Leo kept a hand on the back of Don’s shell as they walked, paranoid that he would trip and fall too. He probably wasn’t that tired, and Don was more used to staying up all-hours than any of them, but if he really hadn’t slept since getting home…well, Leo felt better being safe than sorry.

Once again, all four turtles winced when they flicked on the lights in the bathroom. Leo sat Donnie on the step of the refurbished-hot-tub-liner bathtub while Raph brought the first aid kit over. Mikey sat himself down beside Donnie and closely inspected one temple while Raph started on the other.

“What happened?”

Donnie side-eyed Mike as best as he could without moving his head. “Vulcan mind meld, minus the Vulcan and meld parts.”

Mikey scoffed out a laugh, but he could recognize Don-avoidance when he heard it. He didn’t ask again. Instead, he got up and knelt in front of the first aid kit to rummage around the pool of loose Band-Aids in the bottom of it.

By the time Raph was in the process of dabbing antibacterial gel on the small, uniform wounds, Mikey had made his selections and closed up the kit.

“There,” Raph said. “Yer all done. Probably won’t even scar.”

"Thanks Raph."

"Step aside, the Bandaid Master is coming through." Mikey bumped Raph to the side with his hip, completely unaware of the fact that he was tempting the fate of his own untimely fratricide. "Blue's Clues for the left." He peeled the stickers off the bandage and stuck it longways across Don's temple in a way that his mask would easily cover it up. "And Barbie of Swan Lake on the right."

"Gee, what a lucky turtle I am," Donnie mumbled.

Mikey smacked a loud, dramatic kiss on the top of his head and nodded. "You really are, you know how much Raphie loves Blue's Clues."

Raph didn’t even deign to respond, just rolled his eyes as he made for the trash can.

“Alright, it’s bedtime.” Leo took both of Donnie’s hands and pulled him to his feet. While he had him close, he gave him a pointed look and asked in a low voice, “Do you need something for the headache? Something more than ibuprofen?”

Donnie blinked slowly, then shook his head. “No. It feels a little better.”

He tried for a smile. “Must have been the Bandaid Master’s touch.”

Donnie smiled a little bit too. World weary, more exhausted than words could say, but not broken. His smile still worked, and so did that deadpan sarcasm. Raph was right, they really would be okay.

Leo slung an arm over Don’s shoulders as they trudged to bed, all yawning and dragging their feet. Without a doubt, this was the longest night of their lives. What started in a secret government bunker would end still underground, but home. No cold laboratory, no sinister agent. Just family—brothers—and soft, warm beds.

Raph and Mikey both split off to grab pillows and blankets from their own rooms and rendezvoused in Leo’s room. They approached the full-size mattress strategically; Leo boarded first, pushing his own sleeping accoutrements to the wall and butting his shell up against it. Don followed, trying and failing to claim a little bit of personal space for himself—his shoulder ended up pressed up against Leo’s. Raph followed, tossing his pillow down beside Don’s head with much aplomb, and rolled into the bed similarly. His shell knocked up against Don’s side, but they fit.

And then Mikey. Poor, poor Mikey tried to make it work, laying on top of his brother’s legs first, then, when all three of them complained at length, trying to curl up in the small space between Leo and Don’s legs. That lasted about sixty seconds, generously, before he gave up on that too.

He stood at the end of the bed with his hands on his hips, barely visible in the darkness. “There’s gotta be a better way.”

“Sleepin’ in yer own bed?” Raph grumbled. His words were so sleepy and slurred that they were close to unintelligible.

“No, Raphael. A better bed.”

“We won’t exactly fit in the hammock,” Donnie said.

“C’mon. I know exactly where to go.”

Leo and Raph groaned in tandem.

Donnie heaved the heaviest sigh and willingly surrendered his blanket to Mike's grabby hands. "Where are we going?"

"Shh, trust the process. Come on, up, up!"

Leo could just stay in bed—it was his bed, after all—but he had no interest in sleeping alone anymore. Knowing that at least two of his brothers were in some form of distress was more than enough to activate his protective sibling instincts.

So, arms loaded with pillows and blankets again, Mikey led the turtles four down the stairs...again.

The glide of wood in Splinter's sliding door frame was an inherently comforting sound to Leo, this time no different than the others. Splinter met them there despite having slept through the previous disturbances, as if woken by some innate sense that they were coming.

"My sons," he said, voice scratchy with sleep. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin', Sensei," Mikey chirped. "We're here for the sleepover."

He smiled softly. "Ah, yes. The sleepover. I've been expecting you. Please, come in." He stepped aside as they filed in, then slid the door closed behind them.

They all collapsed into the tatami that Splinter's futon sat atop. There was much rustling as quilts were shoved beneath bodies, pillows were swapped and fluffed, and blankets were wrapped around shells. Splinter lay in the center of it all, with Leo closest to the door on the outside and Mikey in the next layer, then Donnie and Raph on Splinter's other side. Though it was hard to tell in the dark, Leo was pretty sure Mikey was using their father as a pillow.

The soft sounds of sleep filled the room not a moment later. Leo stretched out on his plastron and sighed contentedly. When he closed his eyes, he imagined being in the nest with his father as a child. Small enough to hold, with three brothers beside him, and a warm, soft father to snuggle into on winter nights in a simpler, cozier time for his little family.

He fell asleep to the symphony of his family's quiet breath in the dark.