#almost like there should be some kind of uprising... like maybe some sort of revolution

[quarterprioritymidnight]

We need to start a Free Dan campaign!! Let the man live and post and do what he wants!!!!

he was just trying to give a 🎁 2 us lot is that so wrong????

[forsakenoathkeeper]

I Am Alive (chapter 4/?)

Deviant!Connor[RK800] x (fem!)Reader Rated M(18+) for canon-typical violence and gore, medical procedures, and graphic sexual content

Synopsis: You were a mechanical engineer, now a nurse for androids, who moved back to Detroit after the revolution to offer aid. After reconciling with an old friend, you became rather acquainted with his android partner.

Please support me on AO3 & thanks for reading ♥

The android shifted from low power mode to fully operational when he felt you stir from sleep. He tried not to stare when you sat up and stretched, your breasts on full display in the warm glow the morning light was casting through the window. You stood up and he eyed the contours of your back, the curves at your waist, the delicate bumps of your spine before you disappeared out of his line of sight.

You retreated into the bathroom for a few minutes before returning to the bed.

Connor already looked wide awake while you settled down in the sheets again, digging your palms into your eyes. It must have been nice to never be tired. When you stopped, you let out a very unladylike yawn.

"Change of plans," you uttered sleepily. "I'm just gonna lie here forever."

Connor watched, amused, as you settled back beneath the sheets, nuzzling your head into the pillow. Connor was sitting upright, but looking down at you with a sort of compliant expression, like he was fully prepared to let you have your way.

"The consequences on your health would be devastating," Connor replied simply.

You giggled into the pillow. "How are you gonna get me up?" you teased.

Connor eyed the blanket mischievously. The temperature in the air was a little colder than it was beneath the blankets. That would likely have you stirred from the bed.

With a feared squeak, you rolled away from him, wrapping yourself in the blanket and tearing it off his body. He didn't even flinch when the cold air hit him. He was still sitting upright, one leg bent, looking at you with a small smile, like he was trying not to laugh.

You eyed his nudity shamelessly for a second before looking up at his face.

"Hmm - I'm still in bed," you uttered defiantly like a spoiled child.

The android was prepared to keep playing this game with you. He could easily think of several strategies. He was programmed to be an expert negotiator, after all, and was pretty crafty with his methods; even after deviancy, he didn't let that piece of himself slip away.

But-

"Welcome, guest, Hank Anderson," the apartment's robotic attendant greeted someone.

Even you heard that, and your eyes met in a brief moment of panic.

Connor processed that thought for exactly 0.17 seconds and then bolted to his feet in a comedic fashion. He dug through one of his drawers for some lounge pants and hastily pulled them on before trotting into the kitchen to greet Hank.

Hank had a folder in his hand and was setting it on the kitchen counter just as Connor arrived.

"Hey. Wanted to get a head start on this one." Hank opened it up, exposing some digital crime scene photos. "The media is having a shitstorm about it and Fowler wants some feedback quick. Was gonna head straight to the crime-" Hank looked Connor up and down. "-scene."

Connor nodded, showing that he was listening.

"Did I interrupt something?" Hank asked, some tease to his tone. He crossed his arms and gave Connor an amused look.

"No," Connor replied, maybe a little too quickly, and shrugged his shoulders. "What makes you say that?"

"Your pants are on backwards..."

Connor looked down and, sure enough, a tag was sticking out of the hem and poking him in the belly.

"Shit," he scowled, looking away.

Hank chuckled lowly. "Well - well - someone has company. Sorry for interrupting. Need me to give you a moment? Wouldn't want the old geezer to ruin the mood."

"I-... doubt that would be the case," Connor said lowly, rubbing the back of his neck with his dominant hand. His keen hearing could pick up something that the older detective could not. He could hear the shuffling of fabric and footsteps on the floor in the other room and knew you'd be out here in a moment.

Hank's brow lifted and he eyed the android almost suspiciously. But, then, you came through the hallway, wearing proper clothes, hair brushed and pulled back. Hank's eyes shifted from Connor to you, and then back to Connor. He wheezed out a laugh.

"Coffee?" you suggested over Connor's shoulder with a smile.

You stepped into the kitchen, bare feet on the chilly wood floors, and pulled the carafe out from beneath the coffee maker to fill it with water.

With you out of sight, Hank shot Connor a grin. Connor caught the sight for a second before looking away to try to hide the smile he was really struggling to suppress.

"Go put on some real clothes, Cassanova," Hank teased, giving Connor a friendly smack on the back. Hank turned to face you as the android disappeared through the hallway.

"Cabinet left of the fridge," he stated, directing you to the coffee.

You opened the cabinet and eyed the bag. "Ooo. You didn't cheap out," you commented.

Hank chuckled. "Yeah well... Kinda passed out here several times while going over cases. Connor said I'm much more polite after some cups of coffee."

You snorted through your nose. "I don't doubt it..."

The mental image you were presented with was nice: of Connor and Hank sitting in his kitchen, a mountain of folders and paperwork spewed out on the counter while they discussed the evidence, argued over witness testimonies and statements given through interrogations. Hank would probably order a pizza, ignoring Connor's criticisms over the high calories and fat content, and down it all with coffee.

When Connor returned, you glanced at him in the corner of your eye before doing a double take, pivoting yourself fully to take a better look at him.

He was wearing a white T shirt with a long sleeved, black cargo jacket over it, the kind with pockets all over it. His dark jeans were flattering, hugging the right places while loose where necessary for movement. His detective badge was hanging at his waist by one of his belt straps. There was hardly anything special about the outfit; but, it did something to you.

Connor didn't seem to notice you admiring him, honing in on the case files.

"Old woman was murdered last night. I guess she was a big lawyer back in the day," Hank explained, taking a seat at the island. He paused when you brought him a mug, his eyes expressing his gratitude.

Hank continued, "she was being cared for by an android - even after the deviant uprising. First responders said he was sobbing all over the woman's body. Swears it wasn't him."

Connor nodded at Hank. "We should head straight to the crime scene."

You eyed the two boys curiously, feeling like they were able to read each other's suspicions without needing to be direct.

"After coffee," Hank uttered before lifting the mug to his face and taking a long sip. He didn't seem all at bothered by how hot it was; however, you were still blowing on your own cup.

Hank hummed thoughtfully as he set his mug down. "When we checked their financials, she had been to the clinic." Hank reached into the folder and scooped out a photo before his extending his arm towards you. You stepped closer and took the digital photo from his hand.

"Looks like she got him treated there last week. Does he look familiar?" Hank asked.

The photo was of a handsome, male android. His model was fairly popular; but, his situation was something that had stuck with you.

"Yeah, actually. I didn't treat him, but, I remember when he came in. He had an old human woman with him. One of our nurses was afraid he was being held hostage; but, he insisted he chose to stay with her - they were 'family'."

You handed the photo back to Hank, brow lowered as you tried to recall the encounter.

"It's possible we were wrong, but... It seemed genuine," you explained.

"The first responders said he was having a meltdown, crying about how he 'shouldn't have been gone so long'," Hank explained, tossing the photo back onto the folder.

Your eyes landed on Connor, who seemed to be lost in thought. What you couldn't see was that he was searching the internet for android-encrypted sites. Some androids were starting factions against humans who were resisting the equality laws. Websites only accessible through android interfaces were beginning to pop up: some harmless, just seeking out others for companionship, but some were vengeful, potentially violent. It was possible someone saw this woman as a target.

You chugged the rest of your coffee, set the mug in the sink, and trotted into the bedroom to retrieve your things and slip your shoes on. You returned to the kitchen with your bag slung over your shoulder and shot the two detectives a smile.

"I better get out of your hair," you explained, heading for the elevator.

"I can dri-" Connor began.

"You guys got a big case on your hands. Let me take a taxi," you interrupted him hastily, waving him down innocently with your palms up.

Connor was hot on your heels as he followed you to the elevator.

"I'm a big girl, Connor," you teased. "Don't worry about me."

The android looked embarrassed for a second. You wiped it away when you leaned in to give him a kiss. It lasted a little longer than it should have. But, it was hard to let go. Kisses didn't feel this good when you were a teenager.

"Any day, now, kids," Hank called gruffly from the kitchen.

You parted with a sputtering laugh. Connor grinned toothily.

"Duty calls," you uttered, stepping away from him.

He watched you enter the elevator. You stepped in and looked at Connor through the doorway. The android looked away and then suddenly jerked his head back. He practically sprinted over to the elevator and squeezed in before the doors closed.

You squeaked in surprise when he nearly collided with you.

"I - uhm-" Connor stuttered, fixing his posture. He reached for his tie. When his hands met his chest, he remembered he wasn't wearing one.

You looked up at him with doe eyes and a warm smile. Strangely, it made it harder for him to ask. He sputtered out a weird noise before smacking his mouth shut. You giggled and he relaxed.

"I wanted to ask - before you leave - uhm - I wanted to know if-" he stammered, pausing to smile nervously. "-if you would be my girlfriend?" he asked softly, trying not to get lost in the enamored look you were giving him.

The elevator started moving down the levels. You were smiling up at him like a love-struck idiot. "Yes," you replied softly. "I would like that a lot..."

Afraid he would get lost in your mouth, Connor resisted the urge to kiss you. "I didn't want to leave last night 'in the air'," he uttered. "I-I want you to know that it wasn't just intercourse. I really care about you and believe we would make a good partnershi-"

Oh - fuck - you were kissing him again. It felt good. Why did it feel so good? Mouths were sustenance for nutrients, yet-

When you pulled away, Connor followed a little. "It meant more to me, too, and I'm glad you feel the same," you whispered softly. Connor hummed against your mouth and turned his head like he was trying really hard to pull away.

"-I gotta go," you added on sadly.

"Y-yeah," he stammered as you stepped away, departing from the elevator.

"If you need anything-" he called out as the doors began to slide shut.

He caught the sight of you throwing a smile over your shoulder before the elevator doors closed.

...

...

...

"Oh, you made it. Thought you might'a gotten lost," Hank said dryly from the island, dripping with sarcasm. "Almost sent search and rescue."

"Thank you for worrying, lietenant," Connor replied, matching Hank's dry tone.

Hank laughed, the kind that was low in his chest, that made his shoulders tremble. He stood up and scooped the papers back into the folder.

"I'm driving," he said to Connor, firmly, looking up at his brown eyes with the kind of grumpy, old man stare that Connor knew was not to be argued with.

The android nodded and followed Hank to the elevator.

The ride was quiet, as it always was, the two men sitting in silence, aside from the radio. Hank always played an oldies rock station, the kind that complained about random things on Saturday mornings, ranging from what bands had fallen apart and the newest supermodel turned porn star.

Hank didn't like the way Connor drove. He followed speed limits just a little too carefully and was way too literal with the stop signs.

"Connor, by the time we get there, I'll be dead of old age," he would say gruffy, only half joking. "You drive worse than an old grandma whose half asleep," was also something Connor heard once or twice. When he replied with, "this is the law, detective," Hank didn't really like that. To be fair, Connor was kind of joking.

The drive was about forty minutes before they pulled into a posh neighborhood on the nice side of town. The house was a beautiful two-story farmhouse, the kind with a wraparound porch, big, elegant windows and extravagant landscaping.

Hank parked behind one of the CSI vans. No one questioned them as they passed the crime scene tape. Everyone recognized Hank and his android partner, Connor. Even the rookie cops could recognize them on site. Hank had his scraggly grey hair and commanding attitude while Connor had an LED on his temple and a calculated expression he always wore when investigating.

The lieutenant and his android partner...

The home was as stunning on the inside as it was on the outside: elegant, expensive furniture, sculptures and paintings decorating the place, fancy light fixtures. More notably, the place was absolutely spotless, the kind of thing someone would expect of the owner of an android.

The old woman was dead in the living room from two gunshot wounds: one to her upper torso and another in the head, execution style. She was laying on her back in a pool of blood, dressed stunningly in expensive clothes. Her snow-white hair was impeccably styled, and she even had her makeup done nicely.

"The bullet punctured a lung and one of her primary arteries - the head was just to make sure she didn't get back up," one of the detectives explained to Connor and Hank as they entered the scene.

"How do you know it was an android," Hank stated more so than asked. "Already saw the initial report."

The detective eyed Connor for a second, as if he was worried the android would take offensive to his theory. "The lady owned an android. She wouldn't let him go after the revolution. So, he killed her. Pretty straight forward."

"Nothing matching that in his statement," Hank deadpanned.

The detective scoffed. "He lied."

"The guy was sobbing like a newborn baby," Hank added on, clearly growing frustrated.

"Yeah - well, we see people fake that shit all the time-" the detective added on, matching Hank's tone.

Connor, disinterested in their argument, headed for the back entrance. He could see very faint outlines of shoe impressions on the beautiful tile floors. A quick scan showed they were everyday men's work boots, not something factory assigned to an android.

Connor stepped through the back door, checking both sides. It looked pristine. Standing on the patio, he scanned the backyard, trying to determine where the culprit would have entered. The fence was a tall, stone wall. It was easy for an android to climb, but also easy for a human with a ladder.

There was grass in the backyard, very well maintained, making it impossible to look for footprints; however, he saw no faint outlines on the concrete patio. It was not conclusive; but, he would have at least expected dirt. It was well swept with a thin layer of dirt, likely from the morning's breeze.

Connor returned inside and examined the stairs. There were microscopic dirt particles on the stairs.

Considering how spotless the house was, he doubted the woman or her android brought in the mess. There was definitely an intruder. But, he didn't immediately dismiss all possible leads. The android could have staged a scene.

Connor trotted up the stairs and followed the dirt sprinkled on the floor. There was a room upstairs, what appeared to be a study. The window had been broken. Glass and the interior, decorate wood framing pieces were scattered about in a mess on the floor, some pieces shattered after being stepped on.

Upon closer inspection, right outside the window was a section of the roof, which meant it was easy to climb into from the outside.

The android approached the window and scanned the seal. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing left behind: not a drop of blood, a scratch or a shred of fabric. Connor hoisted himself through the window and climbed onto the roof section. He trailed the edge and easily sought out a point of access.

He knelt down and examined the corner of the roof, where it connected to the lower level's wrap around porch. There was a lip and a beam. Any android could easily spot that as a perfect climbing spot and hoist themselves up effortlessly. Of course, that wasn't to say that a human came to the same conclusion.

Some of the roof tiles had been broken, pieces in the middle cracked or shattered, centralized, like they had been stepped on. Connor leaned in closer and scanned the area. There were spots where someone would have to place their hands if they were to climb here. Even if they had help from a ladder, their hands would have had to touch the corner of the roof.

There wasn't a single fingerprint to be found. Of course, humans could accomplish the same thing with gloves.

The lack of evidence was concerning, but Connor knew there was one thing that needed to be done, first: he needed to rule out their only suspect.

Connor returned downstairs and approached Hank.

"I want to interview the suspect..."

...

...

...

Louis was a popular model purchased for homes, as a nanny or a nurse or some kind of caretaker. He was a few inches shorter than the average male, and fairly skinny with a kind face and innocent eyes, the perfect type of person to take care of someone. Of course, he was an android; so, even with his small stature, he was stronger most humans.

Connor watched him through the one-way mirror, taking a moment to analyze his body language.

He must have attempted to aid, or at least comfort, the victim. Her blood was soaked through his shirt and smeared over his forearms. He had finally stopped crying, settling for laying his head on the table and curling his arm around it, like a child would when they were in trouble.

Connor waited until Hank and a couple other detectives entered the room, witnesses for his interrogation. He caught Hank giving him a nod and approached the door. Connor stepped inside and saw the way Louis flinched at the sound of the door opening. His eyes honed in on Connor's LED.

"You're a - please - I would never hurt Mrs. Wheeler! She was my-"

"You are our prime suspect," Connor interrupted him sharply. "The others think you killed Mrs. Wheeler because she wouldn't let you be free..."

Something akin to rage flashed behind Louis' eyes for a second. He twitched in his chair, but then shrunk beneath Connor's stern gaze. Louis didn't know androids worked with the police, especially ones like him: like Connor, who stood tall with fierce, almost cold eyes.

Connor approached Louis calmly and took the seat across from him. "I want to hear your side."

Louis hiccupped, on the verge of crying again. "Mrs. Wheeler bought me almost three years ago. My previous owners - they hated me. Always hit me and yelled at me and-..." Louis paused and inhaled sharply. "She bought me so they wouldn't throw me away. When the revolution happened, she told me I could leave. But, I didn't want to. She was kind to me - treated me like a real person... even when I thought I wasn't one. I promised I would take care of her until she passed away. She has no one. I'm her family."

Connor narrowed his eyes slightly to give the impression he didn't believe Louis. "Where were you this morning?"

"I-" Louis' face contorted in pain and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Every - every morning, I run errands-" Louis hunched over and cradled his head in his hands. "Every morning - every morning - I wake her up and help her get ready, make her tea and put on music before I go... She was-"

Louis trailed off and began sobbing again.

Connor let out an intentionally loud huff. "Show me."

Louis' head snapped up and he eyed Connor through blurry, tear-soaked eyes. Android tears had the smallest hints of thirium, giving his tears a faint, blue hue. Connor expected to be met with hostility at that request. Louis seemed more than willing.

"Okay," he agreed, offering Connor his hand across the table. His skin tone faded away, exposing the pale white artificial skin beneath. Connor did the same and took hold of Louis' wrist.

He didn't have to force Louis to share. He was willing. It felt nice, for a change, to share something pleasant with another android. Louis' fingers gently grasped Connor's forearm and he sighed quietly.

The first memory he shared was the Thirium Clinic. Mrs. Wheeler was holding a cane and wobbling, but urging Louis inside. "I'm fine, really," he protested gently. "Your arm is all cut up. We can't have that, now," Mrs. Wheeler insisted, giving him a nudge with her free hand. A nurse approached them, concerned eyes washing over Louis. "Hello, are you okay-? You don't have to-" He was quick to explain. "It's alright. We're family."

Mrs. Wheeler almost looked embraced. "Louis, they just want to make sure you're safe," she said gently. Connor could feel shame flutter across Louis' features, even though he was seeing through the android's own eyes. He looked back at the nurse. "I am safe!" he protested, almost childishly. The nurse smiled at him. "Alright. Let's take a look at your arm..."

The next memory seemed to be the following night, according to his time logs. It was dark outside and Louis was pulling back the curtains to cover the windows. "Evelin, what would you like for dinner?" he called out gently. Mrs. Wheeler was seated in a cushiony arm chair, a book in her lap. "Whatever you feel like making me," she replied quietly. "Are you sure?" he offered, approaching her. She smiled up at him. "Of course, dear."

The following memory was the next morning, of Louis helping Mrs. Wheeler out of bed. "I need to give you your insulin," he said. "Of course - thank you," she replied, voice hoarse and tired. "I'm sorry it's so early - doctor insisted-" Louis explained. "I understand, dear. Don't fret."

The memory after that was Louis preparing to leave the house, the morning of the murder. "Are you sure it's alright?" he asked her. "Of course. Whatever you want. Not like I can bring my money with me when I go," Mrs. Wheeler urged him with a smile. Connor couldn't see Louis' face, but he could feel his smile. "I'll be quick." This memory lingered. Louis took Mrs. Wheeler's car into town, bought some groceries, and stopped at a book shop. He browsed the aisles for almost an hour. He returned home and-

The front door was locked, just as he left it; however, when Louis crossed the threshold, he could smell it. Metallic. Thick in the air and heavy, burning in his nostrils. Through the foyer, he could spot the dark red color that stood out sharply in their pristine home. Louis' voice cracked and echoed throughout the house as he screamed her name, dropping everything and running over to her. Connor watched Louis lean over Mrs. Wheeler, sobbing as he reached for her-

Connor let go of Louis' hand. When Connor's vision refocused on the present, he could see Louis' face, soaked with tears, clinging to his cheeks.

"I shouldn't have gone to the bookstore-" he sobbed. "I would have made it home in time and she'd still be alive."

The detective watched him, letting some real emotions show on his face for the first time since he entered this room. He felt... sorry for him. His whole world had come crumbling down, the only person who gave his life meaning now gone.

Connor cleared his throat, pushing back the emotions that threaten to spill over. "Has anyone been hostile towards Mrs. Wheeler?" he asked, maintaining his calm and cool demeanor. "Even something insignificant can help."

Louis wiped his face hastily. "She - she has no known living relatives. Nothing strange in the mail. Some of her colleagues would visit from time to time; but, none of them ever seemed anything but enamored with her, and she hasn't had a visitor in months..." Louis trailed off, his eyes shifting away from Connor.

"There was-..." Louis extended his hand to Connor, palm facing upwards, skin fading away once more. "About a week ago... It was really nice outside. So, I took her to the park and this - this guy..."

Connor took hold of Louis' wrist, and the android shared his memory.

Mrs. Wheeler was sitting at a bench with a book in her lap and her cane resting at her side while Louis paced around the nearby trail, admiring the trees that were beginning to regrow their leaves, taking to the warmth of the beckoning spring. A man approached Louis, an android model that Connor recognized as one made designed primarily for factory work. His LED was missing.

"What are you doing?" the android whispered harshly to Louis. "Excuse me?" he retorted. The stranger eyed Louis suspiciously. "We're free, now. She doesn't own you anymore." Connor could feel Louis' face contort in frustration, though he couldn't see it. "No - no. It's not like that. We're family." The android laughed in Louis' face. "Family!? You are her slave!"

The stranger approached Louis, who nearly tripped as he staggered backwards, avoiding him. "No! It's not like that!" Louis insisted. "She takes care of me and I take care of her!" The other android glared at him. "Whatever she did to make you believe that-" he sneered. "You're wrong! Humans-!" the android snarled, advancing on Louis like he intended to strike him. Louis continued backing away from him. When the android finally realized that Louis was afraid, he stopped, and looked at Louis like he was a lost child. "RA9 will save you."

Louis hastily returned to Mrs. Wheeler's side, and politely brushed off her concerned comments. Connor could feel his panic; however, when Louis' gaze returned to where he stood seconds ago, the other android was long gone.

"I thought-" Louis explained, letting go of Connor's wrist and sliding his hand back. "-he was just afraid or damaged-... I don't know, I-"

"Thank you for sharing this," Connor stated firmly, pushing his chair away and rising to his feet. Connor waited briefly, eyeing Louis. He expected him to ask when he can leave, when he would be released, when he could go home. The android didn't seem the least bit concerned about himself.

The question never came. He just stared at Connor with frightened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

Connor was glad he didn't ask, because he didn't know...

Connor stepped out of the interrogation room and joined the detectives on the other side of the glass.

"He has an alibi," Connor stated.

"Hope you don't expect us to just take your word for it," one of the detectives challenged.

"Check Mrs. Wheeler's credit card history and security footage at "Fresh Produce" and "Evolutions Book Store", if you'd like," Connor replied.

The detective scoffed at him.

"What's our next lead?" Hank asked sharply, shifting the focus.

"There's no fingerprints," Connor replied. "Nothing appeared to be damaged or stolen, besides the window upstairs. I would say it's personal. About a week ago, an android confronted him about their relationship."

"Yeah, it's weird," the same detective scowled, rolling his eyes. "He's living with this lady, taking care of her hand and foot, but acts like he's her grandkid."

Connor kept his 'poker face', as Hank might have put it: calm, without a hint of malice. But, deep down, he was insulted by the suggestion. 'Acting' was the word he had used. Louis was not Mrs. Wheeler's real blood, but that didn't mean his care for her couldn't possibly be real. It didn't mean that he didn't really love her.

"She was a lawyer. Cuda been someone she crossed?" one of the other detectives suggested.

"I'll look through her old cases," Connor offered. It was a job that would easily take a human weeks, if not months to do. Connor, however, could read through all her cases, her entire career, in a matter of hours.

The detectives cleared the room while an officer retrieved Louis from the interrogation room.

Connor returned to his desk and set his hand on the scanning pad sitting on his desk. It was an interface for androids, much faster than a mouse and keyboard, giving him something akin to a nuerolink with the computer and thus all of the Detroit Police Station's databases. He did a search for Evelin Wheeler. He first confirmed Louis' claims. It was true that Mrs. Wheeler had no living relatives. Her husband had died almost five years ago. She had a very decorated history as a lawyer, most of them being small claims, family courts, and the likes.

"There was something else-" Hank said quietly. Connor looked up from his desk, across to where Hank sat opposite of him at his own desk. "-wasn't there?"

Typical Hank, always seeing right through him.

Connor stood up and walked around to Hank's side. He sat down at the outmost facing corner of his L shaped desk. Hank swiveled in his chair to give Connor his attention. "The android-" Connor began, quiet, almost whispering, "-that confronted Louis in the park. I didn't get the impression that he was particularly worried about Louis. He seemed more angry to see an android and a human together."

Hank's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Connor," he began, in that voice that Connor knew quite well. It was softer than the way he usually spoke; the voice he used when he was worried about something. "If that is what it ends up being, don't let it get personal."

"I-"

I won't, was what he wanted to say. But-

"What if I can't?" Connor asked, sincere.

Strangely enough, Hank smiled a little. "Welcome to the force..."

Hank swiveled around in his chair to continue tapping away at his computer screen. Connor lingered for a second, pondering over what he just said, before standing up and returning his desk. 'Don't get personal' was a code all detectives had to follow. They had to see through the eyes of the law, preserve justice, without prejudice.

But that-

-was something only a machine could do.

And Connor wasn't a machine.

...

...

...

The days that followed were, unsurprisingly, busy days. You worked long shifts, drove home, and immediately undressed, flopped on your bed, and promptly passed out, just to get up early and do it all over again.

Honestly, you wanted a change of pace; but, at the same time, the thought of abandoning the clinic was mortifying. You didn't hold resentment for management over the way things were. It was difficult finding people willing to do the job. You, alongside every other nurse, was there because you wanted to be. The pay was well enough to live comfortably, but not well enough to lure in more potential employees. The clinic didn't exactly have a stable source of income, relying on donations and government funding.

Besides, there was no denying that tensions were high right now. Androids who came in were often afraid of being worked on by humans, and humans were afraid of getting close to androids.

Or, sometimes, one side hated the other.

Every so often, a text would come in from Connor. Even if it was the most pointless thing, it made the day feel so much brighter.

"Please don't forget to stay hydrated", he had said once in the early morning hours, perfect grammar naturally. You contemplated on that response through a shit-eating grin. Should you be sincere? Or maybe tease him? But, then, a patient came in and you were distracted for hours, unable to respond.

When you got the chance to check your phone again, you finally decided on a reply, right after chugging a bottle of water. "yes sir :P," you texted back.

Connor replied in a few seconds. "I prefer 'detective'."

Grinning, you replied, "yes oFfiCeR."

Work kicked up again and it was a few hours before you managed another chance to steal a glance at your phone. Connor had replied sometime while you were away.

"That's acceptable, too," he had said. He must have contemplated whether that would come across rudely because he had followed it up a few seconds later with a winking emoji.

You felt like a kid texting your crush in class, high on hormones, staring doe-eyed at the screen. One of your coworkers bumped your shoulder with her own, removing your attention from the screen.

"Somebody has a boooyyyfrriieeend," she cooed.

You scoffed at her through a smile and nudged her away with your arm, unable to put your phone down. She laughed, walking over to the coffee maker. "If I make a batch, will you have some?"

You glanced up at her. She was waving carafe questioningly. "Oh, fuck yeah," you agreed. "All I've had for lunch is a fucking apple."

"I have extra yogurts in the fridge. Help yourself," she offered kindly.

"Oh I-"

"Yes, you can. Shut up," she interrupted with a grin.

You tossed her a harmless, teasing glare.

"I only buy the good flavors," she added on, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Smiling, you looked back at your phone. "Sorry for taking so long to reply. Busy day... every day is a busy day," you texted back. You almost tucked your phone back into your pocket before you scrambled to open it back up, and added, "detective."

After some coffee and a raspberry cream yogurt, you returned to the floor.

It was amazing that even months after the incident, androids were coming in with injuries from the revolution. They were scared, understandably, and didn't know where to go to get help, afraid they would be labeled as terrorists and arrested.

It took a lot of feedback from the president and governor to make any real progress. Anti-discrimination laws were being passed left and right; but, only time was going to heal those wounds. You still saw "no android" signs posted all over town, people proudly proclaiming they weren't going to hire any androids.

You weren't even sure if you would see progress in your lifetime.

It wasn't until late into the night and you were on your way out the door that you got a chance to check your phone again. It was almost dead, but had enough juice to check your messages.

"I don't know if I can help at all," Connor had written. "But If I can, I will."

You smiled. Of course he would say something like that.

You climbed into your car, shivering from the cold and got it started, the heater blasting, before you continued reading.

"Let me know if you made it home safely. Please."

You smiled and texted him back, "driving home now. let you know when I'm safe in bed."

Thirty minutes or so later, you had made it home, brushed your teeth, changed clothes, brushed back your hair, and was tucked away in bed. As promised, you checked your phone where it was perched on its charger at your bedside.

"home and safe," you messaged him.

He had replied before you even set the phone down. "That's good. Thank you."

You were about to set it down when a devilish thought crossed your mind.

"gonna try to get some sleep but cant stop thinking about you."

"I am unharmed. There's no need to worry. Please get some rest," he replied promptly.

You rolled your eyes fondly and chuckled.

"not like that silly," you messaged him back.

Part of you wanted to press on, longing for some intimacy to break up the long, exhausting work days. But, then, you remembered that it was nearing midnight, you had to get up early, and Connor was likely busy trying to do his own job.

"goodnight, Connor," you sent out with a fond sigh before placing the phone down and rolling over.

The screen lit up again and you reached for it. It was a simple reply. It just said, "Goodnight. Sleep well". But, for some reason, you stared at it for a long time. You hadn't known him for very long, maybe jumped the gun a few nights ago, not that you regretted it.

Rather, you felt like you were high, floating on some euphoria unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

You were-

-falling for Connor.

...

...

...

Jericho was no more. But, from the ashes of Jericho rose Haven, a boarding house of sorts for androids still trying to find their way in the world, or just looking for a place to stay, maybe even just seeking refuge from humans. Connor was well aware that not everyone was as lucky as he was. He was accepted back onto the force reluctantly, but far more gracefully than most androids found themselves in. Hank had his back. Most androids didn't have someone like Hank in their lives.

Since the revolution, Markus had taken to restoring Haven. What was once an abandoned apartment building was now a beautiful safehouse for androids. Humans weren't welcomed here. It was an unspoken rule. After all, not all the androids here were ready to trust humans again, were ready to live alongside them.

Connor came here with the hopes of finding Markus. He probably wouldn't like the reason Connor was here; but, he wanted to catch this android before he killed again. Or, at the least, rule him out as a suspect.

As soon as Connor passed the threshold, all eyes fell on him. They looked uneasy to see him, some leaning in and uttering amongst themselves. The deviant hunter. The one that works for the police. RK800, who exceeded them all in every possible way.

They were afraid of him.

Markus called out to him, "Connor!" It was a sort of fondness that Connor recognized, something akin to the way friends would greet each other.

He wasn't sure if he could Markus his friend. He had hunted him for months, the beginning of his life nothing but ending the deviancy. Markus didn't show anger when Connor pointed a gun at him. He was only ever understanding. Connor had delivered an army to Markus; but, still, unsurprisingly, most in his party looked at Connor with untrusting eyes. He didn't blame them.

With Markus honing in on Connor, everyone around visibly relaxed, directing their attention away from them.

"I'm sorry, Markus. I'm not here for pleasantries," Connor stated.

"I'm not surprised," Markus replied, oddly sounding not the least bit upset. "We can talk in private, if needed?" Markus offered his hand, tan skin faded away to expose the pale white layer beneath.

Connor took his hand without hesitation. In their bond, they spoke, unheard by all the others.

"A woman was murdered this morning. I wanted to rule out a suspect," Connor explained.

"I see," Markus replied. "-and you think they're here?"

"This android showed a distaste for human and android relationships. The women he murdered had an android living with her," Connor explained.

He shared some of Louis' memories, of him attending the Thirium Clinic with Mrs. Wheeler, asking her what she wanted for dinner, taking her to the park. Connor didn't miss the way Markus' hand stiffened, fingers unconsciously tightening a little at the sight. Then, Connor showed him Louis' memory of the park and the android that confronted him, what he had said to Louis.

"I-... I see," Markus said, sounding a little lost for a second. "I have seen him here before. But, it's been a few days. His name is Robert. I never imagined he would-..." Markus trailed off, wondering if he even had a right to say something like that. He didn't know every android. He couldn't possibly make claims on their actions.

"I hope I'm wrong, Markus," Connor said lowly. "But, I can't take the chance."

"Connor, I understand that this... coming here... must not have been easy. If it comes down to it, I will make sure that they see, for us to be equal, that means we have to pay for crimes, too..."

Connor let go of Markus' hand, ending their brief connection. He gave him a nod and spoke aloud again, "thank you, Markus."

He turned to leave and took a single step before the android called out to him.

"Connor, you're always welcome here." Markus approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I want you know that..."

When he thought about it, Connor realized he never really spent much time with other androids. He was immediately assigned to the police department, worked primarily with Hank, and even returned after the revolution. Then, there was you... Was that strange? That he never really spent any time with his own kind...

"I understand," Connor replied lowly, rotating his body to face Markus. "I appreciate that you welcome me here; but, the others don't share that sentiment. I hold no resentment. They have every right to be wary of me."

"If you gave them a chance, they'd come around," Markus suggested softly.

"I don't doubt that, Markus, but... It isn't compatible with the path I've chosen..."

Markus let go of Connor's shoulder. The sad expression he gave Connor caught him off-guard.

"If that ever changes, you'll always have a home here," Markus replied sincerely.

It was difficult for Connor to imagine a home different than the one he already had. His home was Hank's house with Sumo on his lap while Hank shouted at the basketball match on the TV screen. Home was his apartment at 1 in the morning, Hank passed out on his sofa after hours of arguing over a case. Home was-... was you, patching him after he tore up his hand trying to arrest a lunatic strung out on a concoction of drugs and alcohol.

"I'll remember that," he replied quietly. He meant it, even if he wasn't sure he wanted it.

[foxrp]

member groups

our site’s member groups include seven character groups that are based on goals, allegiances, and where the character best fits in the political grand scheme of our plot. this is what they support, what they think, where their thoughts lie. they do not have to be members of that group - which is to say, they can be a coalition supporter and not be in the coalition, and same goes for death eaters and the order and every where else. or, they could be a civilian. where they fall, it's all based on the political grand scheme. please keep this in mind!

( under the cut, all of our information is laid out as needed. but... want a sneak peek of our guidebook? check out this screenshot of our groups page! )

additional notes

please remember our member groups are what their political alignment is. our member groups are based on the political grand scheme, with the different sects pulling the world in all different directions. where your character aligns, and why, is entirely up to you.

maybe they just support the coalition's efforts to fix the ministry after watching them struggle to keep control for so long, or maybe your character is a full blown high ranking member of the order, or maybe they just agree with the movement the rebellion is starting - whatever that may be, that is your choice. and that is where they would fall, member group wise. they do not have to fully be a member to be included, we leave this decision up to you as you know your character best, and we trust you to choose the best route.

now, for characters that may be playing the role of spy within groups, we do ask that you keep in mind that the chosen group should show as what they would appear most as in an outward fashion, i.e. peter pettigrew as order of the phoenix or severus snape as a death eater in canon. thank you!

Nº1 CIVILIAN

the civilians, caught between each of these groups and being pulled this way, that, the other until surely they just might rip apart, until surely they will be forced to pick a side, pick a side and pray you made the right choice.

the civilians member group works as a catch all - those who haven't yet aligned themselves, or who haven't yet fully aligned themselves. they are sure to lean in different directions, have pulls in different directions, but they haven't formally joined the fight just yet. our civilians are those in the in between, those caught between all the lines in the web that has been woven, and those who have not quite yet for whatever reason chosen a side to truly stand on. be that because they are waiting to see where pieces fall or just unsure they want to be involved or any other reason, they're caught dead in the middle and the clock is ticking as it begs the question 'if you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?'.

Nº2 COALITION

the coalition, an international group put in place to watch and to rectify and to ultimately do what the ministry cannot and finding that list to grow each day as what they deem as anarchy and other deem as revolution grows in numbers, all while their need to take control matches that growth over and over.

they waited and watched as people died, as the dark lord grew in power, as a rebellion was started that threatened to shake the way of the outreaching world as they knew it, and the ineffective ministry did nothing. eventually, the world could watch no more and the coalition stepped in. the coalition are an international body who have been tasked with restoring peace, headed up in britain by their liaison, robards, they are working to mediate, provide safety, and restore infrastructure to the ailing country. but at what point does assistance become a takeover? the stubborn british ministry is almost as much of a problem as the squabbling factions and anarchists, revolutionaries and monsters run rampant in the streets. sometimes tact and diplomacy is no longer enough, and there are those who see this and support their appointment readily, so long as something is finally done.

Nº3 DEATH EATER

the order of the phoenix and the death eaters, facing off in a war that is about to come to a head as the world around them grows ever darker, ready to descend fully into the madness they had all begun to unravel, to dip their toes into the insanity like a tidepool, unknowing the tidal wave that awaited them.

led by lord voldemort, the death eaters (and those who align with them, who could be found here as unmarked death eaters or simply death eater aligned characters) have a focus on blood purity and/or the dark arts. a mixture of the weak, the ambitious, and those who simply enjoy inflicting hurt and causing suffering, they are radicals with no regard for the law, order, or morals that tie wizarding society together. they are the disillusioned aristocracy, the fearful scared of their tenuous grip on power, those who wreak violence in your community, the ambitious lesser clutching at strength, respect, fear by any means, romanticizing their ‘clean’ bloodlines and ardent in their belief that magic is might and anything muggle is mud.

Nº4 ETHER

the ether, printing hard truths that no one wants uncovered and calling out any that stands in their way, a media insurrection that is asking for transparency the likes of which their world has never known.

the world has been murky for so long, the water constantly stirred up by those factions hiding in the shadows, afraid to come out and be seen in the light of the day. the ether advocates for transparency, tired of how groups like the order and the death eaters have been allowed to run amuck seemingly without any kind of resistance. they are those working to uncover the truth, no matter its ugliness. they are the radio hosts sorting out facts from fiction, they are the brave sources risking all to expose the ministry’s corruption, they are in and out of the media themselves but using that resource to tell stories that need to be told. they’ve had enough of the years of no accountability, of the people suffering for the egos of a few. war is not only fought on battlegrounds. it’s fought in the pages and on the airwaves too.

Nº5 MINISTRY OF MAGIC

the ministry of magic, faking control over a situation that has long since gotten out of hand and grappling with how to take the power back now that so many eyes are upon them.

for as long as anyone can remember, the ministry has been there. people come and go and times change, but the foundations endure. except what happens when there are cracks in those foundations? when papering over them no longer hides the problems and the situation is spiraling? the ministry is the government and all the employees and supporters that fall under its shadow, the all-powerful authority, and what they say goes… right? except the coalition is here now, undermining the little power the british ministry has managed to hold onto. and every day it seems there’s a new faction complicating matters. and how long, really, can they retain support and the waning semblance of control? and what happens should they lose it?

Nº6 ORDER OF THE PHOENIX

the order of the phoenix and the death eaters, facing off in a war that is about to come to a head as the world around them grows ever darker, ready to descend fully into the madness they had all begun to unravel, to dip their toes into the insanity like a tidepool, unknowing the tidal wave that awaited them.

led by albus dumbledore, the order of the phoenix was formed to directly oppose the death eaters. they are the tragic heroes, the light in the dark that can’t be snuffed out. they’ve lost so much, so many, and still they refuse to be moved. how much can you lose before it changes you irreparably? before it makes you into something worse? the order are our ragtag lovable group of do-gooders, or so they believe themselves. at times, they are all that stands between life as you know it and the death eaters gaining control. vigilantes to some, rebels to others, they are your teachers, your daughters, your sons, the people you pass in the street and think nothing of. all walks of life and all fighting for the greater good as they believe it. but who is to say they are right? and with secrets being uncovered and new groups making waves, how long will that belief remain unshaken?

Nº7 REBELLION

the rebellion, an uprising some would call it, a godsend others would cry, making waves even as they just begin and calling for change in the treatment of those seen less than human.

kindness is not something often shown when you’re different. whether you be a werewolf or a vampire, a half-creature, anything less than human - you are seen as lacking, as lesser. and some have had enough of being belittled, being treated so poorly by the society that shuns them, of being persecuted for things they cannot help and cannot change. maybe they’re wizards themselves, who’ve grown weary of watching creatures suffer under the current regime, of watching people who mostly look like them be treated with disdain and prejudices they know they did not earn. they want more, want rights, want safety, and they are angry that they’ve yet to get it. they're angry that they have to fight for it at all, that at every turn they’ve been told no. it’s burnt for so long in their chests and now they howl for change, baying for a revolt, an insurrection. a rebellion. there is no clear hierarchy. yet. only whispers and ripples and more and more realizing that if they want change, they’ll have to take it. by force, if necessary.

[theholycovenantrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, JADE! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF JUDAS.

Admin Jen: There aren’t enough words to capture the sheer magnitude of your portrayal, but I would say your writing definitely gets the job and speaks for itself, Jade. You have such keen insight into Judas and the various intricacies that play into his character, and you explored it all so beautifully in your app. My favorite part was certainly the plots and the limitless possibilities they posed for Judas, but every other portion of the app only added onto it and propelled your vision further. It was so compelling to read through, and it left me so unbelievably excited to see Judas prowling and scheming on the dash! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Jade

Age | 27

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | My schedule is nothing if not predictable these days! Covid has me almost exclusively sitting at home on the couch, so barring the time that I spend with my husband, I’m usually around. I don’t always have it in me to write every day, but I think it would be reasonable to expect me on the dash multiple days per week.

Timezone | PST

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the rp?  |  Through Rosey’s grapevine!

IN CHARACTER

Character | The infamous, the great betrayer himself — Judas (ju-da-ah-ahhhhh!!)

What future plots do you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

I | KING OF EVERYTHING

Judas’s ultimate goal, once the last wars have been waged, is to claim the Holy Land for himself. Sorry, for demonkind — but, ruled by and submitting to, himself. He formed Infernum’s government with intention, hiding the monopoly of his power amongst a consortium of others who allegedly hold sway as well, allowing Damien to be the face of the revolution while his hand guided from the shadows. For some time, it has served him well, but contentedness is a poison he cannot swallow. He looks towards the Holy Land and greed takes his reins yet again, his hollowed stomach in knots thinking about a world in which the people bow to a power he does not hold firmly between his teeth. There are a multitude of ways he might go about it, and I’d be eager to plot out the possible angles with other writers, but I do believe that Judas will, at some point, make a play to claim the Holy Land. That might be through political division — sewing lies amongst the people, breeding distrust in the Tridium and their current way of being. It might be through betrayal, tried and ever true — to sell the Tridium out to a rogue set of Heretics, an insurgent with a grudge.. whoever might be interested, really. Or, if all else fails, perhaps by declaration of war.

II | COLLECTING FROM CONQUEST

He’s no fool. He knows the value of a blank check with Dmitri’s name on it, and he’s been waiting patiently for the right time to cash it. While Judas doesn’t yet have his exact ask envisioned, he knows one thing for certain — when he calls upon the favor he’d earned by saving old Conquest, it won’t be for something as small as a discounted price on a hit. No, it’ll be saved for the moment he makes his play towards the Holy Land — war times, when he’s sure to benefit most from the protection of the healing horseman. Until then, he finds such a wicked joy in taunting Dmitri with his silence on the matter.

III | GRASPING THE STARS

I imagine Judas carries a heavy interest in just who is going to be selected as the Stars, and will be doing what he can to sway mortal perception in favor of whoever he feels will best represent the demons’ interests. Azazel plays her part, but a loyal mortal amongst the Tridium would serve Infernum well, particularly in keeping Gabriel at bay. He’ll do what he can to put the right person in the position — and if that fails, he’ll be sure to slither up alongside who is elected and make their close acquaintance.

IV | CONSPIRING WITH THE HERETICS

Should Judas decide that sewing distrust in the Tridium’s ability to maintain peace and safety is the best move, I imagine he may try to use the world’s hatred of the Heretics to his benefit. I could see him providing rogue groups of Heretics or Heretic sympathizers with information about or access to gatherings, parties, political events, what have you. Surely, a resurgence of the Heretics would cause a panic — one that may make the populus question whether their leaders are the best leaders. Who might he set them on, though? Maybe he’d give them an opportunity to assassinate an angel, or even one of his own. Maybe he’d sick them on innocents. The precise move would depend on what’s happening in-game, but this type of betrayal is surely possible!

V | PUPPETEERING THE TRIDIUM

There was a reason he’d reached his hand up to Azazel from the pits of hell, pulled her down into his kingdom and taught her all he could. He’d seen what could be forged from a thing like her — the way she could enchant, the way she inspired adoration. She made for a Moon both palatable and unthreatening — a beauty that begged to be worshipped by the masses, and a mind that cared not for the politics of it all. While she wears the crown, Judas sees the strings as his to pull. I imagine him very much attempting to use Azazel as a means of enacting his particular will amongst the Tridium. He trusts that she’ll continue to represent the interests he instructs her to, so long as the praise keeps coming — and oh, he’s aware of just how key praise is in getting anywhere with Azazel. I see Judas showering Azazel in attention and blessings, all the time, even when there isn’t something he’d like her to get done in the Holy Land. It makes it far more likely she’ll be agreeable when there is.

VI | BETRAYAL OF AZAZEL

Should all mentioned above work without a hitch, I don’t see Judas finding a reason to betray Azazel aside from sheer boredom — though, don’t discount that as a very, very real possibility. I think Judas keeps a particular watch on Azazel, most notably on where her interests lie. If he begins to notice her prioritizing the Tridium before Infernum, things change. If she’s no longer a use to him, she’s a target, and there are plenty of ways I can see Judas trying to target her. As a prominent political figure in the Holy Land, something bad happening to Azazel would cause some sort of political uprising that Judas could surely take advantage of — maybe he arranges her kidnapping, maybe her death. Maybe he just sets her up to look incompetent and make a fool of herself. It would all depend!

VII | WAR ALONGSIDE DAMIEN

From the moment he saw Damien, he’d had a plan for him — to guide the child towards his destiny and his father’s demise. He’d needed Damien as the face of his revolution against Lucifer, but more importantly, he’d needed Damien’s powers for war on earth. Through whisper and trial, Judas had crafted the Antichrist into the weapon that would destroy the Morning Star. Though peace has persisted for years, Judas sees another war ahead of them — one in which the demons stake their claim on the Holy Land, and in that war, he needs Damien’s power of devastation more than ever before. I see Judas subtly preparing Damien for another war, planting seeds of anger and fight in him, winding him up and preparing to unleash him on the world yet again. But, this time, when a new order is established, I don’t imagine Judas sees Damien as any sort of king. No, when the Holy Land is conquered, it will be with Damien as a war general, and Judas on the throne.

VIII | BETRAYAL OF DAMIEN

As time ticks on, Judas grows more and more resentful about the invisible crown Damien seems to be growing a bit too comfortable underneath. While he views Damien as an instrumental piece in his eventual takeover of the Holy Land, and one of his most cherished weapons, Judas’s patience could easily be tested if Damien begins to grow a bit too power-hungry. I could see a legitimate rift building in Infernum, in which some sort of civil war erupts between Judas and his protege for the true crown.

IX | MINDING THE CELLS

In Abaddon, he sees something almost resembling an equal. He trusts her with the keeping of the Cells, he trusts she’ll allow him the kind of access and influence over the prisoners that he needs, while never aspiring to threaten his rule and supporting all his endeavours. Ever an opportunist, I think Judas uses Abaddon to keep a close eye on who’s currently in lock-up, and how they might prove useful. I imagine him either prowling the cells alongside Abaddon, looking for abilities or gifts that he could weaponize, or unfortunate souls he can use as scapegoats in various plots, or heretic sympathizers to manipulate, conspire with, and unleash. While he’d never say it explicitly, I imagine Judas is silently keeping an eye out for some sort of being with a power he could one day weaponize against the Antichrist himself, should the need ever arise to deliver Damien his ruination.

X | BETRAYAL OF ABADDON

As Abaddon struggles with the duality of her nature, wrestling with her angelic remains, I’m curious to see how Judas responds. I imagine he might view any further exploration into her angelic nature as a threat to her loyalty, and if he fears she’s disloyal, he’s not above throwing her to the wolves — perhaps locking her in her own cells if he suspects her of holding interests elsewhere, or unlocking a few doors and setting on her a legion of prisoners hungry for vengeance. You know, just an idea.

XI | BETRAYAL OF JUDAS

The one we’ve all been waiting for — the plot in which the tables finally turn, and it’s Judas who’s blindly turned on by someone he’d made the mistake of trusting. While the details of this would be entirely up to other players and what they might have in mind, I would gladly offer him up to learn what it feels like on the pointy end of betrayal.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Should the circumstance be right, and I could still find a way to be a part of the group post-mortem as another character, I could be convinced!

Driving Character Motivation | What motivates your character’s actions? How does it define them? Where does this motivation stem from?

IN DEPTH

In a word, himself — more specifically, the advancement of the self, full utilization of every opportunity he’s given to climb ever higher. Within Judas lives an insatiable thirst for power, a desire to devour and rebuild in his name and image. No matter how many lives he holds firmly in his palm, there are always more to seize. A master strategist, with moves planned to be executed as early as tonight’s dusk and as far-away as the new era he’ll one day reign over uncontested, he sees the path of greatness he’s laid out for himself, and it propels him ever forward. His selfish, greedy, hungry soul has never rested, never waved a flag of white. He cast the Son of God out from the earth, and Lucifer himself from the pits of hell — and yet still, he craves more.. More power, more leverage, more shadowed spiderweb strings with which to puppeteer his ever-growing consortium of underlings. It’s not enough. Nothing will ever be enough. 

Both his most rudimentary nature, down to his rotting marrow, and God’s wicked predestiny may share accountability in equal parts.

We’ll first address what comes from within. Something dark and nebulous has always festered in the pits of him — an emptiness that knew only how to want. That blackness, rumbling hollow and empty, is sin itself, as entwined with his being as the ligaments and cartilage that held his human bones together. Amongst the reasons his eventual rise led him to the Conclave rather than an anointment as one of Damien’s vices, his most favored is that he simply cannot be reduced to a single manifestation of sin. A gluttonous appetite that the body and blood of Christ himself could not sate. A deep-rooted greed able to mistake the glint of silver for salvation. A silent pride so resounding he bathes himself in absolution, while wicked wrath condemns the rest. Even as he followed the Son of God and recited his teachings, the devil perched himself comfortably on his shoulder, whispering of selfishness, of indulgence, of power, and Judas drank each word until their voices became one.

The thing about sin is, it is inherently unsatisfied. It is the lacking of something, of glory itself — a hunger that wants to be fed, an envy that wants to seize. Sin is desire, and thus, he, sin incarnate, is desire perpetual. It’s a curse of his unholy nature that he’ll never truly be content. What is contentment, what is happiness, but a surrender? An abandonment of progress? The enemy of greatness? The end? He cannot simply allow dust to settle, nor allow the light peeking from behind the horizon to cast itself against his back and force upon him a life no longer concealed by shadows. He won’t have it. With each iteration of the universe, he’ll pick utopia apart bone by bone until he finds a reason to loathe it, foraging for discontentment, because it is his only way forward. What a cruel trick on God’s part, that He sculpted a creature who cannot stomach the taste of sweetness. He spits it back into the dirt, dissatisfied, and instead chews on the bitter, the propulsion of his own vileness, the most indulgent, comforting flavor he’s come to know.

Now, allow us to return to Him for a moment. All predispositions for blasphemy, Judas can blame on Him. Judas Iscariot had been born a man — human, fallible, like every waking creature of the Lord. And, as it did to all other humans, sin had crept its way into his veins and claimed him. He’d done what the man he’d betrayed had taught him to do — in his momentary guilt, he’d sought absolution, repentance, for having allowed the devil to take hold. Still, he remained damned on arrival, a pawn in God’s game with a fate predestined for ruin. Had God not sculpted Judas Himself? And He dared punish Judas for personifying His own design? All of it, pre-orchestrated back when the cosmos were but babes — and thus, all of it, exhaustive and fruitless to fight. If he was to be damned, then let him be damned. That damnation wouldn’t rule him. He’d rule it. Even now that God has been vanquished, and Lucifer alongside him, Judas is ever driven by his resentment and anger towards the paradox his maker cursed him with. That anger manifests in Judas’s unquenchable thirst to build himself an empire greater than any God ever could, to build himself into an entity more powerful, more feared. It’s the only way to prove himself bigger than God’s alleged all-encompassing predestiny, greater than a handful of verses written by men who would be but footnotes underneath his gospel.

Character Traits | OPTIONAL. Please list 3 positive traits and 3 negative traits that you identify in the character you’re applying for. 

+ | PATIENT  (see also: steadfast)

To blaspheme one of His virtues by wielding it as a weapon is simply in Judas’s gospel. Finding an innate way to corrupt even the most holy of traits, his patience has put time itself to the test. With an eternity to burn, and God to thank for that, he’s learned to control human impulses and embrace the power of ensuring things unfold at the right time. Ever with an end vividly envisioned for the selection of foes currently at odds against him, he strikes at the time of heaviest impact. Never too early. Never too late. 

+ | DIPLOMATIC (see also: persuasive)

He can convince anyone of anything. Including himself. His tongue can twist the vile and thorny, disguise it as something candied, dripping in nectar. It makes him an excellent representative, able to keep his head about him for the sake of maintaining relationships. He understands the importance of people, of connections — in the hands of one who knows how to properly wield them, they’re a far more powerful weapon than any sword or spell.

+ | STRATEGIC (see also: cunning, clever, perceptive)

He always has a plan — for everyone, for everything, at all times. One of two questions can be asked of everyone in his life — what value do you provide me, or alternatively, how might I destroy you? It’s only ever one of those two, and he’s often got a fully fleshed out strategy plotted either way. He thinks in terms of the war, not just the battle, planning moves that might not come to fruition for millennia. Once one goal has been reached, he finds another, and begins again.

+ | STRONG (see also: formidable)

Not one to be easily intimidated, he does not back down when challenged or threatened. In fact, he’s more likely to actively seek out a fight or rivalry, simply to demonstrate his fortitude.

+ | COMPOSED (see also: controlled, intentional)

If you can read the emotion on his face, it’s simply because he wants you to. He has a commanding sort of control over his composure, one that demonstrates discipline and demands respect. Not to say he can’t hurl insults and roar — but that when he does, it’s because he chooses to; because that’s what his analysis has decided will serve him best in the moment.

- | SELFISH (see also: disloyal, corrupt)

He’d drive a knife into anyone’s back if it would get him a single step further — he wouldn’t even hesitate. Ultimately, looking down another soul’s path does him no good, he’s decided. There is only him — his own glory, his own road to revolution. There are guests along the way, some he favors more than others, but he is the only thing that will persist and endure. The center of his world, that will always be his core — but he’s mastered the art of pretending otherwise. Despite the way he’ll swear his allegiance to a millennia-old friend, there isn’t a soul he wouldn’t sell. For those he has yet to, it’s simply because it’s not yet the right time, the right place, or the right price.

- | VENGEFUL (see also: ruthless, resentful, begrudging)

His anger is a quiet one, one that’s hidden in dark places, growing thorns, festering and rotting until a grudge grows so old its stench simply demands attention. He does not forget a single transgression, a curse for an immortal. His rage is cycled into revenge, and he enacts it gleefully. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but if you’ve wronged him, whether you know it or not, you can be assured he’ll strike — but not until it benefits him the most, and cuts you the deepest.

- | INSATIABLE (see also: power-hungry, greedy, indulgent)

He’s always been a bit of a magpie, shiny silver things calling to him — and everything celestial simply glows. He is a being made of wanting, hungry to devour lands and stomp his boot on the wreckage. No matter what he achieves, which luxuries he tastes, how much power he is truly able to seize, his curse is that none of it will ever satisfy.

- | MANIPULATIVE (see also: conniving, duplicitous)

While he may have a handful if favored pawns, everyone in his life is a pawn nonetheless. He’s prepared to scheme against and sacrifice any and everyone that stands between he and his ends, keeping his cards close to his chest, most often with true intentions known to himself and him alone. Oh, and he’s an excellent liar.

- | DESTRUCTIVE (see also: implosive)

Judas is not the kind that will ever find happiness in peace. In fact, he is not the kind that will ever accept true happiness at all. In his quest for ever more, he’s always striving for something, always needing to rip something content apart so he can sculpt something of his own in its place. I believe this translates to people, as well. He’s never known how to accept love; he actively rejects it. How could he not? Had God Himself not told him he was never destined for love? In time, his response to comfort and acceptance is always the same — to turn his back on it, to crush the heart offered to him. He did it to Christ, who welcomed him as his disciple. He did it to Lucifer, who loved him like a son. Should another make the mistake of loving him, he’ll do it again.

In-Character Para Sample | There is no minimum or maximum word count to this para sample, but we do encourage that you highlight your character’s VOICE and MANNERISMS within it.

THE GOSPEL OF JUDAS: A STUDY IN SILVER

ACT I | PIECES

It begins with a glint, a wash of light caught against the body of silver that’s piled neatly in three stacks of ten, blindingly beautiful. Then, a proposition — to surrender the one he calls teacher, Rabbi, friend.

Should they have negotiated in whispers in the dark, offering only empty promises of treasures to come, perhaps Judas Iscariot may have remained faithful to his so-called Lord’s teachings of honor and conviction. Alas, they don’t. No, he offers to betray his God under warm, bright lights, before a pile of riches that shine so bright he can’t see the blood that taints them. 

“The one I kiss,” he commands the lawmen. “He’s the one.” His head nods in slow, stern affirmation. His eyes remain locked with that bewitching stack of silver. What a transfixing, all-consuming thing greed can be, making itself at home in him once again like an old friend. Bewitched fingers snake around a single piece, the silver’s ice a delightful chill as he slides it into a pocket; one now, as a deposit. The rest later, once the deed is done.

As he throws heavy garden doors open, police following in hordes and numbers, he bears a smile that shines as bright as the piece that sits with comfortable, reassuring weight in his pocket. “Greetings, Rabbi!” he bellows, and as he steps boldly forwards, he places the Son of God’s face in his hands, pulls his lips into his, and is irrevocably damned. Mouth pressed firm against that of Christ, he does not taste divinity; it turns to ash on his tongue as he seals the fate God himself had promised.

He watches, proud, as the Lord is dragged away, as Christ’s disciples turn their swords towards the soldiers in retaliation and heartbreak, all the while, his hand in his pocket, twirling that single piece of silver between his fingertips.

Some present will come to say in their recountings that this is the day Satan entered Judas Iscariot, pierced him with sharp talons and claimed him for the hellions. These men lie. To give the Morning Star credit would be blasphemous to his gospel, for the greatest devil the world will know is not perched upon a throne in the fires of hell. He is born of the organic rot found only in the pits of fallible man.

ACT II | TONGUE

In the forges of hell, riches take a new shape. The wealth he’d condemned himself for? Worthless in death, reduced to a river of shapeless molten sterling. He has no choice but to adapt. He allows that silver to coat his tongue instead, and in their union they both evolve and yet remain entirely unchanged. 

Infernal wings sprout from his shoulders and the devil himself casts his favor upon him, and Judas is acutely aware of just how unique he is amongst his new brethren — dare he say, simply, better? What feat is it to have manifested from nothing, to wield powers that were gifted rather than earned? Is the true mark of a demon not in his will? His ability to rely not on divinity to bring ruination, but on merely the curve of his lips and the void in his chest? 

The thought tastes poisonous each time it simmers to the surface — his dissatisfaction with Lucifer’s status quo, though it remains to be seen whether it’s hell’s regime in particular that he loathes, or the existence of any regime whose reins he does not hold. It’s not important, not as he gathers demons eternal and fledgling alike in crooked, cavernous shadows, whispering curated falsehoods to them in the dark until they claim his anger and hunger as their own.

“A kiss — that’s the signal,” he repeats to each of them, his words carbon. “Only then, is it time.” 

It will not be time for quite some time, though Judas lives every day as if it might be — sowing ever deeper his seeds of doubt in their liege, parsing Lucifer’s each breath, examining his hallmark overconfidence, watching the hellish love with which he showers his kin as he demonstrates he knows nothing of the revolution that his most wicked ward brews in the dark.

He wakes that day not yet aware that the day has come — not until he hears Lucifer beckon for him from his altar. “My Lord?”Judas asks, the word silken as it slides over his lips, wrapping all disdain in luxe and warmth. 

“I can sense it, Judas,” the devil smiles. “A soul on earth has proven themselves. Go to them, and drag them home with you.”

Judas pauses, and when he listens, he registers not the words Lucifer says. What he hears is: the day is now. It’s a straw as small as any that breaks Judas’s back — the most rudimentary form of disrespect, to task hell’s crown jewel with a hound’s fetch-and-retrieve mission. He cares not to see the love in Satan’s request; what is spoken in between the words of Lucifer’s decree is Judas’s value, his Lord’s pride in his work, his trust in him over all the rest. It is in loving him, that the devil gives Judas the power to destroy him.

“Yes, my Lord. I’ll set out at once.” He nods along with his empty assurance, and with a look upwards, he meets his maker’s eyes with finality, casting him a last glistening smile before laying palms on either of the devil’s cheeks. “Goodbye, my Morning Star,” he wishes, and he means it, pressing his lips to Lucifer’s and savoring the taste of sin.

He pulls away, and the devil’s eyes open to the same sight that had brought the ruin of the Christ child — Judas Iscariot’s beaming, prideful smile, an army at his back, swords drawn, but this time, led not by the Sanhedrin. It is the antichrist that carries the charge, his own menacing grin drawing nearer, as hell’s usurpers claim their new order.

The devil is dead. Long live the devil.

ACT III | CROWN

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he hums, allowing the thick iron door of the Conclave’s court to close loudly behind him. “We reconvene soon. I don’t have long.”

Lie. It is he who called the recess, and it is he who will decide when it ends. He shares none of this with Damien, who stands impatiently in the adorned hallway. “Then divulge,” the Antichrist itches. 

The echoes of both their tones resonate loudly, as deep and heavy as the invisible crowns each of their heads hold high — though, one brow seems to far better suit regality. He does not wonder which of them will topple beneath the weight of theirs first; he already knows. Everything when the time is right, and until then, he walks a delicate, intentional line as he addresses his pseudo-son, simultaneously wanting to stroke the boy’s drive and shatter his independence. He must feel powerful — to a limit.

“The Conclave has requested you assemble the Vices.” Judas, even-toned and composed, presents it as an ask; it is not. It’s a directive. They both know it. “Sources suggest a siege of insurgent Heretic sympathizers are gaining on the Palace walls, possibly with intention to break their own out of the Black Cells.” He can hear the way Damien begins to laugh midway through, but he does not stop speaking. 

“A handful of Heretics?” Damien sputters. “And you believe that calls for the Vices? Abaddon has kept larger threats at bay single handedly.”

Judas scoffs. “So you suggest we do nothing?” he deigns. “Wait until they claw at our gates? Leave Abaddon to face them alone?” In pause, his brows knit together, though he contemplates nothing. “Gather them, boy,” he states loudly, and this time, it is an order explicit. The moment of sharpness passes quickly, and a familiar grin toys against his jaw. Once again, suddenly, they are friends. “What use is the devastation you hold in your fingertips if not to defend what majesty you and I have built here?”

He feels resentment, bitter and cold, steaming in wafts off of the young halfling — but then, an acceptance just as cold. “I suppose it’s been some time since we’ve been out to play,” he concedes.

“I knew you’d make the right decision,” Judas smiles, placing a large, strong hand on Damien’s shoulder. “I’ll need you out the gates as quickly as possible. Do have some fun with it, won’t you?” And just as quickly as his smile had appeared, he rescinds it and turns on his heels back towards the court’s wrought iron doors. 

With a slow turn of his head, he locks eyes with his pupil, and arrogance claims him. “The Conclave wishes you the best of luck,” he bolsters, proud and booming — one last signifier that, in their clash of crowns, it will always be his that blinds brightest.

Extras | OPTIONAL. If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here!

I’ve compiled some inspiration posts on this blog! Additionally, here’s a small selection of headcanons:

HEADCANON: WINGS

Judas’s wings are of feather and bone — raven-black feathers, some that are tipped in brilliant silver. In some places, feathers have been charred or cut during battle, and the bone beneath is visible. He prefers it this way. Bone, sprouting from his shoulders, is human, as he once was before he ascended past those demons who manifested from nothing. 

HEADCANON: SWORDPLAY

Judas’s greatest strengths lie in diplomacy, delegation, and manipulation. While he can wield a sword well in battle, it’s only because an eternity has given him time to practice. Truthfully, his skills as a swordsman are far below most of his fellows. Where he makes up for it is in waiting in the shadows for the right time to strike, rather than aimlessly wailing at a target out in the open.

HEADCANON: RESENTMENT

He made it to Hell before Salome did, and yet her wings sprouted before his? He’s never forgotten it, and never will. His anger towards not having been the first of humankind to join the hellions is projected in its entirety onto Salome, and though he has yet to enact his wrath, he remains plotting.

[pontificalandwarlike]

Enjolras the (Non-)Survivor

Or, an essay on why I struggle with survivor!Enjolras

[ cut for length......  buckle down kids cause this is about to be a long one. ]

As I hinted at previously, there are 3 layers to why survivor!Enjolras is a strange and confusing beast to me. 

Let’s start with the easiest/simplest, which is: history. See, the point of having Enjolras survive the barricade is usually to give him a second chance, right ? He lives, he continues on, and he triumphs the next time, or maybe two tries later, or maybe ten –– but the ultimate goal is a happy ending of sorts for our golden boy. Or at least a triumphant ending, a closure of sorts, a successful closing arc for him and his Revolution. Except.... 19th century history isn’t kind to the French Republic. A lot of survivor!verse stuff take 1848 as the happy ending ( and I in no way mean to insult or nitpick them at all ). And on the surface, that makes sense ; that’s the next successful revolution ! Except the revolution might have been successful, but the Second French Republic born of it really wasn’t. Like, the February Revolution of 1848 happened in... February, as the name suggests; four months later, the June Days Uprisings were a major rebellion in Paris, where the workers rose up en masse, complete with barricades, in protest against the Second Republic’s policies. I won’t go too much into history here ( although there’s a lot of fascinating stuff ; a book I read characterized the June Days as the last major barricades ), I mostly wanted to mention it as an indicator of how rocky the Second Republic was from the start. And then, of course, the Second Republic lasted all of four years. In 1852 we have the Second French Empire, because they went and elected Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte –– aka Napoleon III, aka Napoleon Bonaparte’s nephew and heir –– as the president of the Second Republic, and he did as Bonapartes apparently do in France. So, with 1848, Enjolras either dies on that barricade, or lives to see his beloved Republic fall apart in front of his very eyes and then give way to yet another empire. Not a very happy ending, and quite honestly, I don’t know how much his story changes functionally from what we already see in canon. 

Let’s say for the sake of argument that this boy survives past 60 and sees the next republic come to be in 1870. Well, first of all, to do that, he has to : 

lead a failed rebellion and deal with the physical, legal, and emotional aftermath of that 

live under a regime he tried to overthrow for another 16 years 

watch the Second Republic fall apart and give way to the Second Empire

live in an empire for almost 20 years

and finally, live through yet another bloody revolution 

which, clearly, is not a great time for anyone. But also, the Third Republic was a bit of a mess of its own. See : the Franco-Prussion War, the Ordre Moral and the suppression of the Commune which lead up to 16 May 1877 ( “le seize mai” ), the aggressively polarized politics... Hell, just look at the wikipedia page for the Third Republic. Similar to 1848, simply getting to 1870 and the successful Revolution that leads to the Third Republic is not a happy ending in and of itself. 

The point of all this historicizing is that, given his position in history, and his ideology as a radical revolutionary republican –– no matter what he survives and lives to see, Enjolras is just destined to be a tragic figure. There’s just no happy ending for him in history ; the best he can do is go out in a symbolic blaze of glory on a barricade somewhere, as he does.  

Alright, let’s move on to layer #2 now, which is the symbolic/meta layer. This is also the most fun layer for me, and I’ll shamelessly mooch on some other people’s brilliant meta for this. There’s a lot of things you could talk about in the Brick, but I’m going to speak mainly to one of my perpetually favourite scenes, which is the execution of Le Cabuc. More specifically, the speech that follows right after it. I could quote the whole damn thing, but the key part is : 

“As for myself, compelled to do what I have done, but abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself. [...] Citizens, in the future there shall be neither darkness nor thunderbolts, neither ferocious ignorance nor blood for blood. As Satan shall be no more, so Michael shall be no more. In the future no man will slay his fellow, the earth will be radiant, the human race will love. It will come, citizens, that day when all shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and life; it will come, and it is so that it may come that we are going to die.” (Tome IV, Book 11, Chapter 8) 

It took so much restraint to not bold the entire passage, but I managed to stick to a few phrases only. There’s sort of two ideas happening here. One is nor blood for blood / in the future no man will slay his fellow / all shall be concord, harmony, which is to say that Enjolras and the revolutionaries are fighting for a world without violence. Sit on the contradiction of that statement for a moment. They are fighting for a world without violence. There’s a fundamental ideological crisis here, and that is the contradiction of violence in the name of a world without violence. A question aries, then: where do people who have shed blood in the name of liberty and progress, fit in a world after revolution? More specifically for me & this essay, where does Enjolras, a “pontifical and warlike nature” fit in a peacetime world ? We have our answer in to what I have condemned myself / so Michael shall be no more / we are going to die. The answer is, he doesn’t and he can’t. The answer is, if you try to fit him in, he becomes Robespierre and Saint-Just and the Terror. The answer is, a warlike nature is a warlike nature in war or in peace ; and Enjolras is made to be the war that brings down regimes, and just because there is no more regime to be brought down doesn’t change his nature. ( Note that this is many chapters before the moment they realize they’ve been abandoned, that Paris isn’t coming to their aid ; that doesn’t happen until Tome V, Book 1, Chapter 3. Why does that matter ? Because Enjolras has no reason yet to believe they won’t survive this rebellion. And yet here he is, already condemning himself –– to death, I imagine, given the rest of his speech –– and a few lines later proclaiming that we are going to die. The revolutionaries, these men fighting with blood and sweat and tears for the future, are not going to live to see it. Because there isn’t a place for them in the world they are trying to build. They’re writing themselves out of the future. ) 

All this to say : if Enjolras survives a successful barricade, there is no place for him in the world it creates. He has already condemned himself, and the rest of the revolutionaries with him ( “We will share your fate !” Combeferre shouts, and Enjolras replies simply with “Very well.” ) He is Michael, and in a world where Satan is no more, he too will be and must be no more. ( I mooched a lot of ideas off of this meta thread, so feel free to go there for more intelligent, coherent, and informed thoughts than mine. )

Okay, then what about a failed barricade ? Well, let’s talk about that on the symbolic/meta level for a bit. Enjolras surviving a failed barricade... doesn’t make sense, on that level. It’s sort of the point of his story, that he dies there. That he dies embracing Grantaire, holding his hand, smiling. That’s the ultimate sacrifice, yes, but also the closure of his character arc : accepting love, accepting the skeptic, accepting people-with-a-lower-case-p, even when they don’t fit neatly into his revolutionary worldview. It’s a symbolic redemption of the heartless, ruthless version of republicanism he espouses at the very start ; it’s the antithesis of “Silence before Jean-Jacques! I admire that man. He disowned his children; very well, but he adopted the people.” In other words, his arc remains incomplete on a symbolic level if the barricade fails and yet he doesn’t die. Also, can you imagine Enjolras surviving the barricade when everyone else has died ? I sure can’t, unless some magic stepped in and saved him when the Guard thought he was dead and he really should have been dead. 

Anyway, having addressed the symbolic/meta reasons of why Enjolras surviving the barricades is a baffling situation to be in, let’s go to the third and most practical layer : characterization. Look, Enjolras as we see him in the Brick is made of exactly two things, and that is 99% Revolution and 1% his friends. ( Percentage may vary. ) So then, who is he when we rip both of those things away from him ? Who is Enjolras, when his Revolution has failed and his friends have all died ? I don’t have a good answer to that. I can’t possibly imagine him giving up, or God forbid turning a cynic, because that runs contrary to his entire person. It’s hard to imagine him becoming a moderate, peaceful republican or something along those lines, because he’s built on quite the absolutes, and while Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Feuilly/et al. to temper his beliefs, I just don’t think there’s a way he’s ever going to bend that far. He’d break before that. But at the same time, there’s no way he can go on like before, as if nothing happened. That’s just not how trauma works. This boy, all of 26 years old, waged a war, had his hands drenched in blood, killed people he didn’t want to kill ( see : the artillery sergeant scene ), watched all of his friends die by his side, was abandoned by a group of people he believed so deeply would be on their side, and saw the ideals he devoted his entire life to shatter to rubble in front of his own eyes. He’s not walking away from that unchanged, because that’s just not how human beings work. 

So then, to summarize. I can’t imagine him giving up, because it’s not who he is as a person; I can’t imagine him choosing a moderate path, because I don’t think he has it in him to be that tempered; I can’t imagine him continuing as he was, because that’s just not how we work as people. So I’m at an impasse. 

An Enjolras who survives with a few of his friends is easier to work with, because he as room to be at both ends. He can go through his terrible post-barricade phase, the survivor’s guilt, the trauma, the fears and the insecurities and the doubts that are borne of that experience. But then he can build himself back up, piece by piece, with the help of his friends –– and he can help them build themselves back up in turn. And at the end of the day, they stand back up as they did, scarred and wounded by their experiences but still standing. For what, I’m not so sure ( see history rant above ), but at least standing. 

But an Enjolras who survives alone ? I genuinely have no idea what he would do or be, in the long-term. In the short term, sure, he’d be terribly guilty and terribly scarred and probably honestly terrified for a while. And then ? Does he heal from that on his own –– and if so, how ? What happens if he does heal –– does he go on to join or found another revolutionary group ? What happens if he doesn’t heal –– does he die, somehow ? 

This is not to say that I don’t like writing survivor!verse. The opposite is true, actually ; I love it. I love angst, first of all, but it also lets me explore a side of Enjolras that doesn’t happen a lot in other places. Which is to say, an Enjolras stripped and broken down, an Enjolras shattered and torn apart, an Enjolras guilty and doubting and robbed of his own self-assured confidence. This essay is more to explore in more depth why I struggle with Enjolras post-barricades on a broader and longer-term scale. I could probably go on but I’ll stop now because this is already 2100+ words.

[itsahamandjlaur-blog]

I Hope That You Burn.

Prompt: My brain was literally like “Aaron Burr is a dick you should write about that. Also my partner in crime (J.Laur went to the opera yesterday and I saw one picture and was like i’m gonna write about that. so here you go. Alexander x Reader and i guess Aaron Burr x Reader? 

Warnings: Swearing, mild harassment (the following will contain more so bear with me)

Be kind to one another you are all beautiful in your own ways. You’re doing a great job at being you. 

I have also written part 2 of this already because i couldn’t stop myself. So if you suddenly feel the need to have that burnt into your eyeballs hit me up!

-A.Ham

You straighten out the dress that had been sewn perfectly to your body. The endless ribbon lacing your corset together making it practically impossible to breath. The lace and silk clung to the limitless layers of petticoats  pooling around your legs, they give contrast to the tiny circumference of your waist. "Lady Rheingold, the carriage is here" one of the hands said to you softly. You nod slowly and make your way carefully down the grand staircase of your family home. You let your eyes wander mindlessly over the portraits of the deceased members of your family, an ancestry of faces that will never get to see your version of the world. The world is changing in a way that these faces of the past will never see, never have the honour of experiencing first hand. You pray slightly that they could see what the world in front of you was becoming. A world of revolution and changing times. Where somehow women were still seen as the feeble sex. "my dear you are a picture" your father says leaving light kisses on both of your cheeks as you reach the bottom of the boundless staircase. It was a father daughter tradition in your family to be taken to the opera on your twenty first birthday, a sign of passage that you did not turn down. An hour or two getting lost in music that touched every single atom of your soul seemed like the perfect way to drown out the lingering truth that you were soon to be off and married to someone, you had no idea who this person was yet, gosh you were probably yet to meet him but you knew that the destiny lingered over you heavily. "thank you papa, shall we go?" you asked shakily. He smiled and presented his arm to you. "we shall my dearest". You take his arm and make your way out to the carriage that was awaiting outside the residence. He let go of your arm after helping you up the steps. You had no idea why you felt such apprehension about tonight, you just knew in the back of your mind that something monumental was going to take place tonight, you prayed to god that you would find out sooner rather then later.

Soon after looking up at the grand building that lay before your eyes you could not help but feel like the smallest person in the world at that moment. After a few minutes of pondering the beauty that ensued in front of you, you make your way inside passing a sea of elegant dresses and men in suits . You barely paid attention to any of them. Blurry faces that were implanted in the back of your mind. "my lady, what a beautiful night it is to become a women" you hear a voice say from your left hand side. Lazily adverting your gaze to see a tall figure holding his hand out. "ahhh Mr Burr I see you have met my daughter [y/n]" your father says taking your hand and placing it in the tall mans out stretched one. You snatch it away almost too hastily causing a look of confusion from both  men. "I can assure you miss i mean no harm towards you" Burr said removing his look of confusion and replacing it with a slight grin. "I will leave you two to it, I can see that Mr Burr will take good care in directing you to our seats" your father left your side with that single line, leaving you standing in front of a man that you barely knew from Adam. "and I can assure you Mr Burr that as you well know I am now a fully grown women and capable of finding my own seat" you shot at him after your father was out of ear shot. You knew exactly what your father was trying to do. He was trying to set you up with one of his associates once again, why was the whole town convinced that you needed a man to guide you through life. You'd done a pretty good job so far, why did the majority of your life have to be escorted and revolve around a man. You take off running for the entrance of your box when a hand grabbed your wrist. You looked down at it and could tell exactly who the hand belonged to. "I'm sorry Mr Burr you will have to find another maiden to escort" you snapped at him, appalled that he had the audacity of touching you. "you heard the lady" suddenly feeling the hand drop from your lace clad wrist. Looking up the dark eyes, meeting yours. You will never forget those eyes, the ones that in a candle lit world simply made everything a whole lot brighter. "Hamilton this does not concern you I am courting this young lady" Burr shot him a look that you had never seen a human give another human before, a look so ladened with hatred you could see it radiating off both of them. "I don't fucking think so!, I do not owe anything to either of you. I am not some piece of jewellery you can wear upon your arm or a prize to be won!" you said your voice faltering only making it more powerful. After you had finished your rant,  you scanned the room to see the whole room staring at you, oh my. The supposed 'Hamilton' softly spoke which made everyone else's attention turn back to what they were previously doing "My dear I am all for women speaking their mind but maybe there is a time and a place for an uprising". Between his words and his body language you simply melted into every single word he let drift from his mouth. "I- uh- I-" you stutter helplessly. It was like he had some kind of hold on your brain which you needed to function all thought processes and sentence structure. "my lady please let me escort you to your box, I only want to make sure you get there safely without being harassed by this man again" for some strange reason Hamilton's words changed your viewpoint on the situation at hand. His soft hair tied back, his eyes somehow intense and yet so soft at the same time. God, he was a pure picture. He looked like he could be hung in a gallery without anything being done to him. You suddenly realised that you must have been stood there for quite a while contemplating the man in front of you. "thank you sir" finally speaking and taking his arm, holding it close to your corseted body as if you were hanging onto it for dear life. "Alexander will do just fine Miss Rheingold, I am a man of no stature compared to the men your father is forcing you to spend time with" he placed his hand over yours at it rested on his chest. "with the exception of Mr Burr that is, he is in no way a man of importance" he smiled looking down at the ground almost as if he was scared that just because your family was well known for their money you wouldn't have a sense of humour. His nature and mannerisms seemed to match your perfectly, you felt whole for the first time in your life. It was a very strange feeling, your father had basically presented every man appropriate to you since you had turned 18, the hopeless romantic inside your soul tugged at your heart strings.  Almost as if to say, 'he's the one'. "this is me i guess" you murmur looking down at the ground, there was some sort of tension between the two of you, something that you had never quite felt before. "thank you for escorting me, you have made this evening more beautiful that I pictured" softly speaking to the man helplessly fidgeting this his cuffs. "It is ladies like you that I am fighting this war for" he confessed to you, and with that he turned on his heal and left you standing, helplessly wondering if you would ever see the dear Alexander again. The helpless romantic popped into your head again and whispered softly 'just you wait'.