#This whole thing felt like a stress induced fever dream | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

edutainer2022 · 2 years

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This is a shamelessly self-indulgent, teeth-rotting follow up to ‘Cracks’. Expect lots of angst and fluff. And fluffy angst. And a Tracy puppy pile. It’s an angsty kind of puppy pile. It’s a thing. Scott sleeps his fever off through all of it, but he’s very loved by everyone. They’ll be okay. Not just yet, but eventually.

PUZZLES

With no small help from the Mechanic and no slight propulsion force of Grandma´s crisp medical orders, who cut their trip short before all the boys could be back from the rescues, Scott was safely installed in his room, tucked in bed, and Jeff was left to gather his bearings and the suddenly frail shards of his wits. If his mother had anything to say on the whole matter at hand, she opted to put it off for the time being. He was instead all but marched to the shower in Scott´s suite (no, against rational considerations, he refused to put more distance than that between himself and a now quiet, still Scott) before resuming his vigil over a sleeping son. Jeff couldn’t begin to fathom how he was going to face that boy’s demons (and his own) in the spotlight of lucidity. But it was the liminal dusk of fever and all the routine, simple worries it ensued, for now. A respite. He could hear the boom and rumble of Thunderbird 2 landing in the hangar. He could almost feel the urgency and concern reverberating through the core of the island, straight from his second son’s heart. That meant Virgil would soon be by his brother’s side. Still Jeff spent an extra minute under the scolding spray to make sure the last of biting salt was washed out of his eyes. Those moments to compose himself must have stretched to longer minutes than he was aware, as it was almost night when he stepped back into the room. Virgil was already there, propped half up on one of the pillows, Scott gathered in a strong embrace against his chest. It was a well-practiced arrangement between the brothers, Jeff could see with a sharp pang in his own chest – their limbs and bodies locked perfectly as a jigsaw puzzle, Scott’s head nestled right over Virgil’s heart. Just how many occasions of pain, and stress, and heartache in his sons’ lives called for such a huddle? Shadows gathered in the room, pooling in the corners and by the bed, shrouding Virgil’s face, deepening his boy’s frown. Painted over by shadows, Virgil looked eerily like Jeff’s own father – an unwavering rock of a man. Among the solid obscurity the only shimmer of movement - his son’s eyes, the dark, haunted glisten of an underground lake. Tears. Jeff didn’t fail to note Virgil hadn’t greeted him. Had barely looked up at him from Scott’s sleeping form.

‘Scott gets nightmares when he has a fever.’

Jeff shivered at the sound of Virgil’s baritone – flat and as drained of color as the shadows around his sons. When exactly did that become a thing? Was it always so and he just missed too many cold-induced fevers in his eldest childhood, sauntering around the solar system? Or was he too busy wallowing in grief and reshaping the world to fit his aspirations of grandeur while his second son hushed the screams, plaguing his eldest dreams, with flannel pajamas and soothing hugs? Or was it a newer development in Scott’s sleep pattern, after his Big Damn Hero father finally saved the humankind with a bang and a flare? Jeff felt he could be sick right there and then, disgusted with himself, but the shadows shifted, a moon beam sneaking in just in time to reveal Virgil’s chin trembling, eyes wide and desperate – a silent plea for help from his gentle child, who never asked for much. When Scott first fainted in the lounge John of course left the comms feed open for all the brothers. All his sons must have overheard what Scott’s feverish mind let slip the way he wouldn’t otherwise, not voluntarily – the crushing guilt over not being fast enough to trade his own life for Jeff’s in the Zero-X incident and the morbid certainty he was never enough to make up for Jeff’s absence in his brothers’ and the humanity’s lives. However far from the truth, it was bad enough Jeff would have to live and deal with this burden - the devastating legacy he left his son. He could now see Virgil too going under with it, drowning in his brother’s shadows.

In two brisk strides Jeff was by the side of the bed, climbing up to envelope Virgil into a hug of his own, guiding his son’s massive form, stiff from the day of hard rescue, rigid in stupor of unexpected sucker punch of Scott’s ailment and heartbreak, to relax against his chest. His ribs creaked in protest as he was now hoisting the combined weight of his two adult sons – Virgil still holding a sleeping Scott, never letting go. This would have been easier attained, when they could both be tucked under his chin and Virgil’s feet were so small they could fit in his father’s palm. Still, he could manage it. He let his boys carry too much of the heavy world he crafted for far too long. He would hold his boys now as best he could. He wanted to console Virgil, to soothe away at least the blame for missing the signs of Scott’s rising fever. It might have been Virgil’s job as the IR medic, but it was sure Jeff’s job as a father to pay attention. And he failed. In so many more ways than one. He lost sight of so much. Virgil let out a whimper and Jeff opted against words – kissing the top of his son’s head instead and rubbing his hand up and down his son’s strong arm.

‘You have to tell him. YOU have to tell him, Dad. He doesn’t believe me…’

Virgil’s ragged whisper was now muffled by Jeff’s shoulder, where his face was buried, away from the one moonbeam of light, chasing the silent shadows, away from Jeff. His second eldest was pleading to the ultimate authority to let Scott know he was enough. To let him know he was irreplaceable. It would be easier if Jeff were certain he was enough to get the idea through. He certainly failed to convince his eldest through the previous twenty years before his disappearance. Jeff felt rather than heard Virgil’s muted sobs through the rustle of his shirt and the tremble of the boy’s shoulders in his embrace. As if sensing the younger brother’s distress, Scott’s brows knitted in a frown and he hugged Virgil closer, but remained unstirred. If his soul had been crushed to pieces earlier that day – it now sure hurt like each shard was being pulled out, leaving a jagged wound. So Jeff tightened the hold on his sons to keep the cracks from shuttering his heart to dust.

Virgil’s tears blissfully subsided into soft snores, as he heard the space elevator hiss and clank into the docking platform on an otherwise silent villa. Two more sons back home. He had no doubt John would not let Alan go alone. Not today. Not after what they all heard. Alan. He would have to tread gently around the boy. The well of hidden sorrow and heartache, flooding Scott, too deep for the most stalwart of them. On cue the door opened and both his spacefaring sons walked in, pale and somber. Already out of uniform. The nightlight of the hallway brightened Alan’s gaunt and exhausted face for a moment. The boy’s eyes were visibly red-rimmed and puffy. Jeff was prepared to welcome the youngest boy into a snuggle at his side, on the very edge of the bed. But without a sound Alan burrowed to wedge himself between Virgil and Scott, immediately latched to his biggest brother’s midriff like he would never let go. The boy tackled his father thus, when they first met among the stars. Jeff knew the ferocity and the sentiment of that embrace.

John spoke instead, moving to the other side of the bed.

‘Alan gets nightmares when Scott is ill or hurt’.

Oh. Another patch in the tapestry of his children’s woe he was unaware of. His littlest boy chased by relentless fear the only parent he ever truly knew, the only one left to him would be ripped away too. Ripped away by the perceived duty to uphold their father’s heroic legacy. Jeff stilled for a moment, straining to hear if there were more sobs. But for the rustle of sheets all was quiet. Small mercies. Either that or Allie had already cried himself dry on his way back from the orbit. The latter was more likely, if the dark circles under John’s eyes and a frown framing his lips, pursed thin, were any indication. The painful crease between ginger brows betrayed a headache.

On instinct Scott’s arm shifted to drape over Alan’s shoulders and a content sigh escaped, as something untangled in his eldest chest and he breathed deeper for the first time through the ordeal. Virgil’s arm moved in synch, chasing purchase where Scott was now cuddling Allie, never breaking contact. Another piece of the puzzle locked securely in place.

John was never much for tactile contact. Jeff knew that much, although his ginger spaceman had been quite generous with hugs and small touches to his old man and even his brothers upon Jeff’s return. Jeff had to wonder if something unfroze in his touch starved son, willing him to seek more contact. Regardless, he was quite aware of his son’s limits and didn’t expect John to join his brothers at all. Maybe he underestimated the force of Scott’s turmoil. Or John’s own. The mattress dipped on the opposite side and in a fluid motion John rolled to spoon Scott’s still frame. Forehead resting between his eldest brother’s shoulder blades with a soft thud, John’s long fingers clutched fistfuls of Scott’s shirt, knuckles almost glowing white with strain in the dimness of the room. A hitched breath and a hiss, too close to a stifled sob, for comfort, John let out, his eyes squeezed shut, made Jeff think of the airlock seals pressurized, spaceships docking in the vast void. Coming among one’s own. Coming home. He reached, gently, so as not to startle the touch averse son, and stroked the shock of red hair.

For a moment Jeff just marveled at this synched machinery of brotherhood. His brave, amazing boys presented an unwavering united front, pulled out nothing short of a miracle, saving him from the bum end of the galaxy, but there were cracks. Not just the indefatigable façade they showed the world, but the walls and the roots, and the very foundations of his family were crumbling under the toll in the wake of his choices. His beloved boys devised an elaborate technology of checks and balances, communicated in silence through nights like this (he didn’t dare think how many nights like this), to keep themselves from disintegrating.

The gear was still missing a final piece. Light and efficiently precise on bare feet, Gordon entered, two throw blankets in hand. Gordon entered and Jeff could swear the shadows retreated from his brothers’ sleeping forms. Of course.

‘John gets cold, when dirtside.’

One blanket was already being draped over his immediate older brother’s lanky form, careful not to disturb. The second blanket Gordon was ready to throw over Jeff himself. Attentive to detail, collected and considerate. Jeff mused longingly how he hasn’t quite met this Gordon, how he missed entirely his fishboy growing into this Gordon. Eight years in outer space did a number on his circulation, but today he had a Virgil for a blanket. The boy was a human shaped furnace. Jeff smiled gratefully but shook his head no, all the while watching (wondering) how Gordon was going to fit into his brothers’ arrangement. Between himself and his three eldest (the six feet squad, Gordon’s term) and Alan, Scott’s customized king size bed was pretty much full to capacity. But his second youngest son was half squid not for nothing – there was never a crevice, cleft or nook Gordon couldn’t squeeze in. Jeff had many a grey hair, earned looking for a hiding little Squido, to attest to that. With a swimmer’s grace Gordon hopped onto the far end of the bed, shimmied closer, folded and with appalling comfort tucked his feet beneath John. Jeff’s middle son shifted ever so slightly to accommodate the intrusion into his space, but didn’t protest. Jeff watched, mesmerized, as the blond aquanaut actually had the audacity to fluff the covers over Scott, fully intending to use his oldest brother’s hip as a pillow, all the while curled in some unfathomable ball. Of all his sons Gordon appeared the least shaken by Scott’s unwitting revelation. Halfway down to rest his head over Scott, the blond youth caught his father’s inquiring, haunted gaze and sat back up, with a sigh.

‘We watch over Scott. He gets sad. Not like when someone ate the last of leftover pizza sad. Or a rescue gone bad sad. That too’. – Gordon’s hand moved from picking invisible lint off the comforter to ruffling Alan’s hair, lightly. – ‘But when he thinks no one’s watching, he gets really sad.* Like, it-hurts-to-just-be sad. And today…’

Gordon’s voice trailed off and Jeff’s heart sank so deep he doubted he’d ever hear it’s beat again. Today they blinked and missed the cracks in Scott the depth, and breadth, and darkness of a singularity to swallow him whole, because they were too busy watching their father, like he hung the effin’ stars. He was ready to flinch from his sons accusing stare, but Gordon’s eyes were warm – a welcome contrast to the cool swathe of moonlight and relentless shadows.

‘…today you watched over him. You did good. It’ll be alright.’

Off Jeff’s double take Gordon settled against Scott, stretching one arm to reach Virgil’s grip on the eldest and clasping John’s fist, still curled over Scott’s shirt, with another. The brothers’ hands locked immediately, completing the circle of touch. The twist and turn of the boy’s agile body didn’t look comfortable, but Gordon was out like a light. The puzzle complete. All his sons were home.

He did good today… Jeff would hold on to that hope into the next morning, as he held his whole world in his arms to ward off the shadows, seeping through the cracks.

*The idea is borrowed from Sherlock (BBC series). Scott indeed makes the saddest faces, when he’s turned away or alone.

#thunderbirds are go #scott tracy #thunderbirds 2015 #jeff tracy #tracy puppy pile #scott tracy needs a hug #scott tracy needs his dad #jeff tracy goes soul searching #tracy brotherdom of angst #virgil tracy #alan tracy #john tracy #gordon tracy #gordon tracy is kinda amazing #virgil needs a hug #my fic #methinks i have astronomy

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morimakesfanart · 3 years

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Sindria's Prophet #09

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

[AO3]

**stream of consciousness

~POV shift~

King Sinbad was stuck awake lamenting that he wasn't able to check on to his Prophet. Mori had stayed hidden in the sleeping quarters since they left. From the little anyone did see her, she wasn't well, and refused most help. They didn't know what illness she had -Sinbad hoped it was just stress induced- but they had been able to pass her pain killers without her making a fuss.

When Mori had first let them know she was brought there against her will, he had hoped that it was a welcome change, but of course it wasn't that simple, and she was clearly grappling with guilt after what happened in Balbadd.

Sinbad knew what it was like to loose many important people and your home all at once, and to bare the weight of many lives. He hoped she would feel better in a few months. It had taken him a year to feel like he could return after the Fall of First Sindria. It was a shame though. He had been planning to take her with him to the Kou Empire. If nothing else, King Sinbad had wanted to introduce her to the rest of his Generals before leaving for the Kou Empire.

There was no way to know when she would be ready to appear before anyone again. At least she would be in his care.

Mori had told Aladdin that she couldn't read Fate anymore so her predictions were going to become less accurate as they changed Fate. She was signing on as his Prophet, but this might not be cause for concern. The Fate she had hinted at was a bleak one; if things stop lining up with her predictions it should mean they had avoided that Fate. Even if this made her less useful in the long run, Mori could also feel the waves of Fate, so he had no intentions of ever letting her go even after she ran out of prophecies.

This was just another reason why he needed to gain her loyalty. How else would he be able to keep her from leaving once she could no longer act as his Prophet?

When King Sinbad had started his journey, and even before he had captured a single Dungeon, helping people came first. Their trust and loyalty were rewards, but he didn't go out of his way for people in order to gain those things. He really just wanted to do everything in his power to help. Watching Alibaba and Aladdin - and even Mori to an extent- had reminded him of his past self.

As his powers and responsibilities grew, Sinbad had started doing things the other way around. As a King, he couldn't afford to help everyone unless he could find a way for it to benefit him or his country. His end goal was still the same, but he couldn't deny that the way he treated people was changing. That was probably why Mori had called him a scoundrel. She had said it with a joking tone, but it was clear she didn't trust him fully. She read his Fate. How much would he change before achieving his dream?

Even knowing exactly the type of man he was, she had chosen to put her faith in him and become his vassal. But how much did she actually know? She said she knew how he would die. Was he just a dead man walking to her?

Mori was resting across the hall, but she might as well be on the other side of the world. There was no way she would let Sinbad talk to her like this. And he couldn't just enter that room with the other 2 sleeping in it.

Ruminating wasn't going to help him sleep and the waves of Fate were picking up for some reason. The floor boards in the hallway creaked. Sinbad wasn't so stripped down to be a problem, and he knew there was no need of his Djinn, but he did tie his hair back and slip on his shoes before leaving his room.

More light filled the hallway than there should have been. The bow side door was open. The waves were leading him that way as well.

The night air wasn't chilly by any measure -they were definitely getting close to Sindria. The sky was mostly clear too with a nearly full moon. One would be hard pressed to find better conditions for navigating at night. Past the sails, Sinbad could see clouds in front near the horizon. They would definitely reach their destination the next day.

Fate was always on Sinbad's side; Mori was leaning against the bowsprit. He'd recognize those legs anywhere. If she was up and about, she had to be feeling better. Just in time too.

Something was off about her posture. When she turned to face him he could tell something was wrong. She didn't respond to his call either.

Sinbad had an arm around her before she had a chance to fall. Her eyes were open but unfocused, her face was flushed, she was covered in sweat, and

her breathing was strained. The metal circles she normally wore weren't on her. He put his hand on her forehead -she was burning up. How had she gotten this far with a fever this high? Why didn't those two notice how bad she was?

Sinbad scooped her up and started walking towards the door. Mori seemed to melt into his arms. Her breathing got a little better. That was good at least.

Did she catch this in Balbadd? Again he told himself it was brought on by stress. If she was actually ill then he could loose her before they ever reached his country. No. She would be fine. He could feel it in the waves. She was supposed to live by his side.

Where to take her was a question for barely a second. If she really was sick then she needed to be kept away from others to keep whatever it was from spreading. Sinbad was the only one in his room, so his would be best for quarantine. Sure, they should have done this sooner if they knew she was unwell, but better late than never.

The sight of Mori exhausted in his bed was one he was looking forward to, but not like this.

After making sure she was comfortable Sinbad went to look for whatever medicines they had brought on the trip. He knew they at least had painkillers that would lower her fever.

Who was it that packed the medicine towards the bottom of the bag?

He heard the bed creek and the covers move. Was she awake or moving in her sleep?

*Sob*

Sinbad was by her side in a flash. Checking on her took priority.

The light was dim but he could see she was shaking. She looked very small curled up like that, and she was already small. Mori barely reached his shoulder when standing.

Had she been like this the whole time? This was much worse than what those two kids had said. At least he could comfort her now.

Sinbad sat on the side of the bed. His right hand gently caressed her hair. There was a hitch in her breathing at his touch.

Mori opened her eyes and looked around for the source of contact. Her night vision didn't seem that good. Once she noticed him she reached out one arm. Her hand latched onto his knee, and pulled herself up against his thigh.

Sinbad had lamented for most of the trip that he couldn't console her. Yet, now that he could, he couldn't shake the sudden wave of guilt. Mori was at her most vulnerable and she clearly wanted comfort. If he could be the one to bring her peace in this moment, it could be exactly what he needed to win her loyalty. Fate was giving him every opportunity he needed as it always did. It wasn't like him to feel guilty about this type of thing -not any more.

Would it be alright to do things like he did when he was younger? Mori had read Sinbad's life; she could read into his actions even if he didn't try to use this to make her trust him. But he couldn't just watch her suffer either. What if he helped without her knowing it was him? He could comfort her without gaining something from it. There was nothing to gain anyway because he already had as much as he could get for the time being, and pushing could backfire. He wouldn't have to consider it a lost opportunity, right?

Mori pressed her forehead into him. Her hand trembled. Another sob escaped her along with some garbled words he could barely make out. She was pleading to be forgiven for something. Mori was definitely struggling to cope with guilt.

Speaking would instantly erase any question in who he was so he kept quiet. Sinbad moved his hand to her back and started rubbing circles into it. She didn't get shocked this time.

After a bit, Mori grabbed his hand as it passed her shoulder with her free hand. He let her interlock their fingers. Her hand was warmer than normal -he had noticed when they first met that she had cold hands.

She definitely wanted comfort.

Would holding her help? The way her grip on his leg tighten felt like she was holding onto him for dear life. Sinbad decided to take that as consent. If she gave even the smallest sign of discomfort, he'd leave.

But before that he'd give her some painkiller to help with her fever. She was weak so removing her hands was physically easy, but emotionally taxing. Mori wined in disapproval, but didn't fight it -she couldn't fight it.

Luckily Sinbad was able to find the medicine quickly this time. After mixing it in a cup of water, he brought it over to the bed. Mori barely reacted when he lifted her into a sitting position. She drank the medicine without complaint, but did have a coughing fit afterwards -it was notoriously bitter. At least she had stopped crying.

When he laid her back down so he could put the cup away she grabbed at his clothes. Mori's eyes were open but she definitely couldn't see well since she was looking off to the side of him. It did sting a little that he could be anyone, and she would have the same response.

The waves were making him anxious. It felt like she could disappear.

Her grip didn't have any strength so her hand slid down the cloth. He caught it and held it while he reached with his other hand to put the cup down. He had to make sure she knew he wasn't going to leave her.

Sinbad sat on the side of the bed as he removed his shoes and hair tie. When he let go of Mori's hand, she just let it drop and didn't move. This wasn't good. Hopefully, she was just waiting to see what he was doing.

Mori made a small sound in surprise when he lifted the covers and pulled his legs underneath. As soon as he had settled down next to her, she reached out to him again, but no longer had the strength to pull herself to him. Sinbad pulled her into his arms for her and she melted there just like when he carried her earlier.

"Thank...you." Mori's voice was so weak he thought he had imagined it.

Sinbad held her tighter in response. Even if he could be anyone from her perspective, he wasn't just anyone. He was the only one holding her.

He could feel her strength draining by the second. Checking her with magoi manipulation didn't reveal anything good. If she hadn't wandered onto the deck, and if he hadn't followed the waves to her- He didn't want to think about it. He had finally found another person who could feel the waves of Fate and he might loose her to illness just like he had lost his

mother.

The Rukh would help Mori pull through. It had to. Fate always sided with Sinbad, so as long as he stayed near her she should recover just fine. He had felt in the waves that she was going to live the rest of her life in Sindria with him. There was no way he was going to let some illness take her from him.

Sinbad got up a few times to get her more water and medicine. If nothing else he had to keep her fluids up. Some of the best doctors and magicians were in his country. If she could hold on until they reached Sindria then they could help her.

By the time the sun peaked over the horizon Mori's breathing had stabilized and her fever broke. She had survived the night. She would be fine just like he knew she would. The relief washed over Sinbad with the waves, and he fell asleep with his Mori in his arms.

---

Sinbad woke up to the sounds of someone hissing his name. What did Ja'far want so early in the morning?

"Sin, what is this?! Why is Mori with you?? How could you do this??” The General was whisper yelling.

His words made Sinbad's eyes open. Mori was in his bed? That would explain the comfortable weight on his chest. No wonder he had slept so well. The previous night came back to him; it would have been better if she was with him for more enjoyable reasons. A quick glance assured him that her condition was still stable. "Quiet down. You'll wake her up."

Ja'far had his head in his hands. "Can I actually trust either of you? You both said you would behave yourselves and I find you like this?" He glared daggers at his King, "She only just became your vassal. What sort of-”

"I found her sick on deck in the middle of the night," Sinbad explained the situation to his friend, "So I can assure you that nothing happened."

"Why are sleeping in the same bed?" Ja'far was not backing down. Mori might still hold this against him, and, "What if you get sick too?" His voice cracked at the end.

Sinbad would never get sick because 'idiots can't catch colds.' The King might be a genus but he was also undoubtedly the biggest idiot Ja'far knew.

The Prophet gave a groan and buried her head into the chest acting as her pillow. She gave it a squeeze too for good measure; it was like she was telling Sinbad to go back to sleep. This was definitely a good morning for the King.

He looked up at Ja'far with a smile, "I'll be out in a few minutes. We can talk then."

The General left lamenting his choice of master.

Now that he was awake and alone with Mori, Sinbad had a decision to make. To wake her, find out how she's feeling, and explain that he took care of her, or not?

He looked down at her sleeping face while weighing his decision. Mori looked a little different without those metal circles. Now that the disturbing sound was gone she looked more content. The way she clung to him in her sleep was very endearing. He'd have to find more opportunities for her to do so when she was awake.

She didn't look to be in pain and she felt a little warm but not as feverish as before which were both good signs.

If he were to wake her up then what was the point of keeping quiet the previous night? She needed more rest anyway and he definitely didn't like the idea of being called a scoundrel again.

Sinbad did his best to wiggle out from under her. She gave a sleepy groan of disapproval and he had to agree with that sentiment. Mori's movements shifted her hair. He never noticed that she had pierced ears. It was probably because she wasn't wearing earrings.

Earrings were another good gift idea for welcoming his Beautiful Prophet to her new home. He was already planning to get her a new wardrobe, so a few accessories would be a normal addition.

The King put the rest of his clothes back on, then his metal vessels and other adornments, and left to find out the current state of things. At least he had gotten some sleep before having to take up his responsibilities.

---

~POV shift Mori~

Where the fuck had the comfy warm thing gone? And why had Ja'far and Sinbad bickered so loudly that I could hear it from my bed? -Not that I paid any attention to what they were saying.

Now that I was awake though, I realized that the "comfy warm thing" I was missing was probably the Sinbad I clung to in my dream. I always get cuddly when I'm unwell so giving myself a dream like that was par for the course.

I forced myself up and realized I didn't recognize my surroundings -and not just because everything was blurry without my glasses on. I definitely did not know this room. I could still hear the waves though and the room was swaying lightly, so I was obviously still on the ship.

The room only had the one bed. There was some kind of large wooden furniture nearby. A desk or dresser maybe?

I felt light headed.

Seriously, though... How did I get here? I had basically spent the entire trip in one room and it wasn't this one.

I remembered waking up in the middle of the night, I had felt the worst I had all trip, I went topside... Oh right. I fainted and Sinbad someone caught me. And then they took care of me even though they didn't have to... And they comforted me. That was probably why I had a dream like that.

I thought all of the passenger rooms were divided evenly though. Who was so privileged that they got a room all to their-

...

Next order of business: getting back to my room to get my glasses and other belongings.

I looked to the floor just to make sure I had left my flip-flops in my room. I was greeted with a blurry empty wood floor. Even without glasses I'd be able to make out if my shoes were there.

I made my way to the door with decent coordination.

The hallway was dim like normal. I had expected that, but I had forgotten how much worse my night vision is without my glasses. I really couldn't tell which end of the hallway was the door to the bow and which was the main deck.

This was fine. I could figure this out. The door placements weren't perfectly symmetrical so if I went to the middle of the hallway I should be able to figure it out without having to test the ends and risk looking like a bigger idiot than I already was. Technically, I could use the room I came out of for reference, but those thoughts brought my fever back. It would make my room the one to my left on the wall across from me though. I decided to call it "Fate" that I opened the correct door on the first try.

Since no one else was around I took the opportunity to wipe down and change clothes. There was no way I was going to continue wearing the clothes I had sweat in while I was so sick. Now that I was sure my fever had broke, I was back in my hoodie and shorts.

I just sat on my bed in a daze; I was so drained. I needed food or more sleep or both.

I heard shouting, but nothing I could make out. Then the distinctive sound of a stampede. I didn't move and waited for some clue as to what was going on -I didn't have the energy to move anyway. Had a south seas creature attacked? I hadn't heard splashing.

The door to the passenger rooms was opened. The runners went down the hall and the door to the room I was sitting in was yanked open.

Aladdin and Morgiana stopped in the doorway when they spotted me. I saw Alibaba run past behind them.

"Miss Mori! You're back!"

I nodded. "What's going on?”

"We're packing," Morgiana answered simply.

There's only one reason they'd be packing.

Aladdin excitedly added, "Mr. Ja'far said we'll reach Sindria soon. You can see it clearly!"

I packed my things too.

Those two asked me how I was feeling. They had been really worried about me. Now that I wasn't as sick, my

(Also, I'm still drafting the next arc so there's probably going to be one long break and then back to weekly posts. I mostly know what I want to happen for getting settled in Sindria but the order of events and the how are numerous. I've already written 3 different versions. The version of the ship to Sindira arc I went with is actually version 5 so you guys get an idea of how many dead timelines I write per arc before I get to the right one. I decided on the 5th version because I liked how it set up the upcoming arc.)

thoughts didn't have that cloud hanging over them. I could see how even though I wasn't close to anyone in this world yet, that there were still people who would care about me.

I definitely wasn't fully better, having been sick for so long. As soon as we'd get settled in, in Sindria I'd go back to sleep. I'd have to leave exploring to after I was better.

The kids finished packing before me and ran out with their bags. I grabbed some food before joining them. The one good thing about this not being a super long trip was that not all of the bread was hardtack.

(Hardtack is a bread that is rebaked multiple times until it is hard as a rock. This helps kill anything that could grow mold. Hardtack is normally for very long trips at sea where you can't just go get more food. It is not eaten on its own because it's so hard. It is put in soup or other liquids to soften when eating. Yes, I ate hardtack when reenacting. It tastes like the stalest bread you can imagine and saps flavor from everything it touches, but it is filling. Soup with hardtack is what I drew Mori and Alibaba eating in the previous chapter.)

#sindria's prophet #magi prophet fanfic #magi sinbad #magi fanfiction #sinbad magi #king sinbad #sinbad x oc #sinbadxoc #magi fanart #magi sinbad fluff

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danganronpa-21 · 5 years

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Naegiri Week Day 1: Ill

Here we are, Naegiri Week Day 1: Ill. I hope everyone’s ready for a little Post-Hope’s Peak escape fic, in which Makoto is fighting off a case of scurvy, and so Kyoko decides to make the journey to a Future Foundation Safe Haven in hopes of finding food to save him. For this one, I’d definitely issue a warning of some heavier topics of violence and in-depth descriptions of gross stuff, as there’s dealing with illness and dead bodies and all that.

It’s also way longer than I originally intended to make it. Oops. My other prompts will... probably be shorter, I think. This one was just an idea I got really enthused about! So, I hope you enjoy it!

Also, little tip to the rest of my fellow writers/digital artists participating in Naegiri Week: remember to rest your eyes! I gave myself a migraine yesterday from too many days of bright screens in a row. Be gentle with yourselves! You’ve all done wonderful things so far, and best of luck with the rest of your prompts!

____________

Four days ago, Makoto collapsed.

Kyoko hadn’t seen it happen at first. Her lavender eyes were far too focused on the path that lay ahead of them. She hadn’t even thought to look back when she heard his body hitting the pavement. Every moment she knew she had to be alert for danger; she had no time to waste on listening for tiny sounds like that. She’d expected it to be nothing. She had to focus on leading the charge. Though throes of illness and hunger threatened to overtake her, she knew she had to press on. She encouraged the same in the others, too, but completely fell apart when Makoto’s quiet gasps brought her attention to him.

Hearing Byakuya shout, she spun around without thinking. Her eyes fell immediately upon the pitiful boy. He was the strongest boy she’d ever known, yet when she laid eyes on him, he was sobbing on the road like a pathetic child. His teeth grinding together in pain. His eyes squeezed shut. Desperately trying to keep himself together.

“What happened?!” Byakuya stepped closer to Makoto, eyes narrowed. He crouched down to his level. “Get up off the ground. Now’s not the time to get all weepy-eyed!”

Makoto didn’t answer. He didn’t dare lift his face from the asphalt; his brows furrowed in emotion. Sadness, Kyoko wondered? Or maybe he was in pain. Some invisible pain, that the rest of them couldn’t see. She supposed he’d been complaining of sore legs as of late, but that was normal. Everyone had sore legs. Running and hiding during the apocalypse did that to you. They’d been walking in search of help for days; of course their legs felt like they were going to fall off. Even Aoi, who’s leg wound had adopted an infection, refused to complain. For the most part, Makoto had kept quiet, too.

Yet there he lay, his face so close to the dirty street, crying like a little boy. Something more had to be wrong. He never was much of a crier; she doubted the soreness of his own legs would be enough to send him crashing to the ground.

“We don’t have time for this!” Byakuya huffed, prying at the smaller boy’s body. He grabbed hold of his arm and tugged. Within an instant Makoto screeched out pain, desperately trying to yank his arm out of Byakuya’s grasp.

He continued to sob. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

Byakuya failed to respond to his pleas. He kept tugging like a toddler; one who didn’t know that it hurt the puppy when he pulled its tail. Makoto continued to howl and sob. “Would you be quiet?! You’ll attract cannibals or something! Now isn’t the time for this!”

Kyoko barked out an order without thinking. “Togami, leave him alone.” She walked towards the two of them, each step careful until she crouched down next to Byakuya. “Something is clearly wrong beyond whatever you think it is.”

“He’s fine,” Byakuya protested, “He’s not in any sort of real pain.”

Wrong, Kyoko thought. One look into Makoto’s watery green eyes, and one could see that it wasn’t anything normal. Sure, he’d had the same complaints as the others — fatigue, nausea, diarrhea, and loss of appetite… but no one else had been experiencing pain quite like this. If something had become enough to make him cry, she knew they should take it seriously.

“Naegi-kun, what’s the matter?”

His face had painted itself with shame, likely at his tears. He spoke with shaky breaths, almost daring to avoid meeting her eyes. “Everything… my shoulders, and my forearms… my knees… god, everything hurts so bad… It’s like all my joints are killing me.”

She placed a gentle hand on his head, hoping to be supportive. She had never been all that good at the whole comforting thing, but she still intended to try.

“I tried to hold up, for awhile, I really did…” He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “But I… I’m sorry, I… I tried so hard to… to… hold up, but I just… This really… really… fucking hurts...”

The curse caught them by surprise. If Byakuya had needed any more proof that he was in legitimate pain, that word was it. His scowl, however still strong, seemed to soften a bit after he heard the word. His grip on Makoto’s arm lost its firmness as well.

“Shhhhhh…” She patted his head softly, “You’re okay. I know it hurts.”

He sniffled again, seeming grateful for her comfort. In a way, it brought her solace, knowing that she gave him some peace of mind. Her presence seemed to stabilize his breaths a little. “I’ll… I’ll get up in a few minutes, I s-swear I’ll keep going I just… this really hurts…”

Wrong again, she thought. Everyone seemed to have a knack for being wrong here. There was no way in hell Makoto would be walking on his own again. He collapsed; it was a telltale sign that his joints had all given up for the day. He should have known that.

“Nonsense, Naegi-kun.” She shook her head, “Hagakure-kun will carry you.”

His brow creased in worry, and he shot a nervous glance towards Yasuhiro. Ah, she thought, he’s worried about what will be done with Aoi.

“B-But what about Asahina-san? Her leg’s so much worse than mine. She needs someone to lean on.” He stuck his arms out to try and push himself to his feet, only to go tumbling back down against the road. Kyoko prayed he hadn’t scraped his chin. “I-I can get up, if you’ll just give me a…”

He once again went crashing to the ground, letting out a rather pathetic sob.

“I c-c-can do it, I-I swear…”

Kyoko shook her head. “Asahina-san can lean on me instead. I just want you to get of here in one piece.”

____________

Patient Name: Naegi Makoto, Ex-member of Class 78-A of Hope’s Peak Academy

Reported Symptoms: Fatigue, nausea, diarrhea, loss of appetite, fever, and painful joints and muscles.

Diagnosis: Early stage scurvy. Keep an eye out for pinpoint bleeding around hair follicles and skin as time goes on. Immediate consumption of fruit and vegetables will be necessary.

Kyoko could do little more than sigh as she slammed her notebook shut, her pen unceremoniously tossed to the side. Thinking about all of this stressed her out too much, yet there was little else that dwelled in her mind. Most days she would be thinking about the next opportunity to move, to get food or water, but now… now all of her thoughts were of Makoto, and what she could do to ease his pain.

If she chose to be honest with herself, there wasn’t much she could do to soothe him. She wasn’t a nurse, nor a nurturing person. She knew little of caring for people with bubbling stomachs and crushing fevers, and she certainly did not know a thing about helping someone with aching joints. Her care methods were standard: feed them, wash them, give them something to drink, make sure they were comfortable. That was all she could do to make his suffering easier. Nothing short of searching for an antidote could ease his sorrows, and she knew there was almost no way she would be able to get by doing that. Not with the others around, at least. They’d throw a fit once they discovered her absence. Not to mention that they might try to track her down; an act that could only further the sense of disaster. If she wanted to do this, she’d have to do it on her own. She’d just… have to find some way to slip out during the night. Maybe leave a note warning them not to come after her, or they will face her wrath when she returns. Yeah, that was a good statement… she knew at least Aoi and Yasuhiro would buy into that one.

Setting her notebook aside, she sighed. Inky blackness would soon consume the ruby red sky, and she’d get a chance to relax. Well, as much as one could amongst a pile of ailing teenagers. Nights were revered among their group for their solace from pain, but getting to sleep was always the real struggle. Between Yasuhiro’s pneumonia-induced hacking, Toko’s hourly bathroom trips, Aoi’s whimpering, Makoto’s sweat-soaked fever dreams, and the whale calls made by Byakuya’s empty stomach… Sleeping was a challenge. Even if she could manage to block out the sounds of her sick and hungry friends, their environment was hardly comfortable enough to sleep in anyways. Most nights they bounced from place to place, and most of those places were not built for comfort. Some nights they were lucky and got to share a motel room or two; most of the time though, they found themselves curled up on the floors of former retail stores and restaurants. This time around, they found themselves in an abandoned library… another place that, surprisingly, had few places to sleep.

Of course, that didn’t stop some of her friends. When she looked up from her notebook, almost all of her friends had drifted off already. Toko had nuzzled her face into Byakuya’s shoulder and fallen asleep there, and he’d let her. She assumed he must have been too exhausted himself to push her off. Aoi curled herself up in a corner, trying desperately to maintain warmth against the cold breeze. As for Yasuhiro, well, he’d been dead asleep for hours. Once he could stop coughing, his favourite hobby became sleeping. He was always the most well-rested of the group, unlike Kyoko. And much unlike Makoto lately.

No surprise there that Makoto was still wide awake.

“How are you feeling?” The words were reflex. She’d asked him the very same question so many times; really any time she’d realized that he was staring off into space again.

He gave the same answer each and every time, wincing as he shifted. “I’m fine.”

She never believed it. Habitually, he held his tongue for the sake of the others. That was why he’d gone on for so long before collapsing. He sucked it up until he couldn’t anymore.

“I know that’s not true.”

He let out a small grunt, pulling one of his legs closer to his chest. He exhaled sharply through his nose, slowly turning to look at her. “Of course it’s not true.”

She tried to look sympathetic, but she didn’t know what that looked like facially. Lowered brows in concern, maybe? Jeez, she would have to reprimand her grandfather for making her struggle to express herself. That is, assuming she might ever see him again. “What’s bothering you today?”

His eyes squeezed shut tightly. There was a jarring lack of hesitation in his words, as he turned to her and said, “Kirigiri-san. I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

The question struck fear into her heart like lightning. His words vibrated through her eardrums for only a few seconds, but already she felt ready to shout at him. He was supposed to be the optimist, damn it! How could he scare her with this talk of dying? No way. No, no, no. No way.

“No, you are not.”

Her voice came out firmer than she intended, like a parent telling their child that their word was final. She imagined her face must have followed suit, an uncontrollable scowl carving its way into her lips. If her predictions were correct, this was also probably one of those times that her eyes had become scarily intense.

“Really? You think there’s something we can do?”

The lack of hope in his tone almost made Kyoko want to slap some sense into him. But hitting your friends is a mean thing to do, and hitting the boy you kind of sort of think you might have a crush on is… well, it’s a lot worse.

Nodding was a better choice in this scenario. “Yes, I do.”

To her surprise, Makoto let out a soft chuckle. As his eyes fluttered open, she could start to see the inklings of sadness that hid behind them. Like he had already begun to accept that he faced the beginning of the end.

“It’s okay,” He said softly, “You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying.” Her hands curled into fists. Where had all of his positivity gone? Had this condition replaced it with nothing more than swallowing melancholy? Once upon a time it would have been unthinkable for Makoto to even speak like this, but suddenly now she was taunted by the idea that it could become the norm. “I fully intend to make sure you do not die.”

“Kirigiri-” He started, but she didn’t let him finish. She cut him off not even a word’s worth in to the sentence; furious at the way he spoke.

“It’s not up for discussion, Makoto! Whether you think you will or not, I intend to make it so that you survive.”

She gulped. Neither of them had expected her to snap like that. Usually she could be calm and reserved, even in the face of adversity. But something about the suggestion of Makoto’s death hit her differently. Like a knife being jabbed into a wound she didn’t know she had. Without her consent, her eyes had become glassy, and she realized that she felt the push of tears in her throat. Stupid, she thought. It had been so long since she’d last felt the need to cry. It was so easy to choke it down.

The words hung a long pause in the air between the two of them; both of them afraid to break it for what felt like hours. Kyoko could do nothing but swallow repeatedly and blink rapidly, hoping desperately that he didn’t notice that she wanted to cry. Thankfully, he didn’t, opting instead to pick at the dirt under his fingernails. He lacked the proper works to say… just as she did.

The act that ended up the vow of silence between them was a soft sigh from Makoto’s end of things. He bit into his lip, shutting his eyes tightly. The face he made when he was reluctantly about to go along with one of her wild schemes to save the day.

“What do you propose we do?”

_______________________

If a spring breeze even existed anymore, it carried only a bizarre chill and the stench of death.

In the air it carried came the taste of distant smoke; the charred bodies of the dead and the burning brought through the air to these wandering children. Amongst the smell of death and the taste of airy smoke, lived nothing more than darkness and dim patches of light. The only sound being the distant screams of the tortured as they begged for mercy, and the gentle footsteps of the allied moving in synch. Pray for them, these wandering children. They are lost in a world determined to eliminate them.

A horror novel could not have painted a superior picture to the one that unfolded before Kyoko. All around her threatened destruction and desolation, should she take one wrong step. Just as if she were a character in a book, Kyoko would have to think through every detail of her present situation carefully. There could be no room for error, especially not when she had brought along such fragile cargo.

The decision to bring Makoto with her was a bad one. Sure, she knew there was little she could have done to stop him from joining her, but that didn’t keep her from regretting it. The poor thing stumbled about with all of the grace of a baby deer still learning how to use its legs, and had the endurance of one, too. He could only move in quick spurts, only fast enough to make a little bit of headway before needing to rest. They were nowhere near being close enough to their destination as they should have been thanks to that.

She didn’t have it in her heart to blame the poor boy, though. He did his best to not be a liability. He was skilled at ignoring his upset stomach and its repeated false alarms for vomiting, and was sweating out his fever like a pro. There were few people she had ever seen manage illness this well, and it impressed her, knowing that he could. She might have even felt proud of him, if she didn’t feel so overwhelmingly awful about having to drag him out into the dirty, disgusting world.

“H-How much longer until… until we’re… t-there…?” He panted so quietly that it might as well have been a whisper. She could see beads of sweat dripping down his forehead, desperately trying to cool him off. They weren’t managing so well, she noted, for his face flushed rouge. Maybe he would be due for another break soon, she decided. He didn’t look so good.

She tried not to look too pitying as she glanced back at him. She’d quickly learned that pity only made him feel worse. “Just a little while longer,” She purred in the sweetest voice she could muster, hoping to sound comforting, “We can take a break soon, if you like.”

He shook his head vigorously until pain overtook it. Another product of his fever. “I think I can manage for a little longer.” He promised; she knew it had to be empty. Too much sweat had stained the collar of his t-shirt for him to be okay to keep moving. He would need a break. And water.

“I disagree.” She took his hand in her own. “Here, let’s duck behind this building. We can stop here for a bit.”

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Kyoko’s movements were enough to shut him up. At that point, his focus drew towards his aching joints, and how to keep himself from crying out at the movement. Luckily, resting at the library for a few days had given them a new lease on life, and he could move just a tad easier than he could have before. He wasn’t collapsing, nor wailing from indescribable pain. At the very least, that made both of them feel a little bit better about the whole thing.

Still, even his increased comfort didn’t mean that he didn’t have to focus on keeping his complaints at bay. Every bend of his knee or curve of his forearm warranted a low grunt of pain; one that he silenced in order to keep himself and Kyoko safe. Night was the most dangerous time for them to be travelling, and they both knew how every little sound drew the attention of the nightcrawlers.

So he kept himself silenced, right up until they reached the building Kyoko proposed they hide behind. Then, with all of the grace of someone who had been nearly drowned, he let his desperate gasps spill out of him. Kyoko stood guard next to him; she seemed adamant that she be able to monitor his breathing. There hadn’t been a break that had gone by that she hadn’t listened to his shallow breaths, waiting for them to progressively become deeper.

“Do you want some water?”

Her voice came as a gentle coo, like the way a mother would speak to her ailing child. She didn’t bother to listen to his response; she reached into her bag to grab hold of the bottle anyway. They both knew he’d be taking a drink no matter what he said.

She handed the bottle to him carefully, taking note of the water level. Enough for him to have a mouthful, but not for her. That was fine. If where they were going was as perfect as it was rumoured to be, she would have no problem getting more. Perhaps she could even snag some bottles to take back with her, to hydrate the others. God knows how long it had been since they had some real, fresh water.

Makoto accepted the bottle gratefully. His hands shook as he unscrewed the lid, but Kyoko tried not to notice. It was probably just hunger tremors, she thought to herself. She knew she had them too. She couldn’t help but fantasize about putting an end to those soon, too, just as she did with the water. All she could think about, apart from getting there alive, was providing what she knew everyone needed.

What Makoto needed most of all. Of course she thought of the others, but Makoto’s need was potentially the most pressing. Realistically, Toko would survive as long as she stayed hydrated, and the same went for Aoi so long as she washed the wound. Given that he was neither a small child or elderly, she fully expected Yasuhiro to make a full recovery. And once again, assuming that Byakuya would eat and drink, he’d be fine too. Makoto was really the only one of her friends who could die on the spot from something dramatic like a heart attack. So getting the right kind of food into him sat at the top of her priority list.

“Do you want some, Kirigiri-san?”

Leave it to Makoto to snap her back into her thoughts by offering her water. There had barely been enough in there for him to have a mouthful, yet he’d still halved it to make sure she could drink. Stupidly selfless Makoto; she wanted to scold him for that. She knew that he knew that he needed the water more, and the idiot had still halved it. She shook her head frustratedly.

“Are you sure?” He prodded, raising an eyebrow at her. He waved the water bottle at her temptingly, but she raised a hand in refusal. He knew better than to keep bothering after that, so he let it go and took one last swig for himself.

“Just drink it,” She sighed, “If I’m to believe the rumours about where we’re going, then I should be able to get more.”

The luckster blinked it surprise, and pulled the water bottle back close to his body. The expression of excitement on his face over having more water was cute enough to make her laugh, albeit rather lightly. The fact that he now seemed almost territorial over his water only made it harder to avoid giggling more loudly.

“You think this place will have water and fresh produce?” His eyes were wide, glimmering with the hope she worried he had lost to his illness. She could have cried at the sight of faith finally returning to his gaze. It had only been four days since he fell apart, but already she was grateful to have it back. It had been too long. Just seeing that brought a smile to her face.

“It’s supposed to. Apparently, there is an anti-apocalypse group spreading resources to survivors. I believe they call themselves Future Foundation, or something cheesy like that.”

It became his turn to smile. “It’s nice to know that there’s still some people out there trying to do good.”

She nodded in agreement, unable to fight herself on looking pleased. Really, she was with him on that. Knowing that someone else was out there, fighting for the future… it brought her great happiness. She could only hope that she would live long enough to put it to good use.

Makoto screwed the lid back onto the water bottle and handed it back to her. She took it gratefully, proceeding to offer him her hand. He became a little more stable when he had the help. A sigh of relief expelled itself from her mouth when he accepted her hand, and pulled him up from the spot where he sunk originally. Now that he was so close to her face again, the drops of sweat and the flushing of his face became even more apparent. She chose not to weigh her options about what to do; she simply pried her glove off her hand and placed it on his forehead to feel his temperature. Warmer, she noted, but not as bad as it could get. If guessing was involved, he probably hadn’t hit one-hundred degrees yet. In the seventies or eighties, should she be tasked with giving an exact number.

Still, this wasn’t something Makoto could possibly know. Concern for his own well-being gleamed in his tired eyes, and only showed further in the way his brows lowered over them. Perhaps it was over what she could report, or maybe the fact that she stood so close, but his lip took some abuse as well. It had become like the victims of the Tragedy: cannibalized. He was biting the skin off it again and again in agonizing anticipation. Like he thought Kyoko could just decree that he had two minutes left to live.

She sighed. “Well, you certainly have not got any better,” She withdrew her hand from his forehead and slipped it back into its glove, “But you also haven’t gotten any worse. Which, I would say, is a rather good thing.”

Like a wave crashing to the shore, all of the concern in Makoto’s expression washed away. As a small smile snuck across his face, she heard him laugh. “Yeah,” He paused, turning his head to look at the path that lay ahead, “Should we be going again, then?”

“If you’re ready.”

From that point forward, they would take a few more breaks. Understandable, considering that Makoto hadn’t done such a good job holding out for long periods of time. So far they had managed to narrowly dodge the nightcrawlers, ducking through alleyways and silencing themselves every time they heard the familiar footsteps of the hungry. When they came near, neither of them dared to make a sound. They only waited; they barely found the strength to breathe. Only once the loud, stomping feet trailed off, did the two teenagers continue on, feeling a little more like they were going to throw up the dinner that wasn’t in their stomachs. But it was fine, for they were almost there.

That’s what Kyoko told herself, anyway. It distracted her from the fact that they seemed to be stopping more and more often because of them. It seemed as if her finger would fly to her lips every two minutes. She’d be desperately silencing the whispers, footsteps, and breaths she dared to take — otherwise, she couldn’t guarantee their survival. Then, once the shouting of the cannibals had passed, they’d keep stumbling along. In the back of her mind, though, the thoughts of them would linger. How hungry did they have to be to eat other human beings? And how certain could she be of this Future Foundation safe haven if the nightcrawlers still rallied for flesh?

She gulped at the thought. For a second, she considered asking Makoto, but dismissed the idea just as fast. The poor thing already fought off nausea as he walked; striking up a conversation about some good ol’ cannibalism wouldn’t help that case. She had a memory of him vomiting the first time he’d seen one of the bodies they’d eaten. How could human beings ever stoop so low? Could they really stoop so low?

Kyoko shuddered at the life she’d lead if she were more desperate. Though hunger ached in her belly and sent dizziness spiraling through her head, she couldn’t fathom killing and eating another person. And she knew Makoto and the others couldn’t either. And while this did put them on the moral high ground, it also put them into the position of victim. If they weren’t careful, they could be next.

It was better not to think about it. The consumption of others, the chance that the promise of food and water was empty, and her stomach’s endless growling. It was better to focus on her partner. What he felt, what he thought, what he needed in the moment. It was strange; in spite of not being a nurturing person, she sort of took to caring for him. It took her mind off of the other things she decided to avoid thinking about. Interesting. She couldn’t keep herself from wondering if maybe, just maybe, he worried about her in the same way.

“How much further now?” He whispered over her shoulder; his voice wrought with exhaustion. Though she told him to stop many times, he had taken to refusing the closer they got. She could hear his breathlessness as they stumbled through the night, but it was never enough to slow him.

Their eyes didn’t meet as she guided him forward; she simply mumbled her response to him. “Soon,” She told him, “We’ll be there.”

He let out a low hum, pulling himself back from her side ever so slightly. There was weight on his feet when he walked; she could hear it, but he said nothing. He simply kept pushing along, one foot in front of the other, beads of sweat still dripping down his forehead mercilessly.

At least with them having not heard the footsteps of the nightcrawlers recently, Kyoko could take the opportunity to chat. “How’s your stomach?”

As if to answer her, a loud grumble sounded from presumably, within his stomach. She hid her smile behind her hand, and he blushed.

“A little rumbly, but… okay, I guess.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I am sorry to hear that… but we will fix it soon. I promise you that.”

He laughed softly. “I’m not worried,” He placed a hand on her shoulder, “I know I’ll be fine, so long as you’re with me.”

One might have thought Kyoko would answer, but the words caught in her throat. Her mind raced so quickly that she could barely think of a thing to say. Stupid Makoto, she thought to herself, stupid Makoto and his cute face and his sweet sentences. This boy will make a joke out of me one day, I swear. Only the flustering of her face could show how that made her feel, her gaze darting away from him. He probably wouldn’t look at her deeply, yet she didn’t want him to see how much those words meant. It would only make the blow worse if the rumours turned out to be wrong.

Her lips sealed themselves after that. The two of them still kept a close eye on each other, but there was almost nothing else that needed to be said. The closest they got was Makoto slipping his hand into hers; it felt as if it was his way of begging to be close. Taking one look at the war-torn, exhausted boy who trudged beside her, she couldn’t help but accept it. An old friend’s words echoed in her mind.

Have you ever held hands with a boy?

It was hard to know whether she wanted to scowl or laugh. She had held his hands before; it wasn’t the first time. But at the very least, this time felt a little different. Perhaps it was because as they took each careful step towards the unknown, it felt like it was the two of them against the world.

They made good progress after their last conversation, for there were no more interruptions. Creepy, Kyoko thought, that enemies could just seem to disappear as they drew closer. A little too suspicious, if you asked her. Not that she should really be asked; she was a detective after all. As far as she was concerned, anything could be suspicious. Still, she attempted to shrug it off… for Makoto’s sake. The last thing he needed while in his condition was the paranoid ramblings of a girl without evidence.

Besides, his presence became a good distraction from her paranoia. All she had to worry about was pushing him forward, towards the proclaimed Future Foundation safe haven building. The structure had finally spread itself out in front of them; the whole thing appearing suspiciously normal amongst the chaos. If the expectation for Kyoko was honesty, she would have confessed that she presumed that everything would look… rougher. Maybe some scorch marks along the bricks from fires long since put out, or perhaps some blood stains turned brown from age. Certainly, if these Future Foundation people were bright at all, they should consider that their weirdly clean-looking building stood out like a sore thumb. Just an old warehouse building, complete with dusted red brick and white moldings around the doors and windows. Not even the window glass shattered or shared any cracks with the outside world. The window was simply tinted with natural colour, and dust that had been kicked up from storms. In the old world, this could have been any old abandoned warehouse. Only now, it was the hiding spot of secret resources.

The appearance of it was so obvious that Makoto’s face lit up upon sight. Just seeing his expression was like watching a human Christmas tree. His exhausted eyes lit up with glee, and he clung tightly to her arm. Delight dripped through his voice as he spoke to her, and he gestured towards the building with a bouncy, shaking hand. “Is that it, Kyoko?” He asked, “Is that the building?”

She nodded, fighting off the grin that threatened to make its appearance. “Yes,” Closing one of her eyes, she pointed forward, “That’s the one.”

Those olive green eyes of his sparkled back at her, and he pressed his face into her arm. A sigh sounded as he nuzzled her, and for a minute, she might’ve imagined them some place else. But the old warehouse was no sunset-lit beach, nor star-clad night. It was just an old warehouse, full of little more than promise. Promise was promise, though. If it meant his survival, Kyoko might consider it the most beautiful thing of all.

With that idea resting in her mind, she pressed him to move forward. One step after the other, the same rhythm as always. Every once in awhile she stopped to flick her head around corners; a necessary evil to ensure that no nightcrawlers could spring a trap on them. Makoto followed along behind her carefully; a willful puppy trailing after his caretaker. As they drew closer and closer to the clearing that housed the warehouse, Kyoko knew making a break for it was necessary. When she glanced at her walking partner, it took her all of three seconds to know he saw it too.

She took a deep breath, and squeezed his hand tightly. Counting back from ten in her head, she braced herself. One, two, three. Even with her gloves on, she could feel the sweat on Makoto’s pams. Four, five, six. The warehouse beckoned them in an inaudible voice. Seven, eight, nine. Stacks of fresh produce and water. They had to be in there.

Ten.

Kyoko stole a breath and ran.

The world went by her in a rush; the sounds of their thundering footsteps as they ran consuming everything else around her. Amongst the chaos of their feet, the only other thing she could hear was the shallow panting of Makoto, who was clearly overexerting himself to arrive safely. She’d be sure to praise him for his perseverance later; most likely after she rewarded him with some well-deserved water and food. For now, though, she zeroed in on the front door. It stood there waiting; a wooden beacon in the distance. It drew closer and closer as their feet hit the pavement, the smell of death and the taste of the smoky air drowned out by what lay behind it.

Almost there. The thought echoed in her mind as she grabbed hold of the door’s handle. Behind her, Makoto attempted to skid to a stop, clearly just as lost as she was in the motions of the run. In the distance she heard the voices of the hungry, and she prayed that the famine of her and her friends hadn’t put them in the nightcrawlers’ sights. She yanked the door back with fervour, shoving Makoto inside before promptly slamming the door behind her.

She slumped against the door the moment she arrived, and her lungs screamed for air. The world seemed to sway under her feet as she stared down at them, trying desperately to steady herself. She had exerted the energy she lacked when she ran, and she knew her partner must have too. The mere idea of moving only made her head spiral further, but she knew she had to check on him. She ignored her brain’s desperation for the world to slow. Instead, she turned her head towards Makoto.

Just one look at him, and her heart dropped into her stomach.

He was… horrified. His hands had flown to his mouth to cover it, for otherwise it’d be hanging agape. His sleepy eyes were now wide with shock, and his brows so harshly furrowed together that she’d have thought he witnessed the product of a nightmare come to life. She could even see tremors start to consume his body once again.

“Naegi-kun?” She squeaked, her voice small and insignificant against the echoing terror of the warehouse. “What’s wrong?”

The boy refused her gaze. He only extended a hand, and trembling, he pointed forward.

His horror struck her just the same when her eyes fell upon it.

Bodies littered the building. Bodies of Future Foundation members, bodies of the despairs, the nightcrawlers, and the desperate. Everywhere was the sight of bodies, bloody and beaten beyond recognition. Shelves knocked over; the contents spilling over into pools of blood, excrement, and urine. Those that didn’t fall from the shelves onto the fluid-soaked floor had been otherwise tampered with. Some had been ripped open and left to spoil, so that no one might have what lay inside them. Others were completely destroyed, or used for horrible things Kyoko couldn’t bring herself to process. Her head spun even faster, and she was half-sure she’d have toppled over, if it weren’t for Makoto who grabbed her arm.

Thank god for his willingness to support her weight.

“I…” She sputtered, shutting her eyes. A harsh, sudden headache pounded at her temples, and when she tried to breathe, the air scorched her throat. “I don’t understand.”

Her feet swayed beneath her even further, threatening to bring her down. It was only Makoto who kept her steady; his voice hushed as he whispered in her ear.

“Stay with me, Kirigiri-san.” He begged. Through the booming of her heart in her ears, the shaking of his voice made itself audible. “Everything is fine.”

She tried to swallow, but it felt like a rock lodged itself in her throat. Her senses threatened her with tears, but she willed herself not to cry. Crying doesn’t solve anything. Her grandfather’s words. Words she wished to resist. “No,” She murmured, “Everything is not fine.”

“I know,” he whispered back, “It’s horrible, I know.”

She nodded. “This place was supposed to… help people. I… I cannot understand why anyone would… would…”

The detective’s voice trailed off. Her whimpers were the only thing ringing through the silence of the old warehouse. This only seemed to torture her further; Makoto couldn’t help but remark on how she trembled in his arms. The act was so uncharacteristic of her. It sent a jolt of worry to his core.

“Naegi-kun, what are we going to do?” She turned her head to look at him; the first time Makoto had actually seen the fear in her violet eyes. “The water… Aoi, and Byakuya, and the others… and you! You needed this place! You needed it so badly, and I was certain… I was certain that I…”

He pulled her face towards his chest, shushing as gently as he could. He found himself stroking her hair without thinking to do so; he supposed he thought the action would be soothing. Fortunately for him, she failed to oppose it. Rather, she actually buried her face deeper into his chest to hide.

“It’s okay, Kirigiri-san.”

“B-But, I…”

The girl’s hands curled into fists, and he could feel the clench of her jaw. Was she about to cry, or was she about to punch him? The lack of answer made him uneasy. Kyoko looked like the kind of girl who could punch hard, should she want to punch you.

“... I was supposed to help you. We were supposed to get out of this together. I… I don’t understand why I cannot help you. I don’t understand what I’ve done poorly.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing you could have done, and no way you could have known. We just… need to go somewhere else now.”

She pressed her face further into his chest, and suddenly, he could feel it. The tiny, wet spots of her tears on his shirt. She wouldn’t show it, but he could feel it. For her sake, he decided not to mention it. Chances are she was already embarrassed enough to be crying, given her stoicism. He decided perhaps it was best if he just let the waterworks slide this time around.

“No.” She answered with a shaking breath. Though he could hear her sniffling, she dismissed any semblance of a sob. “No, I’m not leaving here until we find something to help you.”

“Kirigiri-san-”

“No!” She growled with all of the stubbornness of a toddler. It might have even been punctuated with a stomp of her foot. “No, I am not leaving her until we fix things!”

“Kyoko, we can’t…”

Suddenly, she shoved him away, staring at him with a frown. The tears were still glistening on her face, yet she scorned them. It dawned on him now that he probably led her to want to punch him, shortly after she started to cry. Two for two, he supposed.

“It’s final, Makoto.” A firm, resolute voice took place of the shaky girl’s. She swiped at her eyes, and strengthened the painted-on scowl she wore. “I intend to help you. Whether you try to help yourself or not.”

The words struck him dumb. He tried to reach his hand out to her, to say something that would be of value, but the detective was having none of it. Within seconds, she had whipped away from him, strutting down the rows of shelves like it was nothing. A chill shot down his spine at the sight of it. How could she be so firm in her resolve, he wondered. Even he, who had been widely praised by others for being so hopeful, was breaking down at each and every site where things fell apart. He had long since given up on himself, yet Kyoko dismissed all ideas of ever letting go. Somewhere within himself, Makoto knew he had to find that same resolve to keep going. To search for anything with her, so that they may both survive.

Because she said she wanted them to leave this situation together.

“Kyoko, wait.” He called out to her, stumbling forward as she walked. “I’ll help you.”

Within an instant, the discontentment melted off the girl’s face, and she turned to glance back at him. She sniffled once more, folding her arms across his chest. There were no words shared between them, but Kyoko flicked her head forward. With her, that was as good a signal as any to follow. So he did, stepping over any ominous looking puddles he found along the way. If there was any hope to be found for him, it would be with her.

“I’m thinking we should head towards the back of the building,” He suggested, taking hold of her hand again, “Some of the stuff back there might be spared. They could even have a produce fridge. You know, like where they mist the vegetables at the grocery store.”

Kyoko did little more than nod, walking towards the back of the store like she didn’t have a care in the world. With the way her chest was so proudly puffed up, you wouldn’t have expected her to have been crying a minute before. He figured it was safe to assume that was why she was doing it — she always held distaste for crying in front of others. It was sort of understandable, he reasoned. But he didn’t mind comforting her, if she needed to cry. Heaven knew that by then, she’d comforted him enough times.

The two made their way to the back of the building in relative silence, save for the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor of the warehouse. As they walked, both of them thought it best to avoid making contact with the corpses as they walked. Seeing the beaten faces, some of them frozen in screams of agony or despair, it made the hairs on the backs of their necks stand on end. Could they meet the same fate, if they weren’t careful? Could it just as easily have been them? Would whoever did this come back?

They both shook those nightmarish fantasies from their heads; both too afraid to know the answers to those questions. Instead, they put their focus onto the produce shelf, and what they might find on it.

“For you, there are a few things that we could use.” Kyoko told him, her voice hushed. Whether she spoke so quietly because she feared the return of the killers or showing how emotional she’d been, he didn’t know. “Acerola cherries, for example, make an excellent source. Kiwis, bell peppers, strawberries, broccoli, kale, and oranges are also acceptable sources.”

Makoto tried to keep those in mind as they travelled through the warehouse. The further back they went, the more he scanned for them. On occasion they would think they’d hit the jackpot, finding a lone strawberry or rogue kiwi on the floor. However, once they picked it up, they would discover the flaws. The most common was mold, but other regrettable occurrences did include a kiwi that had several bites taken out of it already; and a bell pepper coated in blood on one side. At that point, there was no other choice but to toss it aside and keep looking. Thinking optimistically, at least that provided them with just a smidge of hope. It did help significantly, seeing how the ideal fruits and vegetables did manage to trail to the back. Kyoko took that as a good sign.

Well, as good as a sign it could be, in an abandoned warehouse full of death. Sure, the stench of it all failed to recede as they ventured further, and the air still burned her throat, and Makoto was still sweating like a pig because of his fever… But in some weird way, she still held out hope that everything would be okay. Some way, somehow, it would be okay. It had to be.

And it seemed like it might, as they came up on the end of the island they had been walking through.

“Oh my god,” Makoto exclaimed, pointing forward. “Kirigiri-san, look!”

Her focus darted around, trying to figure out what he was referring to. Had a nightcrawler made its way in? Was there a resource they could benefit from? She scoured the shelves and the floors, taking in as much information as she could, until finally… she saw it. A round ball of fiery orange, sitting plainly on the ground. Away from any corpses, with skin untorn and full of natural colour.

A healthy, safe orange.

She’s certain that the two of them must have lunged for it; they attacked the fruit like children eager to open a Christmas present. Within mere seconds, Kyoko had ripped the glove off her hand and created an incision in the skin with her nails, tearing it off the fruit with a strange sort of glee.

Makoto sat across from her on his knees; eyeing the fruit like it were a piece of gold. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, for she basically held the remedy to all of his struggle. If she were in his shoes, she felt certain she would have acted the same way too. In her hands, she held the key to fixing everything — no more fever, no more upset stomach, no more fatigue, no more aching joints. She wouldn’t have to hear him cry so horribly ever again, ever see him such deep pain. She supposed she yearned just as hard for the relief of it as he. So when she finally managed to tear the skin off, she shoved the fruit into his hands.

“Go on, Naegi-kun.” She urged, “Eat it.”

For a second, he did nothing but stare at it. Surely he wasn’t having second thoughts about wanting to live or something, was he? Kyoko might have smacked him right then and there if he was, no matter how mean she knew it was to do… but, fortunately, that didn’t appear to be the case. Instead, when he came to his senses a little more, he tore the fruit in half and placed the other piece in Kyoko’s hands.

Her stomach growled in delight at the sight. “What are you doing?”

No, no, no, no. This was not her fruit. She couldn’t eat this. Not when he needed the nutrients more. Nearly as soon as it was in her hands, she rushed to return it to him — but Makoto dismissed it. Before she could even get within a few inches of him, he pushed her hand back to her.

“Please.” A slight smile crossed his face as he pushed her hand back. “I know you’re hungry, too.”

She bore down on her lip absent-mindedly. How did he expect her to accept this? “Naegi-kun, I can’t…”

“Yes, you can.” His grin brightened, and his hand secured itself around her own. “You’ve tried so hard to keep up my hope. Let’s try to keep up yours, too.”

Don’t accept it, she shouted at herself. He needs this more than you do. You know that.

She did know that. She did know that, yet when she looked at him, there was little she could do to resist his begging. That soft smile, those affectionate green eyes, damn you, Makoto Naegi. She fixed her eyes on him carefully, and raised the orange to her mouth.

“That’s it,” He said, raising his piece to his own, “On the count of three, alright?”

She nodded, eyeing the fruit in front of her. God, she hadn’t realized how much she missed oranges until this very moment. The scent of the citrusy fruit almost made her feel like she might start to drool.

“One… two… three.”

Bite.

A rush of flavour flooded her mouth, staining her tongue with its sweetness. She groaned in delight, having long since forgotten how wonderful oranges were. Across from her, she could gather Makoto was having the same experience… although the juices from the fruit were dripping down his lips and chin. She chuckled slightly, liking the mildly embarrassed expression on his face.

“This is… really good.” He remarked, wiping his chin with the back of his wrist.

She giggled at the act. “It truly is…”

“Mmm… Kirigiri-san?”

Taking another quick bite of her orange, she glanced back over at him expectantly.

“Yes?”

He licked his orange-juice coated lips, and flashed her another smile. A real one, with teeth and that signature cheerfulness she had grown to miss amongst his illness. Her chest warmed at the sight, and increased its warmth when he finally spoke.

“Thank you.”

#naegiri2019 #naegiri #kyoko kirigiri #makoto naegi #kyouko kirigiri #kirigiri kyoko #naegi makoto #thh #danganronpa #DR1 #danganronpa trigger happy havoc #Future Foundation

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myxcenterxstage · 5 years

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Meta: Priscilla's Motivation in Survival Mode ... and a whole lotta analysis

Author’s Note: This meta is primarily focused on v: Sail On, but can also reflect her character motivation in other verses.

TLDR; just jump to part 3 for the survival mode motivation stuff. But parts 1 & 2 help it make more impactful sense.

Part 1: A Character Analysis Pre-Franklin Expedition

So, let’s first take a quick look at Priscilla’s “Prologue” - her life growing up under the guardianship of her Uncle Charles Kimbleton.

Priscilla’s personality is slightly different in her verse v: Sail On. SLIGHTLY. She’s still her kind, buoyant and quirky self, but she’s also a lot more badass. She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty and isn’t interested in her debutante ceremony or who she’s going to marry. Nope. In this verse, Priscilla’s free-spirited “Wild Child” side is more prominent with her insatiable sense of wanderlust, wanting nothing more than to indulge her obsession with exploring the world as her Uncle Charles’ second-in-command and record their discoveries as a Natural Historian.

She imagines herself as the heroine of her own story she’s going to write about someday, or at least tag along for a grand adventure with like-minded people until she can accomplish that.

Besides v: Sail On being a great high seas & survival story, I like to think it has an underlying coming of age aspect where Priscilla comes into her own, because, granted, she’s a mess of contradictions.

She’s afraid of commitment and marriage… but she’s a hopeless romantic.

She’s a bit of a rebel to Victorian stereotypes… but she’s so self-conscience of what others perceive of her even if she claims she doesn’t care.

She’s independent… but is so vulnerable and impressionable and wants to be rescued by a hero that’ll sweep her off her feet.

She knows who she is and what she wants… but keeps seeking validation from others.

She’s insightful and a delight to be around and sometimes wiser beyond her years… but is emotionally immature and has a track record of recklessly foolish & impulsive decisions.

She has the courage to stand up to always do the right thing… but when she’s faced with a challenge she runs away from it.

Do you see where I’m getting at?

(I guess you could leave it as she’s a complex character… or I’m still trying to fully grasp her personality as an OC. I’d love some feedback on these ‘contradictions’!)

Part 2: The Aftermath of Uncle Charles’ Disappearance

So, Uncle Charles. He doesn’t physically appear in this verse per se, but boy does he remain an indirect main character.

No matter where in the world they were, Uncle Charles was Priscilla’s ‘home’. He was her bodyguard, her mentor, her storyteller, her shoulder to cry on, and most importantly her conscience to curb her foolishness as she was still growing up. The Kimbleton family isn’t exactly small, but Charles was by far the most genuine. Charles wasn’t just an uncle - he loved and cherished Pris as though she was his own daughter. (Since Charles was a widower who never remarried, I think that’s why Priscilla maybe even learned to cope with grief in this verse surprisingly well all thanks to him too.)

Uncle Charles was certainly one of the biggest influences in Priscilla’s life, and who encouraged her curiosity and scientific obsessions contrary to other relatives who wanted to repress it in favor of her becoming the stereotypical Victorian house-wife.

Unfortunately, Charles was also someone she lost at all too dependable a time. And it was probably a bigger catastrophe than whatever happened to her parents that brought her into Charles’ custody to begin with. Everything that represented her sense of security was ripped away from her, and she was left with a void she didn’t know how to fill.

Even at the urging of her other relatives, she refused to host - or attend - the funeral held in honor of Charles years after his disappearance. Maybe, just maybe, he would come back. Maybe, even against all odds.

But she didn’t know. What was closure? A part of her didn’t even want to believe he was gone.

And now without him, she became an open target of vulnerability.

This also begins a new, very prominent flaw in Priscilla’s character: her strong sense of denial and running away from her problems given the quickest opportunity. Left to her own devices Priscilla tries to hold on to every good thing her Uncle raised her with, all while struggling to cope with loss and fend off her inevitable foolishness.

Part 3: Franklin Expedition Disaster & Survival :: From glory... to desperation… to reality.

Okay NOW. Finally to the part we’ve all been waiting for!! THIS is what I had the Eureka for earlier that started this whole meta to begin with!!

So, fast forward to Priscilla running away from scandal and boarding the HMS Terror. She feels she struck gold by being able to follow her dream and her “running away from home” paid off. Fast forward again from the new friendships Priscilla makes and secret crushes and buds of platonic cuteness and everything happy in Baffin Bay etc.

Fast forward again to Priscilla hearing Sir John’s announcement about them sailing straight into the ice pack since they’re so ‘close’. Fast forward again through Priscilla’s impression of Sir John unraveling once they’re stuck in the ice.

At that moment, nothing was more terrifying than the great unknown to Priscilla. She had no place to run.

Parts of her personality she didn’t know existed came out after the ships were stuck in that ice:

Bitterness. Anxiousness. Volatility. Fragility. Restlessness. Fear.

Beneath her thin veneer of mandatory bravery and blind desire to wish things could turn for the better was a mess of emotions she was so desperately trying to suppress. Almost overnight she picked up random nervous habits. Outbursts of skittish laughter, speaking her mind out of place, trivial chatter, zoning out. Sporadic enough to not be of concern, but noticeable to those who knew her well. And all the while she had this gnawing sense of jitteriness to always do something amidst constantly feeling so helpless.

As the tragedy continues, she grows quieter - her radiance dimmer. Her optimism that was fueled by denial slowly comes crashing down into the reality of the frightening dark caverns of her own mind. Writhing in bitterness over Sir John’s hubris that sentenced them all to death, she had begun to realize that she too perhaps had made an impulsively reckless mistake to volunteer herself to begin with.

And once the Tuunbaq attacks begun, she quickly realized they had no place to hide either.

So there was only one option left: she had to fight to survive.

And this, my friends, is when the lioness was awoken. While her struggle between the solace of denial (which still fueled her optimism outside of a genuinely happy moment) was ever-present, and her blind wishful thinking might have helped her to not cripple under from the stress… when backed against the wall of brutal truth she was beginning to realize she had no choice but to unavoidably reckon with herself, which was long overdue. Admit their predicament for what it was, admit her decisions and behavior as a runaway was foolish, admit her feelings of lostness in a cruel world, and admit even though she was not strong enough to face London’s gossip of her she never should have acted so rashly with herself in retaliation. (Let alone other things she may or may not have done on the voyage... to be determined)

But at least in this dead end, she wasn’t doomed to navigating it alone.

After losing her only family, she had gained a new one on this expedition. 129 new family members to be exact, regardless of how well or little she knew them. No matter how many lives she grieved each passing week, she wouldn’t have wanted to trade anything to not know those she especially held dear. And collectively they all shared one supportive notion in common: They needed to survive.

And then, after a burdensome night when she had hit an emotional breaking point and poor medicinal side effects induced a fevered outbreak where she was delusionally mistaking Captain Crozier for her Uncle Charles… the following sober morning she came to an unexpected realization.

Call it the beginnings of madness from the lead poisoning, or her desperation to hold on to whatever threads of hope she possibly could, but a new question of ‘what if?’ became her new obsession:

What if Uncle Charles was in fact still alive? Just like them?

Somewhere, someplace - it felt almost tangibly real to her. The years of disappearing from the face of the earth and civilization - and yet still not dead.

Thus, her own independent motivation to survive against all odds in these Arctic conditions emerged. It fueled the promise she made to her new friends that they’d press on. Ignited the motivation lent her by others. She found a new purpose: not for only herself in the end, but for those who mattered to her.

And if Charles had the strength to survive wherever he was all this time - then she would do the same. And maybe, just maybe if in these years her Uncle returned home - just like Priscilla knew they could eventually, someday - she would want nothing more than to live so she could run into his loving arms once again.

Come what may, she would march on. She wanted to live. To survive. To love. And most of all, she wanted to make sure her new family would too.

#meta #v: sail on #HCs #Y E S #F I N A L L Y #the terror au

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amemixfan · 6 years

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First words soul mate Au with Alain pls??

Name used is Hannah. ——An arm slings across my shoulder just as I leave my workplace. I jolt in surprise before recognition dawns on me. My best friend since college, Sophie, appears at my side with a friendly grin on her face. “Hey stranger, you ready for our movie date?” She tilts her head and shows me her phone screen. A fantasy movie poster greets me on the screen. The premise is yet another Soulmate Movie. I grimace and fix the zipper on my coat. While I have nothing against fantasy romance movies, Soulmate movies are an entirely different can of worms. “Right, I promised you we’d go to that one,” I shrug my shoulders and try to seem nonchalant. In truth, I want no part in a movie that glorifies soulmate stamps and pushes the agenda than a non-mark will be forever alone. Sophie’s lips purse in a mock pout and she flicks her cellphone screen. She matches my pace evenly as we walk. “You don’t seem excited. This movie has been advertised since last year and it’s reeled in thousands on the opening weekend. You should be thrilled that I booked our tickets in advance,” she wags her fingers at me playfully. “Soulmate movies aren’t really my thing. I don’t need some Hollywood screenwriter bashing non-marks and portraying soulmate stamps as a perfect gift from God. There’s enough politicians out there trying to outlaw non-mark marriage as it is,” I remark. My fingers close around my wrist where my soulmate stamp should be. It’s not. Soulmate stamps, markings on a person’s wrist which denote the first words their soulmate will ever speak to them, are prized in the world. Less than 59% of the world’s total population has them, and less than 12% of the remaining 41% will develop them later on in life. I, unfortunately, am not one of the 12. While Sophie and my other friends were born with theirs, my soulmate stamp never developed. My wrist remains unmarked and blank. Non-marks, those born without stamps, are seen as cursed. We are the people that do not deserve a soulmate according to many politicians. Society deems us as undesirable and movies exploit the tragedy that they believe our lives are. Movies like the one Sophie wants to see mock our existence by portraying lovey-dovey Soulmate couples on the big screen. Sophie must realize my line of thinking because her mock pout suddenly becomes true. She rubs at her own wrist briefly, where her soulmate stamp is emblazoned across the skin like a tattoo, and blushes. Like most of the world, she finds it awkward to bring up her own stamp before a non-mark. “I didn’t think about it that way, sorry Hannah,” she murmurs. I shrug and nod at her cellphone. The movie poster is still displayed across the screen. A pair of actors decked out in armor pose for the camera with their soulmate stamps revealed. The banner reads something about “true love” and “destiny.”“Did you already buy the tickets?” “I can get a refund. I wanted to see if you still felt like coming. Do you want to skip the movie and watch some horror thing instead?” Sophie moves to close out of the tab. I stop her with a shake of my head. “Nah. I’ll go with you,” I relent. While I’ll probably hate every second of the movie, I can at least pretend to like it for my friend. Sophie brightens at my decision. “Good because I’ve been waiting for this one to come out. I know the whole soulmate thing is a touchy subject, but the movie doesn’t focus on it. It’s mainly a fantasy war movie. Our protagonist is a hero who discovers that her soulmate is on the opposing side. She fights her feelings and destiny and tries to prove that soulmate stamps aren’t always right.”I snort and trace my finger over my unmarked wrist. There were times I had cried as a kid for not having one while my friends did, but now it’s just a bitter pill I have to swallow. Soulmate stamps aren’t necessary, my parents met each other without them, and the whole concept of love is overrated. I slip my hands into my pockets and give Sophie a noncommittal response. Once her phone beeps with the ticket purchase, she slings her arm around my shoulders. Her wrist displays ’Oops. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’ in dark letters. “You know, you still could get a soulmate stamp. Some people are destined to be with younger lovers,” she teases me. “I’m 25. If I suddenly wake up tomorrow with a soulmate stamp, I’m going to throw up,” I make a face. Sophie laughs and opens her mouth to rebuff something. All of a sudden a downpour of rain cascades around us. I shriek and dive for the roof of a nearby restaurant. The weather forecast had predicted sunny skies, so I have no umbrella to shield myself with. Sophie holds up her purse on top of her head and looks soaked to the bone. “Jeez, it’s strong! We’re going to have to take a raincheck on that movie. There’s no way I’m walking halfway across downtown for a movie. Meet here tomorrow?” She shivers in place as her thin blouse is soaked. “Yeah!” I call back. The wind is picking up now and it is freezing. Sophie nods and spins around. She runs as fast as she can across the street in search for her apartment. I echo her and go the other way. As soon as I leave the alcove of the restaurant, a clap of thunder sounds above me and my entire vision turns white. I have no time to scream before I go falling and the world disappears before me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and expect to get a face full of cement but instead land on soft grass. I freeze in place and shake when I realize the rain is gone and the sounds of people surround me. My heart skips a beat. Instead of the rain soaked Chicago streets, I am greeted by a town that looks like it stepped out of a history book picture. Medieval looking peasants stand stock still gaping at me and the sounds of scuffling armor register somewhere away from me. I freeze and gape. Wherever I am, I am not in Chicago anymore. Feeling more than a little lightheaded and confused, I stand. My muscles ache from the fall and my head swims with the effects of confusion. Breathe, Hannah, breathe. I pinch my arm and take hesitant steps back. The crowd around me continues to stare and shocked murmurs greet me. It looks like the medieval renfare people are more afraid of me than I am of them. For some reason, that makes everything worse. I must have been hit by lightning. I am probably plugged up to thousands of machines in some hospital room. When I wake up from this weird Medieval Times knock off, I will have a looong hospital bill to stress about and Sophie will have the number of the cutest doctor in the hospital. Everything will be fine as soon as I wake up. I take a step towards a woman near me and raise my voice. “Where am I?” I ask. My voice sounds raspy and I cough. The woman jerks away from me and turns white. She opens her mouth to scream something, and the sound of pounding horse hooves and armor grow louder. I turn and see two people approaching on horseback. One man is wearing armor and has an actual sword strapped to the side. The other one looks like the protagonist of one of Sophie’s fantasy movies and wears green. The man wearing armor all but jumps off his horse and rushes at me. I take steps away from him as he draws his sword. “Witch Queen! Stop right there and surrender!” He waves the sword at me and I have a feeling it isn’t one of those Halloween props you buy at Walmart. “What’s going on?!” I raise my hands up before me to show that I am unarmed. My heart begins to race and the pounding headache developing comes full force. I almost black out. Breathe, Hannah, this is probably just some really bizarre fever dream. I am probably in a medically induced coma right now and will wake up any minute. The green-decked companion leaps off his horse with more grace. He looks more composed than his partner and offers me an amused smile. I almost relax for a second, content with the beautiful smile that spreads across his face, but tense as soon as I catch the spark of something dark in his eyes. Like his armored friend, this one doesn’t like me ether. “Now, now, August, that’s no way to talk to a lady. No wonder you have no soulmate stamp,” the man teases. He moves towards me and extends his hand with a flourish. When he bends down to bow at me, his long white hair parts and I see his ears. They’re pointed like that of an elf. My breath catches in my throat. Jeez, I really am in a fever dream. The man-no, elf-moves his hand towards me. “What my socially inept friend is trying to say is that you should probably come with us,” he blinks up at me. I take a step back from his hand and begin to shake. The action makes the armored one tense and his sword moves in his grip. His scowl is amplified and he looks like he’s getting ready for an assault. “Don’t move. Either come with us willingly or by force,” he grinds it out like it’s a threat. Judging by the tight grip on his weapon, I’m sure it is. “I have no idea what’s going on,” I repeat. I suddenly feel very ill. The green dressed one takes a step closer to me. “Then perhaps you should come with us and we can explain it to you at the castle.”I bite my lip. His companion takes a step closer and the blade looks more menacing than before. I look around. I have three options. I can run although the crowd around us doesn’t look like it would part so easily for an escape, plus I have no idea of where I could go. I could fight although I have no weapon and the two strangers do. Or I could comply. My raging headache gets worse and I bite the inside of my cheek. This is the stupidest dream I’ve ever had, but I might as well play along. When in Rome do as the Romans. “Fine,” I agree. The armored one sheaths his sword and narrows his eyes at me. He turns to his horse and pulls out iron shackles-Actual, iron shackles-And nods at me. He takes tentative steps forward as if preparing for a fight. I don’t give him one. The shackles are terrifying but the sword at his hip is more so. “Excellent choice, my lady,” the elf remarks. He places his hands at his hips and purses his lips at his companion. “Yet the shackles may be a bit much, August.”The man, August, sends him a dirty look back and motions for me to extend my hands. “Precautions, Iseul. Do you want her magic to attack us?” I frown in confusion about the magic charge and extend my hands. The shackles clamp down on them painfully-But I no longer care about the pain. Instead, my attention falls across my wrist. The breath leaves my lips and I feel dizzy. There across my skin is the phrase, ’I finally found you.’

The cell door clangs behind me yet I barely hear it. My fingers are too busy tracing the soulmate stamp across my wrist for the hundredth time. Soulmate stamps don’t just appear over night, not if a person’s soulmate is already born. The entire thing is incredible and more than a little daunting. The elf, Iseul, leans across the bars to peer at me. His eyes read the stamp silently and he quirks one eyebrow. “So even people like you have a soulmate? There really is someone for everyone,” he remarks. For some reason, his voice sounds bitter when he says it. His own wrist is blank, no stamp in sight, yet I have a feeling it’s more than just bitter jealousy. “Where am I?” I ask. Now that the shock of an appearing stamp is fading, I am starting to come to terms with the fact that I am locked up in a dungeon and have no idea what is happening. My head feels like it’s underwater and I feel dizzy. The knight from before, August, gives me a dirty look. He places his hand on the hilt of his sword as a warning and narrows his eyes. There is no love lost between us. He looks like he hates me more than his companion and does not even pretend to be civil. “You are under arrest by Lord Reiner’s orders. You will be tried for your crimes and executed-““You can’t execute me! I’m innocent and I have a soulmate,” I raise my wrist. Iseul sniffs at me and his lips purse in disgust. While he tries to act more cordial than Sir-bitches-a-lot, he still makes it no secret that he doesn’t like me. Whatever these two think I have done, they hate me for it. “The law says we can’t kill you because of your soulmate, but we will try you anyway. Fear not, if your soulmate ever appears, we’ll lock them up here with you. Whatever wretched creature is unfortunate enough to end up with you must be as vile as they come, Witch Queen,” he hisses. Witch Queen. There’s that word again. I squeeze my fists. “Who the hell is that?” I approach the bars of the cell-And August yanks Iseul away from them. His hand goes for his sword and he warns me to stay back. I freeze with one hand on the bars. “Your acting is not convincing, Witch. We will not fall for your lies. Bite your tongue and await for your trial,” he hisses. I scowl at him. “I’m not lying. Whatever you think I did, I’m innocent.”Iseul yawns into his hand although he also looks tense. Like August, it appears his own patience has worn thin. He takes a few step towards me and offers me a charming smile that has a razor’s edge to it. “Tell that to our Lord although I am sure he will not believe you either. If you are innocent, we will release you. For now, enjoy our castle’s hospitality.”“How charming. This place really owns up to its five stars on Yelp,” my voice drips with sarcasm. They both frown, perplexed, before spinning away. As they begin to leave the dungeons, I press a hand to my head. Whatever dream I am in, it sucks.

Once left alone, I am free to piece together what has happened. I was in Chicago an hour earlier and was hit by lightning, I’m probably in the middle of a very bizarre drug induced dream complete with dungeons and shackles, and I have just received my soulmate stamp. The stamp is the most shocking part. Setting aside the Renfare mess, the soulmate stamp is what worries me the most. I have lived much of my adult life without a stamp, but now it appears after I was hit by lighting? “The Universe has a twisted sense of humor,” I remark. My fingers trace the wording on my wrist for the thousandth time. A sound before me makes me look up and I see a figure crouched on the wall. A pair of mismatched eyes peer at me and the stranger raises an eyebrow. “Who are you?” I jolt from my seat and tense. The stranger peers at me for another second before straightening. There’s a curiosity to his gaze but also an edge. He’s come here to observe me but won’t have any qualms with hurting me. “My name is Saerys,” he remarks. He continues to stare at me as if sizing me up. I cross my hands in front of myself and hide my soulmate stamp from view. His gaze seems wrong somehow. I clench my jaw. “Is this how all your guests are treated? You throw them in the dungeons on false accusations?” “August and Iseul would never have imprisoned someone falsely,” comes the simple reply. The stranger spins on his heels and looks away from me. Whatever he has come to see, his curiosity has been sated. I press against the bars and call out to him. “What am I in here for?!”My voice echoes against the empty dungeon and the stranger halts at the door. He doesn’t turn around but he does move his head to the side where he can see me from the corner of his eye. His arms lift in a shrug. “You should know, your Majesty.”His voice drips with sarcasm and I frown to myself. What exactly do they think I have done? I open my mouth to ask something else but the stranger has slinked back into the shadows and is no where to be found.

It is another half hour before a fourth figure appears. She arrives in a shower of sparks and flower petals. I hardly have time to gape at the magic she has before she is before me. Her mouth is quirked up in an amused smirk and her fingers twirl her staff to one side. “Magic,” I breathe out. It makes no sense. Magic does not exist asides from the card tricks you see at Vegas, yet this stranger has just appeared out of no where. This dream keeps getting weirder and weirder. The girl moves one leg beside her and lowers herself as if in a mocking curtsy. She rises after a beat and stares at the bars of the cell. Her lips purse. “It looks like someone is having a bad day?” She sounds almost amused as she asks this. Her fingers touch the metal before me.“Who are you?” I ask. I meet her halfway to the bars. The girl presses a hand to her chest and a bright smile illuminates her face. “I am Altea Bellerose. You are?”“Hannah,” I answer. She murmurs back a ‘charmed’ and twirls her staff once more. Sparks and flower petals rise in the air around her and I have to gawk again. “Are you normally surrounded by flowers and lights?” I breathe out a laugh certain that I am losing my grip with reality. The girl, Altea, winks conspiratorially. “Only when I want to make a good first impression,” she taps the bars with her staff and I hear a lock come undone. The door swings open moments later. “You’re letting me out?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice. I take a tentative step forwards and wait for a trick. When none come, I move again and again until I am outside the cell. “I opened the door didn’t I?” Altea remarks. She presses a finger to her lips and drops her voice to a whisper. “Someone has to help you find that soulmate of yours.”I stare back at the stamp on my wrist still mystified. The words greet me silently back and I half expect them to disappear when I blink. None of this feels real. Altea nods her head at me and motions for me to follow. I do so.

The outside of the castle looks authentic. Intricate details are laid out before me, details my mind could have never come up with on their own, and I stare around myself in wonder. Altea leads me down a few hallways and taps her staff on the floor as she walks. We pass by several doors leading outside but she never stops at any of them. I frown. “Why are you helping me?” Altea hums at the back of her throat and sends me a teasing smile. “Perhaps I like helping damsels in distress.”I bristle. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”“Right. You certainly looked plenty capable of helping yourself in that cell,” she teases. I bite my tongue and flush. She has a point but I will never admit to it. I am saved from having to answer back when two figures appear before us. They are dressed as a maid and butler but that’s not what catches my attention. A woman that looks exactly like Sophie greets me with a weary look. “Sophie,” I whisper her name under my breath in shock. Altea greets them with a nod. “Solaire. Ryland. Has the meeting started?” The woman, not Sophie but Solaire, nods at a door at the end of the corridor. The harsh murmur of voices can be heard past the wood oak. I recognize two of them, August and Iseul, but can’t make the third one out. Realization dawns on me and I clench my fists. “You tricked me.”Altea shrugs and gives me a smirk. For the first time, her polite facade gives way and a cold light shines in her eyes. Like her friends, she harbors resentment. “I do the best with what I have,” she remarks. “What is happening? Why am I here?” I dig my heels into the floor and refuse to approach the door. “You should know, Witch Queen,” Altea shrugs. Witch Queen. There’s that name again. “You all keep mentioning this Witch Queen but I have no idea what it is. Who is she?” My question earns a laugh from Altea. It is a bright giggle that somehow sends a shiver down my spine. Her fingers clench against her staff and she beckons me towards the door once more. “That is a funny jest. I did not expect you to be this amusing,” she quips. I have no more time to ask anything before her hand tugs me towards the study. She opens the door and ushers me inside.

Inside the study are four figures. I recognize three of them, August, Iseul, and Saerys, but the fourth is unknown. He leans against a large window and glances at me as I enter. I can sense power radiating off of him in waves. Whoever he is, he seems important. Altea gives me a light shove further into the room before closing the door. She leans against it with one heel against the wood and digs her staff into the floor for balance. Her position could be seen as casual, but I know she is just leaning against the door as a warning to me. If I try and make a run for it, I will have to get through her first. Altea smiles past my shoulder at the man. “Our guest is here.”The man turns his head to see me. A large scar runs jagged across one eye and his jaw is fixed. He steps away from the window and approaches me. “So I see,” he remarks. His voice is a commanding baritone that demands attention. His eyes scan me from head to toe as if searching for something. I tense and clench my fists. “What are you staring at?” I hear a hiss from next to me. August has one hand on the hilt of his sword and sends a venomous glare at me. “Watch how you speak to Lord Reiner, Witch.”Lord Reiner? The name means nothing to me and I give him a confused stare. The man, Reiner, lifts a hand at August in a warning. He regards me again and comes to a stop a few steps away from me. His hands clasp behind his back giving him an air of authority. “I am the Lord of this domain. The title once belonged to my father and brother but I assumed the mantel when they died. Together with my companions, I defeated a very powerful enemy,” he takes a step forward, “I defeated YOU.”His words register somewhere at the back of my mind. I frown and suddenly feel very irritated. This dream makes no sense and I can’t wake up no matter how hard I try. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I murmur. My fingers press to my temples where the beginning of a headache makes itself known. “She plays the fool well,” August remarks. Next to him, lazily lounging against a bookshelf, Iseul smirks. “The same can be said for you, August.”August turns to him about to start an argument. I cut through it feeling confused. “You think I’m the Witch Queen?” I breathe it out and shake my head. None of this makes any sense. Altea frowns. “This joke is not funny a second time.”“It’s not a joke,” I snap at her. My irritation is peaking and I press a fist to my temple. Saerys, lurking at the back of the room, purses his lips. “I am not quite sure she is jesting,” he murmurs. His gaze is boring into me as if daring me to prove him wrong. Reiner rubs at his scar and his jaw tenses. “I have no way of knowing if she is lying,” he admits. His eyes go to my wrist where I am trying to rub the headache away. My soulmate stamp is visible in the low sunset and he frowns. “Either way, the law states we cannot execute someone with a soulmate stamp.”August sends me a sneer. “It must be an illusion. She never had it in battle before, so how did she acquire one now? She knows what our law says about Soulmate Marks and she is trying to take advantage of it.”“There is an easy way of knowing,” Altea quips. She kicks off her place at the door and extends her hand to me. For some reason, I really don’t want her to check. I have lived my entire life without a stamp and to have one now seems personal. My fingers clench against the stamp and I bite my lip. “Show her your hand,” Reiner orders. He tenses. The room has grown tense. August looks like he is looking for an excuse to unsheathe his sword and Altea looks suspicious. I have no choice then. Slowly, very slowly, I extend my hand. Altea’s fingers press into my soulmate stamp. Pink sparks dig into my skin and a faint light emits from the stamp. I’ve seen that light emit from Sophie’s hand before. Altea murmurs a spell under her voice and the light grows in intensity. She rubs her finger across the words on my hand but they don’t disappear. She frowns and turns over her own hand where I can see her own stamp. She releases my hand and presses her fingers to her own. Her stamp glows exactly like mine. The room grows quiet and she retreats back to her place at the door. “It is authentic. The mark is real,” she concludes. She sounds mystified as she says it. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes me. I press my fingers to the mark on my wrist suddenly very relieved. A part of me was worried the stamp wasn’t real. I’ve lived so long without one that to lose it now would be a cruel trick of fate. Reiner rubs at his jaw and presses his lips together. I can see millions of thoughts swirling around his head. The fact that I have a soulmate has brought problems to whatever plans he had. I remember his words from before. If he was telling the truth, then he cannot do anything to me. Soulmate Laws are strict in my world, a huge privilege is awarded to those with stamps, and the look on his face indicates that they may be harsher here. “Then we cannot imprison her. She will have to be guarded by one of us until the time comes,” he decides. He lifts himself to his full height, towers over me, and opens his mouth. As soon as he begins to speak, a harsh horn sounds out. The sound is so loud my hands press to my ears. The room jolts into action. Weapons are drawn and the door is flung open. The sounds of metal hitting metal can be heard from deeper in the castle. A hand clamps on mine and yanks me to one side. Iseul has his grip on me and his eyes are narrowed. “They’re attacking.”He is right. I can hear a battle from deeper within the castle. Reiner runs for the window and peers down. His jaw clenches. “The courtyard. The Generals are here.”A harsh atmosphere descends on the room. Whoever the Generals are, they are bad news. I can see everyone glare at me with accusation. “You think I’m working for them?” I try to pull my arm free of Iseul’s grasp. “The other way around, my lady,” Iseul’s voice drips with sarcasm. I glare at him as the others launch into action. August draws his sword and runs outside, Altea is at his heels, and Saerys follows with a dark glint in his eyes. Reiner walks towards us and nods at Iseul. The hand on my arm lets go although Iseul stays at my side in case I dare to escape. “The Generals are your servants. They have waged wars across this domain and committed the genocide of Saerys’ people. They are here for your return. Did you contact them?” Reiner’s eyes are narrowed. I spread my hands in front of me. “How? I was locked up! Sprint Unlimited doesn’t exactly cover calls within dreams,” I hiss. Another confused frown, my words don’t make any sense to them, but the two don’t pause to mull it over. Iseul tugs at me again and clamps his hand on my arm. This time, however, his grip isn’t as harsh. “Keep an eye on her,” Reiner orders. He moves past me to rush into the courtyard. The sounds of fighting grow louder. Iseul moves too and I am dragged behind him. “Come, my Queen, it is time your servants saw you,” he hisses.

The courtyard is animated in fights. Magic spells whizz past us and stray arrows miss us by an inch. It is chaos and carnage. The scent of blood hangs heavy in the air and the sound of striking steel resounds everywhere. Knights in red and green armor battle those in whites and teals. The reds are outnumbered yet they are changing the tide of battle. For some reason, I feel like that is a good thing. Perhaps it is what the others said earlier, but I have a feeling nothing good will come out of the blue army winning. “Stay close,” Iseul warns. He pulls at an arrow and strings it on his bow. I press behind him, shaking to the bone, and watch as he takes down one soldier. I hate war movies, always disliked the blood and shrieks of the fight, and now I am seeing one play out before me. How great. I can see the others facing off opponents. Reiner battles a man who looks like a watered down and rejected version of Doctor Strange. Altea faces a woman who flashes a little thigh as her dress moves with the force of her magic. Saerys faces an unsettlingly handsome man dressed as a creepy choir boy. And August faces off an opponent with pointed ears and an almost feral grin. “What’s happening?” I voice out. I am still pressed to Iseul’s back and am using him as a human shield-or Elven shield. Iseul fires another arrow and tugs me along. His entire body is tense and he weaves me past fights. He is trying to get to the thick of the battle where his companions are. “The Generals are here,” comes his reply. He does a mental tally in his head and scans around him. His eyes are narrowed. “There is one missing.”I grind my teeth together and cower. From the way he speaks about the Generals, I know they are bad news. Reiner had mentioned wars and genocide before. Are these the fantasy version of nazis?I take a step away from Iseul as another arrow surges past me. Iseul fires back and takes down the archer who had dared to attack. He points a finger at me and presses his lips together. “Lord Reiner has offered you protection because of your mark. Do not betray him now by running back to your servants. We have defeated all of you once and can do it again,” he warns. I clench my jaw at him. “I am not working with them!”Iseul doesn’t waste time arguing with me. Next to us, one of the Generals has spotted me. He is the one facing Reiner off with a large axe. His eyes widen in shock and he calls for the others around him. “The Queen!”For some reason, the cruelty and delight in his tone seems more terrifying than anything I have ever heard before. I suddenly am very in agreement with Iseul. Being locked up in Reiner’s dungeon seems like a better alternative than working with these people. Iseul swears out a curse in a language I do not understand. “You were spotted. If you do not want the might of the council against you, I suggest you run back into the castle. Do not betray Lord Reiner, Witch. If you try to run to your companions, I will have an arrow at your back before you make it two steps.”I nod at him feeling dizzy. Without needing to be asked a second time, I turn around and bolt back to the castle.

I almost make it there, am only feet away from the door, when I trip. I crash hard against the dirt floor and almost bang my head against a bench. My hands catch myself in time and I am frozen in place. I have criticized girls in horror movies for falling and not getting back up, but now I understand. Fear is a paralyzing thing and sometimes adrenaline freezes you in place rather than pushing you to flee or fight. The sounds of battle are drowned out around me as a figure approaches. His blue eyes are wide with shock, his blonde hair is illuminated in the low, dying sunlight, and his armor shines with blood. It is like the world slows down as our eyes meet. The battle suddenly seems so far away and my previous fear dissipates. This feels both wrong and right somehow. The man wears the colors of white and teal, a combination I have learned to fear in the short day I have been here, yet something about him almost seems welcoming. My mind says to run away from this enemy soldier yet my heart skips a beat and orders me to stay. The soldier makes it to where I am, moves his double bladed weapon aside, and a breath leaves his lips. “I finally found you,” he remarks. His words spill from his lips and I feel something burn on my wrist. My soulmate stamp illuminates in a harsh blue light and electricity courses through my skin. I taste the magic, sense an emotional cord snapping into place between us, and feel a mixture of fear and wonder. The man’s eyes widen when he sees my stamp glow and he extends a hand to me. I stare at it wondering whether I should take it or not. The connection between us, the one I can feel through our soulmate link, tells me to do so. The mark on my wrist pulses with the indication that this is my destiny and I must accept it-But something primal screams at me not to. Thousands of generations of ancestors warn me against this aggressor in enemy colors and bloody armor. Fear overrides my senses and I move away from him. “No!” I hurl the word at him and cower. He stops suddenly and his own stamp glows. A light emits from his skin and I feel our connection solidify between us. Our soulmate stamps bleed blue into our skin indicating that we have been matched. He stares at his hand with wonder and awe. And I stare at his own mark, illuminated by my words, with growing revulsion and fear. I feel my eyes burn with unshed tears and I scratch my nails into the skin of my stamp as if I could claw it out from existence. My breath comes short and panicked. I repeat my earlier words in my head and draw blood as my hands try to rip my stamp out of my skin with my nails. No.

#alain richter #request #soulmate au #love and legends #lovestruck voltage #voltage amemix

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gldngrl7 · 7 years

Text

Karamel Fic: Edging Toward Synchronicity (8/8)

Author: gldngr7

Rating: Explicit

Began: March 11, 2017

Chapters: 8

Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

Author’s Notes:

Tagging: @mon-kai-el, @actualpuppychriswood, @pwettypwita, @contygold86, @karamelizedlove, @kelbottumbles, @starcrossed-comets, @emarasmoak, @fangirlintheforest, @ships-sailing-in-the-night, @lostin-the-desert, @somos-poeiraestelar

And all I gave you is gone

Tumbled like it was stone

Thought we built a dynasty that heaven couldn't shake

Thought we built a dynasty like nothing ever made

Thought we built a dynasty forever couldn't break up

The scar I can't reverse

When the more it heals the worse it hurts

Gave you every piece of me, no wonder it's missing

Don't know how to be so close to someone so distant

--MIIA – “Dynasty”

Chapter 8/8

For three hours they went over the designs for the suit. Winn had seven designs in all, and together they were able to jettison some elements as impractical, too bold, or otherwise inappropriate, until the remaining ideas came together to create something both workable and aesthetic.

“I like the red,” Mon-El approves.

“It offsets Kara’s blue,” Winn nods. “I thought that would look nice,” he preens a bit.

“It reminds me of Daxam’s red sky.” His mind drifts back to last night’s dream and the vividness of it; the red sun over his head, the plum boscage at his fingertips. The crunch of the dead copper-blossoms beneath his knees as his wife’s blood poured through his fingers, his son’s life ebbing away inside of her. Mon-El’s heart races and his gorge rises. He covers his mouth with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut in a desperate bid to keep from vomiting.

“It does?” Winn inquires, blissfully unaware of the other’s vexation. Mon-El plays off his nausea-induced stress as a yawn, which has Winn doing a double-take. “Am I keeping you awake?” he snarks. “Long night?” Off of a stern look from Mon-El’s steel-turned eyes, Winn gulps and asks, “Too soon?” Then, nodding, he turns back to his computer and answers his own question. “Too soon. I hear you. So what do you think about the boots…?”

“They’re a little too high,” he shrugs with one shoulder. “I’m not a pirate.”

“Kara’s boots are high,” Winn explains.

“She wears a skirt,” he argues, “the aesthetic looks better.”

“Especially with those legs,” Winn blurts, before he can stop himself. He cringes, anticipating a challenge of some sort or at least another steel-blue stare, but instead he watches out of the corner of his eye as Mon-El’s lips quirk up on one side.

“Especially with those legs,” he echoes, his voice turning husky.

“Oh-kay,” Winn drawls, wishing he could scrub the look of blissful recollection on his friend’s face from his mind. “So, we’ll cut the boots back to below the knee. I’ll have them lined with Kevlar to be safe…maybe add some steel toes.” With a look from Mon-El, Winn corrects, “Steel toes taken care of…check.”

“I don’t see a cape in any of these designs,” Mon-El points out, hoping his voice doesn’t sound like a pout.

“No cape,” Winn answers succinctly. “You don’t want a cape.”

“Of course I want a cape!”

“Trust me, you don’t. Kara’s cape is for aerodynamics. It helps with drag, she takes care of the lift. You don’t fly, so all you’ll get is drag. Not having a cape could mean the difference between making a 15 story leap and an 18 story leap. Cape is just going to weigh you down.” Winn’s analysis is succinct and doesn’t leave much room for arguing. He chuckles, “You learn to fly…I’ll build you a cape. Deal?”

Mon-El sighs and rolls his eyes, unable to hide his disappointment. “Deal.”

“Plus, this way all the ladies will get a better view of your ass.” Winn’s eyes widen, as Mon-El side-eyes him. “Did I say that out loud?” With a defensive shrug he spouts, “What? I promised I’d make you look good…so I’m playing to your strengths!”

It took another hour to nail down the incidentals of the red suit, deciding on a high collar of royal blue to match the Kevlar-lined boots, an asymmetrical hemline on the shirt, skin tight pants that show the dips and creases of his musculature and a yellow belt with a center medallion containing a glyph of Daxam’s sun shooting red rays of light.

Taking measurements in the locker room was a singularly uncomfortable experience in which Winn joked about never expecting their relationship to get this close.

Ral was there the whole time laughing at Mon-El’s discomfort.

Heading back to the CIC after Winn said he had all he needed for the time being, Mon-El overhears an agent commenting that Dr. Danvers had arrived unexpectedly a while ago. Hospitality on this planet demands that he stop by and pay his respects to her – but also he’s always enjoyed talking to her in the past. She projects a motherly warmth for which Mon-El has secretly always yearned.

“You want to be charming,” Ral reminds him, unnecessarily, “but not too charming. Remember…the last time you saw her you were only thinking about defiling her daughter. You weren’t actually doing it.”

Mon-El stops in his tracks and glares pointedly at Ral, who grins widely, before walking onward. “No one’s defiling anyone,” Mon-El says surreptitiously between clenched teeth.

“Hmmm…I wonder if Dr. Danvers will see it that way….” Ral torments him. Admittedly, Mon-El has some concerns about seeing Dr. Danvers again, now that he’s mated to her adoptive daughter.

His gut clenches with concern, but he stays his course. “Why do I keep you around?”

“Because I know things, Brother. Things you’ve forgotten and don’t seem inclined to remember. It’s right there,” Ral says, needling him. “Right there under the surface. So close you can feel it bubbling up. Sometimes you think you hear the wails inside your head or see the flames in your mind’s eye. And the smell of the blood, of charred skin and heads on fire like screaming candlesticks….”

“Stop,” Mon-El begs. Suddenly finding himself breathless, his heart racing, he places his hand against the smooth concrete wall and tucks his face into his arm, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. Behind his eyelids, white and gray flash and flicker like the screaming, flickering bulbs of the intrusive cameras belonging to rabid reporters and paparazzi. “You have to stop.”

“On the contrary, brother, I have to continue – if that’s what it takes. Now that you’ve seen the truth, or at least part of it, you need to let the rest in. It’s the only way to make you whole.”

“Whole,” he echoes. “I’m more whole here, now…with her…than I ever felt for even a single moment of my life back there.”

“Good…that’s good. There may come a time when you need to choose between hanging on to me and losing her, or letting go in order to have the life you want, and you’ll do well to remember that. But that day, that loss, and everything that led up to it…the choices you made…will always be a specter over your head for as long as you refuse to give it its due. Let it in,” Ral urges. “Feel it. Accept the pain of it, so that you can make it a part of who you are and move on. There’s still work to be done and you can’t keep it at a distance forever.”

“I know,” Mon-El breathes, seeing the truth of Ral’s words for the first time.

“Sir, are you alright?” an astute DEO employee walking by stops to ask, noticing Mon-El’s distress. He recognizes her as one of the medical practitioners often seen in the med-bay and her lab coat identifies her as such.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just...” his vision flashes white and gray again ad he rubs his eyes, “a bit of a headache.”

“Would like an escort to the med-bay?” the woman asks.

Mon-El tosses Ral a glance and nods, “Actually, I was just on my way to see Dr. Danvers.”

“I just saw her in the conference room, sir. With Agent Danvers and Supergirl.”

“Supergirl’s here?”

“Just flew in a few minutes ago,” the agent informs him. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’ve got this.” Mon-El straightens his spine, gives the woman a reassuring smile, and lies, “I’m feeling much better now, thanks.”

The medic regards him suspiciously for a moment before nodding and walking away. Mon-El watches as she goes, waiting until she disappears around the corner before altering his course in the direction of the conference room.

“You’re…not looking so good,” Ral declares.

He doesn’t feel so good either. It’s not anything he can pinpoint or put a finger on, like a fever or a choking cough. It doesn’t feel like the sickness created by the Medusa virus, but rather a profound foreboding that fills his chest and spreads down his spine like the tendrils of Velestrian Rot, a black vine that burrows deep, growing out of control until it breaks apart the very thing to which its attached. His fingers tingle and his eyes sting incessantly.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but his powers appear to be fritzing out. It occurs to him that he may be experiencing withdrawals from going more than twenty-four hours without siphoning electricity. Ral had claimed it was becoming an addiction. Perhaps he had been right—he usually is.

“Safety of others?” he overhears Kara ask, but doesn’t know to whom she speaks. Is there something brewing out there? Perhaps Cadmus is up to some new tricks? Something for which he needs to prepare. “You want to put him back into a cell?”

Mon-El halts in his tracks just outside the conference room. This is interesting. Who is she talking about?

“Isolation,” he hears Alex say, her tone one of pacifying rationalization. “For his own good.”

“But in a cell,” Kara repeats. “After everything we—after everything I—put him through when he first arrived. After Medusa? You want to put him back in a cell like he can’t be trusted.”

Mon-El’s heart speeds up because it sounds like they could be talking about…him. Are they talking about him? Talking about putting him in a cell, like when he first arrived? After everything he’s done, how hard he’s worked to prove himself? To prove he can be trusted?

“Kara, he’s on the verge of a full-blown psychotic break. It sounds like he’s fighting it for the moment, but there’s no predicting how long he has before his mind completely fractures and he can no longer tell the difference between the hallucination and reality. And if that break happens and he experiences another flashback like the one he had last night…Kara, I know it’s painful, but locking him up really is the best for everyone. At least until we can find a way to purge him of the hallucination.”

“They know about me,” Ral says. “It was only a matter of time, of course. Especially with how close you two have been getting. You can’t keep these things secret forever.”

“Alex thinks they can take you away from me,” Mom-El says, a dark rage rising inside of him, a fever building that spreads up his neck and face until he can feel it burning beneath his skin.

“Let her believe what she likes, brother. She can’t take me away. No one has the power to do that.”

Mon-El tunes back in, listening for what comes next, waiting to hear Kara’s voice of reason…and hope. He knows, without a doubt, that she believes in him. Trusts him. She just asked him to move into her loft with her so that she can help him deal with the nightmares and now, the flashbacks; there’s no way she going to give up on him so quickly and so easily. She always fights for the ones she loves.

“Okay,” Kara’s voice agrees. “We’ll play this your way. We’ll lock him up.”

For the second time in his life, Mon-El’s entire world crumbles around him. She didn’t even fight for him, didn’t come to his defense. He had been so certain that she would, so certain that everything they’d shared had meant as much to her as it means to him.

They’d talked about sharing a life, about having a family, and here she is bartering all of that away because he’s…too damaged. She’ll take everything away from him if he allows this. If he doesn’t do something, doesn’t move or take a stand, she’ll take away everything he’s earned and worked so hard for. His job, his friends; she’ll take away Valor.

A righteous rage mixes and swirls with the heartbreak he feels inside. He won’t be locked up. Not again. Not after what his father did.

“Now you’re feeling it,” Ral exclaims. “Let it come, Brother.”

Mon-El shakes him off, ignoring the gnat that whispers in his ear, focusing only on the red that closes in around his vision, locking down his sight until it focuses like a laser beam, focuses on her. Her head whips around to see him standing in the door, and her eyes widen with surprise, her eyebrows crinkling as though already preparing to tell him lies.

“Remember when I said not to worry about the time and the place?” Ral asks. “That I would take care of it? This seems like as good a place as any other.”

Mon-El grits his teeth and steels his resolve.

“Mon-El,” Kara exclaims, frightfully. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” he grinds out.

“Mon-El, you’re not—“ she tries.

“Don’t,” he says, raising his voice and his hand. “Just don’t.”

“Looks like some people just don’t get the same consideration others do,” Ral needles in a practically blasé manner, sounding for all the world like he’s stoking Mon-El’s anger to a fine rage.

Mon-El turns on Ral, pointing a finger. “You…shut the hell up for once!”

Kara’s heart constricts, her throat closing as Mon-El reveals to her for the first time the depths of his psychosis. “Mon-El,” she cries, covering her mouth with her hands.

Dr. Danvers exchanges a look with Alex before slowly rising from her chair and inching away from him. Alex’s eyes harden and she reaches for her belt.

“Man’s got a point, though,” Mon-El shouts, his adrenaline surging unlike anything he’s ever felt before. The taste of it in the back of his throat is like battery acid. Looking at her, at this woman he fell in love with and by whom he is betrayed, he can feel the walls inside of him splintering, bursting apart like a cage outgrown by its captive. “How long did you get, Kara?” he wonders.

She sees him changing, breaking right in front of her and it’s everything she didn’t know she feared. His handsome face transforms into a monstrosity a red anger, his lips turning an alarming shade of…gray? “I don’t understand,” she shakes her head, expressing her own confusion, rather than answering his query.

“How long did your precious adoptive family give you to grieve all that you had lost? Did you a get a whole three months like you’ve given me? Is this the extent of your generosity? Did they threaten to lock you away because you were too broken to be fixed?”

“Mon-El, we’re trying to—“

“If you say ‘help’, Kara, so help me Rao.” Mon-El blinks furiously, his eyes watering, unable to clear the angry red of his vision. “I see my dead brother,” he confesses. “I talk to him when I need to work things out, or sometimes when I just need a friend. I’m not going to be told that’s wrong by a woman who keeps a virtual construct shrine to her dead mother.”

Kara gasps and swallows the acrid acid taste in her mouth that rises in the face of his vitriol…and his truth. “It’s not the same,” she insists, though her tone lacks conviction.

“Oh, I know,” he shouts, his voice grating on her heart like sandpaper. “The difference is I know that Ral is dead…in my heart. It happened right before my eyes. I’m not still holding on to hope. You know what I’m also not doing?” he asks. “I’m not going back to that cell.”

“It’s okay,” she promises. “I just need you to calm down.”

“I don’t get to be angry now? Of course,” he scoffs, “The woman I love betrays me and you still expect me to be your little lap dog. Doing whatever you tell me, being whatever you want me to be.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying, where all these words are coming from. They spill from his mouth like a vomit of long buried but now unrestrained bitterness. Just this morning, he made love to her as if she were his world and he thought she felt the same. But now, looking at her feels like she’s just another jailer, holding the keys to his shackles.

Tears streak down her face as her heart breaks. She came here seeking help for him and never intended to betray him, but he would never see it that way, not in this state. She wipes the tears from her face, looking up to see four agents approaching him from behind.

Something slams him in the back, followed in quick succession by three more blows, one in the back of the head that brings him to his knees. Before he can gain his bearings his wrists are gathered in front of him and a pair of Nth metal cuffs are placed on them.

A thought flashes through Mon-El’s mind, that this is not how he planned to obtain Nth metal cuffs today. He scoffs angrily at the irony, but the thought only serves to inflame his rage, reminding him that just this morning, despite the specter of death that hung over his head, his whole world was shaping up quite nicely.

“Alex, what did you do?” he hears Kara ask her sister.

“I pressed my panic button,” she replies.

“Please,” Kara begs the agents who are dragging Mon-El to his feet. “Please don’t hurt him.” She steps forward toward Mon-El, but Alex grabs her arm to stop her.

The agents’ mistake is pausing before attempting to place Nth shackles on his ankles. He throws them off with ease, watching as Kara’s and Alex’s widen in surprise as two of the agent fly through the glass windows. Despite the verbal confrontation and his clear distress, neither of them expected him to get violent. But clearly they had underestimated his psychosis.

Crashing through the glass, the agents fly over the balcony and forcing Kara to speed to their rescue, leaving Mon-El alone with Alex and Dr. Danvers. Hyperaware of her need to protect her mother, Alex draws her weapon and points it at Mon-El, but anticipating her move he speeds to her and tears the gun from her hand, crushing it in his fist.

He considers throwing the chunk of metal at one of the remaining agents, but before he can decide, he’s grabbed from behind in a chokehold by an arm with which he is intimately familiar and the world is whizzing past until he and Kara are in the open atrium of the DEO’s top floor. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she shouts, begs.

“You already have,” he chokes, her strength crushing down on his larynx. His red vision grays around the edges, until his father appears before him and everything goes red-hot again. “No!” he screams.

“You’ll do as I say,” his father declares, his own steel-gray eyes staring coldly back at him with a sneer on his full lips. “And never forget that you are…utterly…replaceable. Did you honestly think that you were only one?”

Ignoring the pressure at his neck, Mon-El wrenches himself free. “I’ll kill you for what you did to me. I will never give you what you want.”

When he shakes Kara off, she’s thrown back several feet, knocking her into the light table, both smashing it to smithereens and shocking the hell out of her at the same time as thousands of volts of electricity pass through her.

“You will,” his father insists, a smile of victory spreading slowly across his face. “And until you do…I think I’ll keep our dear Morgon here as collateral. Whether or not he’s returned to you in one piece, depends entirely upon the speed with which you comply.”

Ral drops to his knees in front of Mon-El, broken and bloodied, one eye swollen shut. “Leave this place, Brother,” he whispers. ‘The first chance you get…run. Forget about me…he will never let you be free.”

“What have you done?” Mon-El shouts, focusing his rage on his father.

“Just a promise…with more to come.” Waving his hand with a careless, carefree gesture, he commands, “Take him away.”

The scene in his mind shifts again like a red swipe across his vision and Daxam is crumbling around him once more. Ral is sprawled at his feet, his wrists and legs in chains as the room shakes and trembles. His legs are broken, meticulously broken with great care, so as to increase initial pain and long-term suffering, but that isn’t what draws his attention this time.

Like the chains, it is a detail he hadn’t seen before—his mind hadn’t let him see—the swaths of dried blood caked on Ral’s cheeks, stemming from the empty sockets where his eyes once were.

“No, no, no…what he did he do?” Mon-El cries reaching down to touch his brother’s face. “What did he do?”

“Extracted a price,” Ral answers, as the smell of smoke and the sound of screams filter through the air. “A price that no longer matters, it seems.”

“He only did this because of me,” Mon-El cries. “Because I wouldn’t give him what he wanted.”

“Not your fault,” Ral reaches out blindly and grabs Mon-El’s collar, pulling him closer. “Every drop of blood taken from me is a price well paid if it means this venal House finally dies with him. Know that I regret none of it, so long as that is the outcome.” A loud boom fills the air causing the ground to shake beneath them and Ral chuckles, despite his obvious pain. “The gods of Val-Or side with you this day. With both of us.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because this is your chance to get away from this place. The prison doors are open.”

“What about you?”

“You have to leave me, I’ll only slow us both down. You can still escape. He took my eyes, brother,” Ral winces, blood gurgling up to his teeth, his injuries far worse than they initially appeared. “I’ll never see my beloved Melis again – unless it’s in the afterlife. A place I’ll be seeing sooner rather than later, if the gods are good to me once more.”

“I won’t let you die here,” Mon-El insists.

“You will,” Ral cough, blood and spittle spewing from his mouth. “And you will make me one last promise.”

Torn, a scream of heartbroken rage wells up within him, pushing its way through his clenched teeth. His brother-in-bond is dying and there’s nothing he can do for him, but fulfill a final wish. “What is it?” he asks.

“Find a way,” Ral coughs again. “After this place is gone and that old despot is dead…find a way to restore what was great about Daxam.”

“What was great…? I don’t understand.”

Another boom rocks the building, chunks of the ceiling falling around them both. “There’s no time,” Ral rasps ever more weakly around horribly split lips. “You have to go now, before you’re buried with me. You’ll find a way,” Ral says, and Mon-El knows he isn’t talking about escaping.

Mon-El backs away towards the cell’s only exit, reluctant to leave the only man he’s ever called friend – called family. The only person who’s only truly loved him for him.

Sensing his bond-brother’s reluctance, Ral’s voice softens, “I’m already a memory, brother. Go before it’s too late.”

Just as he reaches the doorway, he looks back just in to time to see a chunk of the stone ceiling fall and strike Ral in the head, caving in a large portion of his skull.

It is a killing blow, he knows, instantly sparing his brother from a slow agonizing death from internal bleeding. It is a death for which to thank the gods, but instead he feels only rage for stealing the life of the only good thing he ever had in his life. The only thing that was ever his.

Mon-El hands fist tightly as his anger and grief wells up within him and then overflows. “Noooooo!” he screams.

****

Mon-El isn’t with them anymore, if he ever had been in the last few horrible minutes. He’s somewhere deep inside his own fractured mind, remembering traumatic events of long ago as if they were happening for the first time – like cutting away healthy flesh to find a bloody, festering wound beneath. Regaining her feet, struggling to overcome the effects electricity has on her, Kara manages to shake off her disorientation and move towards him just as two things happen at once.

“Nooooooo!” he screams, blind eyes focused on something she can’t see while his hands fist together hard enough to stress the bone.

And then the room explodes.

“Get down, get down!” Kara screams, as agents dive for cover under and behind any available protective surface. Red beams of light shoot around the cavernous room cutting through everything they touch like a soldering iron. His sudden onset heat vision is made all the more uncontrollable by the fact that his feet are hovering several inches from the ground.

He mumbles incoherently for the most part, only the occasional phrase making sense inside the chaos he creates. “Where is he!?” he demands. “Where has he gone?” His ravings continue as Kara ushers people to safety, her first priority getting them out of the line of his unintentional fire. When the last of the agents is removed to safety she considers her options as she observes his delirious raving. “Looking for this—“

Taking flight, Kara shoots toward him, striking him at mid-level and pulling him down to the ground, both of them sliding across the floor until they’re buried in a wall. The beams of red-hot heat shoot into the ceiling, which crumbles around them. She can barely restrain him as he thrashes beneath her and she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do, but she has to end this before someone gets seriously injured.

It tears her heart out, the inhuman sounds he makes, as if he’s reached down into the deepest parts of himself and found his most excruciating pain, bringing it to the surface and using his own voice as its release valve. Where is he now, she wonders? Marinating in some hellish mind palace with no way out but death?

Kara covers his vision beams with her hands, absorbing them and keeping them doing any more damage.

“He’s out of control, Kara!” she hears Alex shouting.

She knows her sister is right. He’s out of control and out of his mind and there’s only one thing she can do. Balling her hand in a fist, she rears back and slams it in his jaw, once and then a second time, both times his head rolling right back like a ball-ended punching bag that always comes back for more.

“Yes,” he seethes, his voice filled with hatred. “Kill me,” he shouts, lost in a delusion she can’t understand. “Kill me now, if you can! Your last—“

His next words are drowned out when he turns his head, his laser beams striking the glass walls to the outdoor balcony, causing them to shatter and explode. Thousands of tiny glass missiles spray the atrium like a glittering rain of deadly diamonds.

“Mon-El,” she sobs, her face wet with tears. “Please?” Kara begs, but she doesn’t know what she’s begging for, maybe praying for, other than for it to end. Like an answer to her heartfelt but unarticulated prayer, his heat vision sputters out as he lay beneath her, as if he’s gained some measure of control.

She punches him again, blood splattering from his noise and upper lip, which is when she realizes he hasn’t gained control of his heat vision, but has simply expended the reserves of yellow sun radiation in his cells—solar flaring—which makes him utterly vulnerable.

His eyes widen as his mind flares to lucidity to find Kara hovering over him, her fist coming down towards his face with alarming force. In the instant that her fist makes contact, and pain explodes in his head, he’s certain that death awaits him.

His last thought as darkness closes in around him is that this morning he awoke a hero, and somewhere along the line, without knowing where he mis-stepped, he became a villain.

The End

(To be continued)

#karamel fic #hanging on letting go series

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