#and feeds her its blood while she teeters on the edge of death

[dandelion-wings]

yelling at @theabysscomeshome about vampire!Jean and it's at least a little about giving her some of the trauma I love giving Kaeya (the fears of being a monster/a threat to Mondstadt) and it looks so good on her

(when Kaeya finds her after her duel with the vampiric Abyss creature that lures her away, transformed into a fledgling in its thrall, it orders her to kill him, and she begs him as they fight to kill her, so she won't become a tool in its plans to harm Mondstadt. And it's all the pain he's ever felt about this in the voice of someone he's always thought was safe from any such doubts)

[martinedjohn]

The Damned Dance at Night Part 1

This book deals with mature subjects and has violent passages. It is intended for an adult readership.

PROLOGUE: JOSEPH

The old man crept into Joseph’s nightmares.

He’d dreamed of this specific horror since childhood, which terrified him.

He fought the old man as best he could using naked will and fearful abandon while begging his body to wake up.

Tonight, mercifully, his body listened.

He awoke, frightened and sweating, convinced that the old man was in the room with him, lurking in the dark corner across from his mattress. He remembered every detail of the man’s lined face, especially his yellow, rotted teeth.

He got up to make himself a cup of tea.

PROLOGUE: HUNGER BOB

The freezing rain struck the worn pavement, threatening to turn into ice. The chill in the air moistened clothes and snuck its way past goose-bumped skin and deep into the bones and organs of passers-by. The winter rain in Port Mobud could defeat those teetering on the edge of depression, sending them careening off bridges, halving arteries in bathtubs, or deftly overdosing on pills.  It was a brilliant night to be a vampire: cold rain didn’t affect dead flesh, but it obscured the vision of the living. 

Hunger Bob was hungry. He was always hungry. He was gaunt; you could see every bone in his body pushing at his flesh, threatening to pop through his skin and litter the street with his bones. His cheekbones pushed out of his face, but his eyes cratered, seeming smaller than they were. His head seemed more prominent than it should have been compared to his body. His jeans and weathered leather jacket were cavernous for him and hung off his tiny frame. His square-toed cowboy boots hid how skinny his legs were, filling out the bottom of his pants.

Bob investigated the shadows, searching for traces of his dreadful companions. He hated his vampire pack. They were cruel and sadistic. His master was an elder vampire named Aesop. Aesop was always saying things like, “The fables are named after me,” and for all Bob knew, they were. Aesop was like that: fully the center of his universe with an ego swollen like a sponge soaked in water.

His crew consisted of three other vampires, Aesop being the leader. The other two were a couple, Franco and Gabriella, or Frank and Gabi, a set of Italian Vampire twins about 110 years of age. They weren’t genetically twins but had been turned into vampires by Aesop on the same night with a single well-placed bite each.

Bob was frightened; death hung heavily in the air, and the pack moved uneasily as their prey approached. He let his mind drift. Bob remained connected to the person he had been before he died, to his humanity. It confused all the other vampires. In vampire years, Bob was a young lifer, a brand-new vampire. Draining humans in exchange for everlasting life was abnormal and abhorrent to him.

Rose, the vampire that had turned Bob into a vampire, had been like him. They had met on August 4th, 1987, at a New Wave show and had snuck into an alley to smoke a joint together. When Rose told him she was a vampire, he laughed and asked if she would bite him, but softly, to prove it. Rose had said she would bite him, but only if he bit her after, and he had to bite her as hard as she bit him.

Rose’s bite had been gentle: it barely drew blood. Bob had bit Rose just enough to scrape a little of her skin off and taste her blood on his lips. Roses’ blood had tasted strange, coppery, and floral on the tongue. After the bite exchange, Rose laughed and said, “Welcome to the family.” That was how Bob became a vampire, the most peaceful vampire birth ever.

That night Bob had died as Rose cradled him next to her, and the next night he had risen from a fresh grave to see Rose waiting, rolling a joint for the two of them with a smile on her face.

Bob and Rose weren’t violent vampires; they were nursing-home vampires.  They took a modest half-pint off seniors in the night, and if they died during feeding, Bob and Rose had a nice tidy meal.

Rose was one of Aesop’s children. He had turned her into a vampire, and as her ‘master,’ he could summon Rose to him psychically. After Aesop had gathered Rose, he started to understand what being a vampire meant. Aesop and the twins differed from Rose: they were bloodthirsty, inhuman creatures that tore their victims apart, hated everything and abused Rose and Bob constantly. Aesop had gotten Rose killed to make matters worse, and now Bob was alone.

He watched the trio descend on a passer-by, an unlucky teenager, ripping him apart. The sweet metallic scent of blood permeated the air; it made his mouth and throat twitch. Bob’s stomach cramped with hunger, but they would hurt him if he joined their meal. A finger skittered over the pavement towards him.

Aesop winked at him. “Tuck in,” he said.  Bob picked up the finger and started sucking on the open end, slurping hungrily at the blood.

[chickensarentcheap]

Best Part of Me - Chapter 43

Warnings: profanity, slight mention of child abuse

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @alievans007​, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @ocfairygodmother​

She dreams of their last morning in Dhaka.

Not of when he’d sent her away with Ovi and Saju. Or of the carnage on the Sultana Kamal Bridge. No blood. No sounds of gunfire and explosions. No blinding or crippling fear. No confusion or frustration. No counting the steps from start to finish because it was the only thing keeping you focused and sane. No burning sting from your own sweat dripping in your eyes. No smell of gunpowder or gasoline from ruptured tanks. And no Farhad. No bullet to the throat or the weight of Tyler’s body in her arms; no hearing him choking or gasping. No seeing his blood seep through her fingers or the feel of his pulse when she’d had to resort to attempting to pinch off the severed vein. No witnessing the terror in his eyes; watching helplessly as all hope and life began to fade.

In her dreams Dhaka doesn’t exist.  It hasn’t in almost a year. Eleven months, fourteen days, and roughly ten hours. Give or take a few minutes. That’s the last time she had THAT particular dream; reliving the horror second by second in extremely vivid and heartbreaking detail. She’d wake up in hysterics; violently flailing and screaming at the top of her lungs, entire body trembling as hot, bitter tears streamed down her face. And the second he merely touched her in an effort to comfort and calm, things only escalated. Her fight or flight response immediately kicking in and always choosing fight. Kicking and punching; yanking at his hair and clawing at his face and his throat. Not relenting until he had to physically restrain both arms behind her back and pin her -stomach down- to the bed with his bigger and much stronger frame.  Holding her there until she wore herself out and her brain finally became aware of her surroundings. Ugly , heaving sobs turning into soft, pathetic whimpers. Ashamed of herself as she lay there; feeling the weight of his body, the warmth of his breath and his lips pressed to her ear. That deep voice impossibly calm and soothing as he continued to talk her down off the ledge. Reminding her that she wasn’t in Dhaka anymore. She’d made it out of there. They both had. They were no longer on the bridge; no longer in danger but in the safety and security of home. THEIR home. And he’d tell her loved her and that there was nothing...or no one...that could ever hurt her again. He’d make sure of that. And she’d cry even more because she didn’t understand how he could love her THAT much. When she was so broken and damaged and didn’t feel worthy of pity, let alone love.

This dream is pleasant. Welcome. Of that squalid Dhaka hotel room with its discolored walls and water stained ceiling and mismatched furniture. Sticky, humid temperatures even in the early morning hours; no relief brought by the steady breeze that ruffled the tattered and torn curtains.  Nothing else existing outside that room once the door closed behind them; no attention paid to the dirty surroundings or the noises from the street below. Being woken up by large, calloused hands roaming her body; surprisingly gentle yet focused and attention in their exploration. Soon accompanied by a series of soft kisses being pressed along her shoulders, against the back of her neck, and down the entire length of her spine. Lips soft and warm; a striking contrast to the rub and scratch of her beard.  Shivering as every nerve ending caught on fire and her body began to respond. Feeling the weight... that almost intimidating presence...of his much larger and heavier body as it hovered above. One hand planted next to her head on the mattress as two fingers from the other cleared away the hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear; followed by the touch of his lips against her temple and then the corner of her mouth.  Breathtaking softness from a man so powerful; striking blue eyes no longer haunted and troubled, instead filled with so much want and need.

And when she lifts her head and turns her face into his, it’s different. Not as tough and desperate. A gentleness in those long and soft closed mouth upon closed mouth kisses. His tongue tentatively prodding at her lips and then her teeth, seeking permission. What follows is next is a change of pace; a deviation from the sex of the past five days. Slowly and patiently taking her from behind; no aggression, no fingers pressing into her hips hard enough to bruise, no punishing, animalistic pace. Just slow, controlled movements and the sounds of his ragged breath and the drip of his seat on her back and shoulders. It’s overwhelming but welcome; the roughness of his beard against her skin, the now familiar scent that clings to his skin and his hair, the sound of his voice as it rumbles deep within his chest. His presence engulfs her; brain trying to commit every inch of him...every kiss exchanged, every smile, every word he’s spoken...to memory.

The dream switches abruptly. The car ride to the extraction point; seven thirty in the morning in a dusty Mercedes that he’d stolen five days earlier. It’s the first time they haven’t spoken since they met; no bickering, no simple chit-chat, no bantering or light hearted teasing. Nerves on edge, focus shifting. Her job done, his on the verge of beginning. All the softness is gone; the darkness returning to his eyes, jaw tightly clenched, shoulders tense. Yet the silence is surprisingly comfortable. Companionable, even. And his hand  is still tender when it reaches for hers; lacing their fingers together and then resting their joined hands on his thigh. It’s all about the contact; needing even the smallest and most innocent touch to ground yourself and preserve what’s left of your sanity. And they don’t speak until they’ve reached their destination. Not even while he slips a bullet proof vest over her and then knocks her hands out of the way she attempts to tighten the straps; tending to them himself.

Not a single word uttered until after he takes his face in his hands and kisses her. It’s long and soft and it’s...promising. There’s hope in it. That things are going to go smoothly and they’re both going to make it out of there and then they’ll move on to better days. A hope that he’s found something to hang onto; something..someone..that can remind him of what it's like to feel alive again. Two broken and people that have found each other under the strangest -and most dangerous- circumstances. Who’ve allowed themselves to actually feel something for someone else. The start of a healing process for them both; a road that would be long and hard but hopefully be worth it. And for a brief moment that edge is peeled away; his eyes lightening and his expression softening. Her face still cradled in his hands and his lips against her forehead.

“I’ll see you when I see you.”

It’s the last words he’ll speak until hours later. When everyone who’d come to Dhaka with them is dead and they’re reunited in the back office of a darkened factory. Every plan and every hope rapidly disintegrating and being replaced with fear and worry. Everything going wrong so quickly with no time to catch your breath.

Everything is different. Life is altered. Almost as if those days in that hotel room never actually happened. As if it had been its own dream, wrapped  up in a bigger, more terrifying nightmare.

***

He sits on the back porch with Addie tucked between his thighs and leaning back against him; impossibly tiny against his broad and powerful frame.  A palm pressed against her; keeping her safely and securely in place, the tips of two fingers gently pressed into the bottom of her chin, keeping her head supported.

Being a father has brought out the softer side of him. The Tyler that exists at home a striking contrast to the Tyler he is when on the job.  It’s as if the two share nothing but appearance and voice; assertiveness and aggression replaced by patience and tenderness. One can take a life with his bare hands, the other helps create it. The rough and rugged edges of a former soldier and gun for hire swapped with more gentle and compassionate ones; those that come with being a dad and having innocent, precocious lives completely dependent on you.  He thrives in a domestic role, even when it feels like a struggle to him. Enjoying having other people to take care of. Whether it’s fixing meals or feeding and diapering a baby or doing Millie’s hair or tending to scraped knees and bloody noses.  Hands surprisingly delicate and nimble despite their size and their ability to inflict so much pain and suffering. Even death.

He smiles more. Laughs easily. Eyes not as troubled and haunted despite the deep rooted trauma and tremendous loss he’s suffered.  Even his voice is different; no irritability to his tone, no edge. It’s calm and soft when it needs to be; stern not overly harsh when required. The two Tylers are strikingly different but alike at the same time. Both willing and able to protect what’s his at all costs. Protective and loyal. Capable of ending a life to keep them safe. And never hesitating to offer up his own.

The last few days he’s been teetering on the edge between both personas. Days...moments...when he finds himself -even in a domestic situation when he’s close to the ‘other Tyler’; the one with the quick temper and the rage bubbling just under the surface. Whose eyes are darker and whose tone is harsher; jaw always clenched, finger itching for a trigger. And she notices...when he finds himself on that edge...how he’ll attempt to correct it; the way he closes his eyes and sharply inhales and slowly exhales, how his fists  repeatedly open and close. He hates that side of himself; despises the way it can strip away all his control and turn him into something...someone...he doesn’t want to be. Feeling that they deserve more than ‘that guy’.  Better than ‘that guy’. That one that’s done horrible things to people. As of if the other Tyler is a monster that he needs to keep under lock and key. Afraid that if he makes an appearance, he’ll never leave.

This morning he’s ‘new Tyler’. The one that’s a husband and a father. Whose arms have carried colicky babies as he’s paced the floor for hours in an attempt to soothe them. Whose fallen asleep alongside a teething toddler of feverish child, in a bed that’s way too small for his long, heavy frame. Who has spent Christmas Eve putting together dollhouses and bikes and the following morning has helped build lego sets with way too many pieces. Who’s coached soccer matches and t-ball games and has taken his oldest daughter to dance recitals and martial arts classes. Who never refuses an invitation or finds it hard to say no when asked to play with dolls even if he’s more comfortable getting dirty and sweaty while doing more ‘masculine’ things. Who has fetched a pregnant wife snacks at three in the morning and catered to every weird whim and craving without ever batting an eye or complaining. Who has put his hands and his ears against four baby bumps; eyes lighting up and face practically glowing each time he felt his child move or kick. Who cherishes every moment with his family because he knows just how fleeting they can be. How quickly things can disintegrate and disappear right before your eyes.

As she waits for the coffee to brew and the kettle to boil, she stands at the kitchen window and listens as he talks to Addie. Telling her about being a little boy growing up in Australia and getting up early every morning to watch the sunrise with his mom. How it -along with spending hours on the beach and in the water- was their ‘special time together’. There's both fondness and a profound sadness to his voice. He’d only been nine when his mother died; leaving him alone with his father, left to become nothing more than a punching bag for an alcoholic bully. Some of his physical scars can be attributed to his father; his fists, his belt, anything he could get his hands on to inflict pain and fear and assert dominance and control. But the deepest and most pronounced scars are what’s been left behind mentally. Years of torment and abuse leading to an adulthood filled with bad decisions,  life altering PTSD, substance abuse issues, even a death wish.  Combined with the death of his son -and the horrible choice of leaving him when at his most needy and vulnerable- leading him down a dangerous and unpredictable career path. Not caring if he caught a bullet; precariously close to putting one in his own brain.

A month ago he’d mentioned that his memories of his mother are fading; her face and her voice not as easily recalled anymore. It’s been thirty one years, after all.  A lot has happened the last time he saw her; smiling and waving at him as he watched her through the window of the school bus as it drove away. Four hours later, a police car would show up to take him home; his father already too drunk come for him. It’s the first time -in seven years- he’d talked about his mother while sober. And he’d been devastated that he could vividly remember even the smallest details of her death but not the ones of all the times they’d spent together. He’d cried in a way she’d never seen him cry before. All the pain and loss and regret surging out of him all at once; a broken and defeated little boy inside a grown man’s body. She’d felt so helpless; wishing there was more she could have done than just hold him and stroke his hair and kiss the tears away. Yet thankful he could be that way with her. Trusting her. Allowing himself to be his most vulnerable. His most human.

Just as quick as the talk of his mother began, it’s over. Now he’s telling Addie about when they’d first lived in Australia. When Millie had been her age and they’d settled down just outside of Sydney in a small two bedroom apartment with barely any furniture and hardly any money in the bank. They’d been all but broke, but they’d been happy; they had a roof over their heads and food to put on the table and Millie to concentrate on. They’d spent a lot of time at the beach, putting her feet in the sand and letting her feel the cool, crisp water. Sitting as a family on a blanket and eating snacks brought from home and never once thinking about -or talking about- their previous life. About the job or Dhaka or how things went so wrong but somehow ended up so right. How despite being a ‘huge fuck up’ (in his own words), he’d somehow managed to meet someone incredible. Who had saved his life in every way a person can be saved.

She has to turn away at that point. It’s both overwhelming and humbling to hear that about yourself. To know that someone holds you up on such a high pedestal. That their faith and their trust is THAT strong.  That their love for you is THAT powerful.

“What are you two doing?” she asks, as she carries mugs of coffee and tea out onto the patio.

“Just a little daddy, daughter time. Watching the sunrise. Talking.”

“Does she have a lot to say? Is she taking after her big sister already?”

“No one can talk THAT much.”

“You said you were just like Millie when you were little. Chatty.”

“Yeah. I was. Until I wasn’t.”

She doesn’t poke or prod. He’d become a different person after his mother died. He’d only been a kid when his entire life as he knew had disintegrated before his very eyes; robbed of the only parent who’d ever shown him love and treated him like a human being. He went from a precocious, outgoing and talkative nine year old to being angry and sullen and acting out at school. From having good grades to being held back a year and diagnosed with a learning disability he didn’t even have. From being meek and mild -a pacifist, almost- to kicking the shit out of kids on the playground who he felt wronged him.

“Women love the strong, silent type,” she reasons, then sets the mugs down on the table and rests her hands on his shoulders. Frowning at the tightness in the muscles. “You’re a little tense this morning.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Pain?”

Tyler nods. “Other things too.”

She curls an arm around his neck and presses a kiss to his ear. “Bad dreams?”

“A couple.”

“Do you want to talk about them?”

“Not really.”

“Okay,” she pecks his cheek. “You don’t have to. But if you want to…”

“I know where to find you,” he says with a grin, then turns his face into her and kisses her. “You sleep alright?”

“Better than I thought I would. You want me to take her or are you going to keep hogging her?”

“I told you, I’m getting her on my side. I’ve got to start while she’s young. I need someone to  take up Millie’s place when she betrays me.”

“You need to get a grip,” she tousles the top of his hand then slips into the chair across from him. “She’s only five.”

“She’ll be six in less than a week.”

“And there’s still tons of time left for her to love you and only you. It’s going to be a while before any boy comes along that can possibly take your place. You’ve got at least ten years before she starts dating and you have to sit on the front porch with a gun in your lap.”

“Just so you know, that’s exactly the type of teenage girl dad I’m going to be.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you. Tyler. I knew the second that tech told us it was a girl that you’d be that way.”

“I almost shit my pants when they said it was a girl. A girl? What the hell did I know about raising a girl?”

“It was karma. For being such a manwhore before you met me. Karma gave you a girl so you could spend years worrying about your daughter getting mixed up with the likes of you. Also because karma knew you’d look cute braiding hair and playing Barbies.”

“I swear if you even tell anyone that I do shit like that…”

“Everyone who knows you, lives in this house. They all know what you’re like. And so what if you have different voices for all the different dolls and you can braid hair better than I can. It’s sexy.”

His eyes narrow. Skeptical. “Yeah?”

“A man being a good dad is always sexy. And you’re a great dad. So that means you’re extra sexy.”

He smiles at that, fingers gently combing through Addie’s thick, dark hair.

“Are you okay?” Esme asks, knowing full well that he’s anything but. The darkness is creeping back in; the type of intensity that only the job brings out.

“No,” Tyler admits. “Not really.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“It’s not about what I want you to say. It’s about what YOU want to say. And if you don’t want to say anything right now, that’s okay. I’ve been with you long enough to know NOT to force you into anything. That pushing you will only make things worse. But I’ve been with you long enough to know you hold too much shit inside. Even though you know you don’t have to.”

“It’s just easier this way.”

“Easier for who? I know it’s not easier for you. Because I see how it weighs you down. I see what it does to you; holding so much inside of you.  And please don’t say me. Because I’d rather you tell me and let me carry some of the weight instead of watching what it does to you.”

He nods slowly, processing her words. Her concern. Then lifts Addie to his chest and presses a kiss to her forehead before gently laying her on the blanket spread at his feet. Briefly watching her -a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth- before turning forwards in his seat. “You sleep okay?” he asks, as he reaches for his coffee.

“You already asked me that.”

His hands tightens around the handle on the mug. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me what’s going on. What you’re thinking about. Where your head is right now. Because it’s not with me. And it’s not with the kids. Tyler, please. Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out. Because one day I won’t be able to get through to you and that terrifies me. I didn’t lose you to Dhaka and I’m not going to lose you to your own mind.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re far from fine.  Our best chance of beating the things messing with is to fight them as a team. We’re stronger together than we are apart. You’ve always said that.”

He nods. “Yeah, I have.”

“Just tell me. Just say something. Anything. We’ll go from there, okay? No matter what it is. Just say the first thing that pops into your head. No how bad you think it is.”

“I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“That I’m not going to make it home.”

“We don’t even know if you’re going anywhere yet. If Saju’s brother will even help you. If he won’t give you the names, you won’t be going to Mumbai. That’s what you saudl. You’re only going IF he helps.”

“There’s another way. If he won’t.”

“No. There are no other ways. It’s this way or no way. That’s what we agreed to. You said you’d only go if he agreed to help you. There was no other way discussed.”

“If I can get into Mahajan’s house…”

“That’s a dumb ass idea and you know it.”

“...if I can get in there, there's bound to be information somewhere. On who he has on his payroll. If I can find it…”

“Okay, no. That isn’t what we agreed to,” she argues. “You said you’d only go if Saju’s brother would give you what you wanted. That’s the only reason I agreed to any of this. Why I said I’d let you go.”

Tyler scowls. “I don’t need your fucking permission.”

“No. You don’t. But you asked me what I wanted and I said I was fine with you doing this ONLY if Saju’s brother came through. I didn’t agree to this other plan. You said you would stay here. With me and the kids. Don’t fucking turn around and back out on me. Don’t you dare do that.”

“Like I’ve done every other time? All the times I’ve done something that pisses you off? Where I’ve disappointed you?”

“I never said. I’ve never once said that.”

“You don’t have to say it. You think I can’t see it? That I don’t see the way you look at me.”

“I don’t look at you in any way.  That’s in YOUR head. Don’t put that on me. I’ve been nothing but supportive of you over the last five years since you went back to the job the first time.  Remember that? When you decided to go back without even talking to me about it? When I was pregnant with your sons? I sucked it up and I stood by you and I was fine with it. And yeah, you’ve made some dumb ass decisions and you’ve pissed me off and you’ve pushed me away. But not once have I ever looked at you with disappointment. Because I’ve never felt that way. I’ve always been proud of you and I’ve always had your back. No matter what. So don’t you fucking dare suggest anything else.”

He scoffs. “And now we’re going to fight? You ask me to tell you what’s wrong and you turn it into a fight.”

“I turned into a fight? You’re the one who gets bent out of shape and pissy and brings out your cheap shots. Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m someone on the job. Or one of your whores you used to have.”

“You’re going to go there? You’re going to stoop that low?”

“I don’t want to stoop at all. You’re the one who reacted. Badly. You’re so on edge and you’re so tense and you’re ready to bite my head off, no matter what I say.”

“Maybe if you didn’t put so much shit on me, I wouldn’t be like this.” Tyler retorts. “If you didn’t keep dumping all kinds of crap on me, maybe I wouldn’t be an asshole.”

“You what?” She sighs and throws her hands up in surrender. “I’m not going there with you. Because you obviously want to fight and I don’t want to. I don’t want to engage with you when you’re like this. So either calm down and talk to me like a rational human being…”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t fucking talk to me like that.”

“Like what? Like a wife? Like someone who loves you and worries about you? You don’t want me talking like that? You’d rather I didn’t give a shit? Would you rather I be like your ex? Because if that’s what you want me to be like…”

“What are you going to do? Cheat on me? Turn my kids against me?”

“Tyler, I’d stop before you say something you can’t take back. And that’s not what you want. That’s not who you are. So do us both a favour and don’t say anything else. I do not want this turning into a huge fight. It doesn’t need to be. I know you’re stressed and I know you’re worried and you’re on edge. But I am NOT the enemy. You think you’d realize that after seven fucking years.”

“When have I ever treated you like that?���

“Other than right now? Lots of times. When are you going to stop trying to push me away? When it finally works? When I finally reach my breaking point and I can’t take it anymore?  When I’m too tired to fight anymore. When you finally manage to get rid of me?”

“That’s not what I want.”

“But that’s what’s going to happen,” Esme insists. “Because everyone has a breaking point. Even me. And you’re going to push and push and one day I won’t be able to take it anymore. And it won’t matter how much I love you. That won’t be enough. I’m already starting to feel like it isn’t. That it isn’t enough for you.”

“It is,” the edge is gone from his voice, replaced with raw emotion. “It is enough.”

“We’re not going to make it if deep down you don’t want to. And sometimes that’s what it feels like. That maybe I’m more invested in this than you are. That you’re just here. But you’d rather be somewhere else.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not true. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I’ve made you my whole life.  My whole existence is you. That isn’t enough for you?”

“It’s always been enough. I never asked to be worshipped and put on the pedestal you’ve put me on. That’s not why I did what I did to save you. I don’t want you to worship me, I want you to love me.”

“I do. You know I do. I love you with everything I am and everything I have. I would do anything for you. I would die for you. I almost did. What more do you want from me?”

“I just want you. I want Tyler. The Tyler that’s sweet and patient and loving and…”

“He’s gone.”

“No. He’s not.”

“As soon as this all started. All this shit with Mahajan. All the threats. He left. And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“Don’t say that. You’ve thought that before and you were wrong. He always comes back. Always.”

“Not this time. He’s gone. That Tyler’s not coming back.”

“I’ll find him,” she remains adamant. “I found him the first time. I’ll find him again.”

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

“It sounds like you’re the one that doesn’t want him to be found. That you’re the one that’s given up.”

“I’m sorry,” his voice is choked with emotion, tears well in his eyes. “That I made your life like this. That I don’t know if I can fix it.”

“I can’t do this with you.” she pushes her chair away from the table and stands. “I love you but I am not doing this right now. Because I have kids to get up and get ready for school and we have Saju’s brother coming. I can not deal with whatever the hell this  is on top of it.”

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

“You have nothing  to be sorry for,” she says, then stands alongside his chair and holds his face in her hands. “You’ve never had anything to be sorry for.”

She kisses him. Long and soft and sweet; the salt of his tears clinging to her lips. And she presses her lips to her forehead before quickly heading for the door and disappearing into the house.

***

He arrives shortly before noon. Accompanied by Allison and stepping out of the backseat of a chauffeured Mercedes. Tall and broad shouldered; crisp black slack and black button down that’s right across his wide chest and around impressive biceps. Stylish. Well put together. An air of confidence without the stench of conceit or accompanying arrogance. Even with his coal black hair cropped shot to his head and a five o’clock shadow gracing his jaw, the resemblance is astonishing.

She’s seen pictures of ‘pre Dhaka’ Saju; Neysa sending her copies of old photos through email. Of him during his special forces days and when they’d gotten married. Tall and handsome; soulful dark eyes and a kind face. A far cry from the Saju that she’d gotten to know; the man that tried to pull off the impossible in an effort to save his family. It’s the eyes that she remembers the most.  How they’d stared down at her while he’d had her pinned to the forest floor; a boot on her chest to keep her in place, the muzzle of his rifle pressed against her forehead. His finger had been on the trigger but he’d hesitated; looking down at her with eyes filled with so much pain and regret.  A man haunted by the choices he had to make and the lives he had to take; faced with no other options. He could have killed her. He SHOULD have killed her. But instead he’d walked away; never saying a word but curling a hand around her bicep and helping her to her feet before disappearing into the woods.

The next day he’d given his life for hers. And Ovi’s. Battling to the bitter end to get them safely across the Sultana Kamal Bridge.

The last to be introduced, she freezes when he takes one of her hands in both of his; unable to reciprocate when he presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he regards her with warm, kind eyes. “I just...I can’t...just wow.”

His smile is soft. Reassuring. “The resemblance is uncanny, I realize. I’ve been told as much my entire life. Ever since I was a child I’ve been told how much I look like him. And how much I sound like him, as an adult. I’m sure it’s a little unsettling for you.”

“A little,” Esme admits. “That last time I saw your brother was seven years ago. On the bridge. Now it’s like he’s standing right in front of me.”

“You were the last one to see him. Alive?”

“We both were,” she reaches for Ovi’s hand and pulls him to her side. “We were together. We saw that happened. HOW it happened. I’m sorry. That he even got dragged into that mess. He was a good man. A brave man.”

“He killed your friends. Your team. He was supposed to kill you.” He glances at Tyler. “Both of you.”

“He did what he had to do to save his family.” she reasons. “Tyler and I would both do the same thing to protect our family. He died protecting me. Trying to get me across the bridge. And he didn’t even know me.”

Anil takes her hand once again, squeezing softly. “I wasn’t surprised to hear that he spared you. It was never in his nature to hurt a woman. To nurture, yes. But never to hurt. There was no way he ever could have pulled that trigger. Not even under the most desperate of circumstances.”

They retreat to the living room and she takes a seat on the couch; nervously rubbing the palms of her hands along her thighs, watching as Tyler and Anil stand side by side at the patio door. The latter passing compliments on the house and property and the stunning view; commenting how he’d always wanted to visit Australia. That he and Saju had planned to do it one day. Perhaps when they were both old enough to retire and could both appreciate and enjoy the downtime. Only they’d never gotten the chance.

Tyler is more relaxed; his face softer, eyes not as dark. Shoulders less tense and his tone no longer harsh or irritable. They’d made up after the kids had gone to school and Ovi had taken Declan swimming while Addie napped. A brief, intense argument that somehow transferred into a rational, heartfelt conversation, which led to love making. Their favorite way of coping; a much needed escape from all the worry and the fear of an unpredictable and dangerous situation.  She couldn’t remember the last time it had been THAT slow and gentle. When his hands and his kisses and the way he moved inside of her had been that tender and loving. Accompanied by whispered apologies and promises; tears trickling down her face as she desperately clung to him during the aftermath. Wondering how they could be that close yet feel so far apart.

But his smile is genuine when he sits down beside her. The side of his thigh pressing against hers; his hand on the small of her back as he places a kiss to her temple. And she gives a smile of her own, her palm against his knee as she leans into him; forehead resting against his cheek. It’s comforting; his mere presence beside her. The warmth of his body, his familiar smell, the weight of his hand as it slides along her lower back and comes to rest on her hip.  She needs this. The simple contact. Just having him next to her; knowing that no matter what, he’ll stop at nothing to keep her safe.

“By now I’m sure you know all that there is to know about me,” Anil begins, as he takes a seat across from them, giving Ovi a smile of appreciation when he pours him a cup of coffee from the carafe that sits on the coffee table. “And about my business. In the same way I know all about the two of you. Quite the predicament you found yourselves in. Alongside my brother.”

Tyler gives a small, dry laugh.  “That’s putting it lightly.”

“Quite the thing to bring two people together. That kind of danger AND a near death experience.  There must be quite a bond. Between the two of you. Surviving something like that together.”

“I like to think there is,” Esme says, and Tyler gives a small smile and nod and presses a kiss to the side of her head.

“I’m  definitely a lucky guy. She’s stuck by me. On the bridge. And through the last seven years. It hasn’t been easy. I’ve put her through a lot.”

She gives his knee a squeeze. “But not as much as you think.”

“And five children?” Anil asks. “That’s quite the accomplishment. For a  man who should have died on that bridge.”

“Only thing worthwhile I have accomplished,” Tyler says. “They’re all that matters to me. My wife and my kids. That’s  my entire world right there. They’re why I contacted you. Why I need your help. To keep them safe.”

Anil nods, then leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “You realize that what you’re asking for, if it gets into the wrong hands,  it will only make things worse. Put even bigger targets on their backs. That I should tell you it’s foolish and that I don’t make a habit out of leading men to their graves.”

“You have every  reason to tell me to fuck off and mind my business,” Tyler counters. “That I should just let you and your people handle everything. But I think you realize that I’m not just going to sit back and wait for shit to go down. That I’m not going to let them get close to my family. That I’ll find a way to stop them, with or without you. Although without you might make your job harder. What with me going around and ruffling feathers in Mumbai.”

“It actually would hamper things,” Anil agrees.

“I also know you wouldn’t come here just to tell me to fuck off. So why are you here? Why come all this way?”

“Some things are better discussed in person,” Anil reasons.

“What kind of things?”

“I can give you what you want. What you need. But I want some things in return. From you.”

Tyler arches a brow. “Which are?”

“I want to take part. In your little mission. As you know, I have extensive experience. With special forces. And my own business.”

“You’re a merc?”

Anil shrugs. “You can say I dabble in it, from time to time. If needed. Sometimes we can’t find outside help. I’d like to offer my service. I have my own reasons for wanting revenge against Mahajan. And revenge is a powerful motivator. I want to avenge my brother. What better way than with the blood of his executioner on my hands. He sent Saju to his death. I want to send him to his.”

“You want to kill him?” Ovi speaks up. “My father?”

“Your father is not a good man. He deserves death. For what he’s done to others. And I want to be the one to give it to him. For Saju.”

Ovi opens his mouth to speak once again, but all words fail him and he rushes from the room, slamming the patio door closed behind him.

“I’ll go,” Allison offers.

“No. I will,” Esme says. “This discussion is out of my pay grade. I’m just here as the wife and the business partner. Anything else there is to know, Tyler can tell me.”

He nods, then presses a chaste kiss to her lips before she hurries after Ovi.

“It’s hard to hear,” Anil sighs.. “That your father is a monster.”

“He knows who and what his father is,” Tyler says. “It’s just not easy to sit across from the man who wants to kill him. It’s still his father. Regardless of how crappy a father he is. So you want in? You want to help?”

“I think you could use the help. Someone with my experience. I know if he were alive and you asked him, Saju wouldn’t hesitate to help you. Just like he didn’t hesitate in Dhaka. Even though he was supposed to kill you.”

“I’ve got other guys going with me. But having you would be a hell of a lot of help. Especially if you can take out Mahajan.”

“It would be my pleasure to help. And to kill him. I want nothing more than to watch him take his last breath.”

“What’s the second thing?” Tyler asks.

“It’s a business proposition. I’ve read your file. I’ve heard all the stories. Both true and rumour. I could use someone like you. You’ve started your own mercenary business?”

Tyler nods.

“Like I said, we often have a hard time finding mercenaries. My brother trusted you. Enough to put his mission aside and to work with you to get Ovi safely home. That’s all the confidence I need. I want you...your business...to partner with me. I want you to provide me...when needed...with mercenaries to get jobs done.”

“You want me to supply the guys.”

“And whatever your guys need, if they don’t already have, I can get for them. No problems there. I would reward them, and you, very handsomely. Not to mention I’d offer a very substantial donation to help get your operation off the ground. Is this something you’d be interested in? I can show you the numbers I’ve already come up with.”

“I don’t know if…”

“Let me show you,” Anil waves Allison over, and she opens the briefcase in her hand and removes a leather bound folder. “I was bold and went and drew something up. If you’d be so inclined as to indulge me.”

Tyler nods, then takes the folder and flips it open.

The first number you see, that would be my initial investment. So to speak. Think of it as a donation. A gift. Six point five million dollars. US. To guarantee that your business will supply me, on demand, with what it needs.”

“That’s…” Tyler’s eyes widen. “...generous…”

“Not nearly as much as I think you deserve. But it’s a start. There can always be more. Your children will never want for anything. Their entire lives. The next page is what I’m willing to pay for each man you can give me. Along with their salary.”

Tyler flips over the page, shaking his head at the numbers printed before him.  “This is serious? This is what you’re willing to give me? Give them?”

“A hundred and twenty five thousand to you, per man that you give me. That’s too little?”

“No. It’s...I don’t  even know what to say…”

“Seventy five thousand dollars per man plus travel and spending allowance. If the job is done to my satisfaction and in the time I allot, another twenty five thousand for them. If it’s too little, I can juggle the numbers and…”

“No. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.”

“I’m a generous man. Life has been good to me. Financially speaking. I’d like it to be good for you as well. And good for your children. They have long lives ahead of them. I’d like to make sure they’re well taken care of. And then some. Is this something perhaps you could agree on? Going into business with me?”

“I’d have to talk to my wife. We’re in this together. I can’t make any decisions without her. I’ve done that too much. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I’d expect nothing less. It’s a partnership, no? In both marriage and business. I can understand the need to speak with her. I’ll be in town until Friday.  If perhaps we could meet Thursday evening? Over dinner? The four of us?”

Tyler nods. “We could do that.”

“I hear you're taking a trip. With your wife. I have men I can put here. To work alongside the ones you already have. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Consider it done. I’ll have them contact you tomorrow.  And this is yours…” he motions for Allison to open the briefcase once again, and he removes a standard file folder from inside and holds it out to Tyler. “...to read, just for now, if you wish. Not to be used unless we come to an agreement. These are the men you want. I trust you won’t go after them until you talk to me.”

“I’m not going anywhere until after my daughter’s birthday party next weekend, so…”

“Excellent, I look forward to chatting with you more. I have some stories of my brother I’d love to share. I’ve exhausted all my other audiences.”

“I’d like to hear them.”

“He was a good man. You’re a lot alike. In more ways than one. I must go,” Anil stands. “It was a long flight and I’d like to get some rest. I’ll be in touch.”

Tyler accompanies him to the door, then steps out onto the front porch just as the Mercedes returns and parks at the end of the driveway.

“You’re a lucky man,” Anil says, and claps him on the shoulder. “You survived. And you have a beautiful wife and a beautiful family. Don’t take it for granted. I did. Don’t make the same mistakes as me.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and then shakes the hand offered to him.

“Try not to let them inside your head.” Anil calls to him as he heads for the car. “They get into your head? That’s when they’ve won.”

Tyler nods, absentmindedly tapping the folder against the palm of his hand. Shoulders tense and jaw clenched as he watches the Mercedes drive away.

[incalyscent-fr]

what is this???  a lore????

@fr-blackiebelle @fr-tangelojack @carnifex-rising (cause you asked what i did.  this is the beginning oops) @korozo-fr

Of all the ways Atlas thought his life would progress, following a beast across the Boneyard with a god at his side was not one of them.  But, here time has lead him, clutching a leatherbound book in his claws and hoping to whatever he was allowed to pray to that the Lightweaver’s army would get lost in the carcasses, and the silent Mirror before them isn’t leading them to their deaths.

Why do we trust him, Atlas says to Arepo, who just smiles.

I have a good feeling, that’s all.

Atlas’ ears pick up every sound around them, heightened by fear.  The vultures feeding on carrion.  The shrieking of feral Mirrors.  Slenuma’s quiet footfalls.  The clank and clang of the army trudging behind them, far enough away they can’t see them, but close enough to hear.

Where are you taking us?  Slenuma doesn’t answer.  When will we get there?

Soon.  The Mirror’s voice is less than a croak, just a suggestion on the wind.  For some reason, that just scares Atlas more.

Atlas has never been to Plague before.  Even his refuge in Shadow was short lived.  He’s lived his whole life in Light.  He’s been nothing but faithful.  Why, after all this time serving his Lady, had he turned to readily on his breed?  It’s not his fault, the way he was born.

This?  This was his fault.  A act of rage and heartache.  He looks at the book in his hands and nearly drops it to the parched earth, so that the army can find it and pick it up and he’ll never see it again.  But what does that mean for dragonkind?  It would be selfish now, for him to abandon the book.  The warplans inside speak of genocide, and Atlas will not be responsible for it.

They’ve been walking for ages, it feels like.  Atlas can feel the hard ground all the way up to his knees, but Arepo seems unfazed, and Slenuma hasn’t changed the beat of his step.  But now, the Wyrmwound rises up from the horizon, sickly white, the smell of death closing around Atlas’ windpipe.

No, he says.  Slenuma stops, and looks at him with crimson eyes.  Arepo looks uncertain as well.  But Slenuma just stands, calm to the point of unnerving, unmoving, silent.  No one moves, and the sound of chainmail and warcries echoes across the unforgiving flatness of the Wastes.  Though Slenuma doesn’t speak, it becomes clear what he means; Atlas can either follow him, or perish at the hands of the Lightweaver.

Atlas steps forward first, his legs shaking, and as soon as he does Slenuma turns and trots ahead, like a hound dog on the scent of an injured kill.  Arepo stays very close to Atlas’ side, his face stoic and his footfalls controlled and quiet.

The closer they get to the Wyrmwound, the more at peace Atlas becomes with his death.  He was going to die at the hands of a silent Mirror on the edges of the Wyrmwound, far away from home, or he was going to die by the hands of the Lady he loves so dearly.  Arepo, while not talkative, has gone mute as stone, and Atlas has to try not to cry.  He did all this because he wanted to live.

But as they get closer, Atlas realizes that they’re not going towards a path.  The fear melts away.  And then he hears the noise.

He must have been too scared to notice it before, because the shrieking is something pulled out of a nightmare.  Hellish howling fills the air, crazed cackling and screams of rage.  It’s so overwhelming Atlas cowers, folding his wings in tight, lowering himself to the ground in terror.

Oh, Eleven, no, he gasps, but the sun in glinting off the breastplates now, the light shielding the soldiers from sight.  But Arepo puts both hands behind Atlas’ wing and pushes, says nothing, eyes wide enough to show the whites.  Slenuma sits, waits, that insufferable calm, and Atlas refuses to budge.  He can see the Mouth of Hellreek, its glittering white teeth, smelling of death, sounding like a torture pit.

This is our only salvation, Arepo says, please.  They won’t follow us here.

The Guardian, Ruzo (he knows the name, because Light told stories of these animals, these fiends, to ensure order and obedience, and not once until now has Atlas broken the rules) is dozing, cracks an eye and stares down at Atlas as he passes by behind Slenuma.  He doesn’t even glance at Arepo, but lifts and turns his head to watch Atlas and it shakes him all the way down to his bones.

Inside, it’s so dark, and the smell is so harsh Atlas vomits on the floor.  During his retching he loses Slenuma entirely, the dark Mirror blending in with the red rock.  The sound is deafening, the howling making his ears ring, the shrieks drilling right into his skull.  When Atlas gathers his wits enough to take in his surroundings, his blood runs cold.  There are Mirrors, hundreds of them, all staring.  But there’s one that commands his attention, her face covered, her eyes the colour of sick blood, hellish pits of almost black.

When she approaches, he throws himself at her feet.

What have you done, she says, and it’s a low snarl that he feels more than hears.  He chokes.

I’ve either saved or damned us all.

-

They wait.  The days pass.  The most they hear of the army is the clink of armour and fearful wingbeats.  It is on the third day that Ruzo tells them the army has gone.  And it is the third day that Atlas tells Akeelah of his story.  That he served as the Lightweaver’s bodyguard, how he loved her more than love itself and then she scorned him, told him he was a mistake.  How he stole her warplans in a minor scuffle and then stole away to Shadow, where he was tracked.  How he met Arepo on the way there and Slenuma on the way out.  How scared he is, clutching the book, looking into the eyes of a beast whom he has only heard horror stories about.

Okay, says Akeelah.  Okay.  Stay.

It’s three days after that that Ruzo tells Akeelah there’s something on the horizon.  A twisting mass of light.  He doesn’t have to tell her that it’s the Lightweaver, scorned.  Her bellows can be heard across the Wasteland, over the voices of her own family.

Oh, please, please can be heard over the rest, Atlas clutching the book, mumbling something that would have been a prayer not even a moon ago.  He’s vibrating, the magic stuck to his wings pulsing with Her light.  Akeelah would pray if she had any love for her Mother.  Her lair is all she cares about, but she doubts she can fight off a goddess herself.  She’s about to try, when a soft hand touches her shoulder and doesn’t crumble away.  She turns to see Fegult, his round face determined.

Let me try? he says, like she’d deny him.

Of course.

And Fegult teeters to the Mouth, ducks through the gaps in the teeth.  Akeelah watches but does not follow.  She filters out Atlas’ wailing and the cries of her children, and sits just in the darkness, close enough to spring out but far enough away to stay hidden.  He watches her beloved perch on his haunches just outside the Mouth, his face turned skyward, with no tension in him.

When the Lightweaver comes, it is like all the light in the world has collected itself in one spot.  The lair, dark and deep for centuries, is lit up, every cavern swallowed whole by light.  Akeelah has to hide her eyes, a hiss escaping her.  The rest of the lair explodes in a cacophony of noise, scrambling claws and yelps.  The Lightweaver doesn’t speak a language that Akeelah knows, so old it would have turned to dust in her mouth had she tried to speak it.  But the ringing, it gets louder, and then suddenly She is gone.  The darkness she leaves behind is all encompassing, and Akeelah fears for one irrational second that she has gone blind.

Fegult comes back, dazed, his pupils blown wide, glimmering with light.

What did you do? Akeelah asks, and Fegult looks at her like he’s seeing her for the first time.  He shakes his head.

Nothing.  I did nothing.

-

In the pits of Hellreek, something shakes.  It’s nothing like an earthquake.  It sounds like the creaking of old bones and feels like the restless shift of muscle.

What was that? Ramiro says.  Mariette levels him with a look, and it’s the first time he’s ever seen anything close to fear in her eyes.

I have no idea.

[sasorikigai]

Time had lost all meaning in between the loss of consciousness after battle, and awakening in panic to find herself and her companion still down. It took a lot to even stop the vengeful wraith, so he’d continued to keep going until Scorpion had burnt himself out like a candle at the end of its wick. A gripping emotional turmoil sank into the pit of the woman’s core, feeling like cement blocks had been dried onto her feet and left the entirety of her being to be left into the depths. It was through sheer force of determination and will that had her body moving. First snapping a knee back into place with a sickening crack, followed by dislocated shoulder joint slammed into it’s socket proper, each shock of pain a reminder of being alive, only gaining a muffled sound of pain behind grit teeth.

Staggered foot steps brought the old soldier too Scorpion’s prone form. His eyes closed, but chest moving. Dead yes, but… Sort of alive? It was always so strange to make sense of the netherrealm undead in the physical form. But she understood the mental state of him. Torn apart, stagnated within his personal hell of suffering, anger, heart break. Much like a shattered glass barely pulled together correctly. Still leaking and fractured. Yang couldn’t magically heal that, but was determined to at least become a pillar for this ancient soul, and that included taking care of him one way or another. Thus both hands gripped his larger form, and hefted him up into her arms for a tight hold, starting to move for somewhere, anywhere, other than here.

Sun had long faded beyond the horizon and give way unto the gleaming moonlight spread across the landscape, stars sparkling away in the dark canvas of the sky. The faded pale light illuminating all Yang needed as she sat upon the ground in soft grass. Holding Scorpion in her lap, after having bandaged them both up. Looking something akin to mummies in her opinion now, a silly thought that made the woman giggle quietly too herself, made even more amusing with how the mask and hood of the ancient warrior was set aside neatly like an offering. Soft hazel eyes gazing down upon the Shirai Ryu she held in such a tender embrace. Perhaps he was dreaming of peaceful times, as his expression was calm. He deserved some moment of peace for the time being, Yang thought, as one gloved hand began a soft motion of trailing through Hanzo’s hair. Stroking across every long lock, while humming a tune she could recall her own mother once would sing, an old lullaby she had said. Seemed appropriate, for this rare and soft moment.

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @yetremains​ || always accepting! 

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Perhaps Scorpion was meant to be doomed by passion and its absence, having been completely incinerated, beneath the resounding sense of thrill, the first onslaught of adrenaline, mixed with vindictive justice and vengeance as the swirling wreaths of hellfire scorched and burned; flaring his nerves, making them swollen as embers crackled. And static feed of his conscious would threaten to drench beneath such impervious blackness, upon the near-depletion of his Arcana, the ever-expanding reserve of his catalytic fuel and the steeled resolve of Sasori’s will. How he has been known to start fires, yet paradoxically, his stilled flesh barely kindles. With the infinitesimally peering sun shining, remaining overcast like a cloud looking over his head, big, puffy, and gray, it would leave Scorpion with an irreversible feeling of impending doom approaching, for the nightmarish sky will open up and he will be left to be engulfed in the perpetuating darkness. 

Or, perhaps the sky would rupture in the midst of clambering and scampering, living and breathing still as he becomes ensorcelled as he had been flying like an unshackled bird. How Hanzo Hasashi would silently drift off to the solitary world of his unwinding dreams, overstimulated by everything and with his zealous, adventurous soul to be lain rest in relative quietude. Beneath the teetering awareness and all-consuming oblivion, Scorpion feels the potency of combustible flare of gnawing fire dwelling within, beneath the comfortable silence which floats in the air, beneath numerous suffocated voices of the dead and suffering. The unfurled landscape of the night floats with the stars over the edge of his conscious; dipping and soaring, ascending and descending, whispering and rustling in gentle susurrations as scalding trail of fresh crimson trailing, mimicking the shattered fragments of once adored masterpiece, now tattered and destroyed in inevitable ruin. And that very ruin letting the dense river of sanguine in its slimy state to coagulate, for his seemingly slumbering, sprawled form to glow like the transparent glow of the sunset or the humid transition of the day. 

How Yang remains a bright light, a jewel in his chest; a fire or roseate, and how Hanzo Hasashi would burst, his nova in spectrum. Once an obscurity, a faded thing effulgently glowing in singularity once again. Even as his own corporeality becomes raggedly torn between the realm of the confining Netherrealm’s scorching fury and the transient comfort of the hearthfire of his human warmth, the putrescent spectacle of the wraith’s flesh and blood mingled as if thousands of razors had ripped through him and the reality had been simply, something that scrambled his brain. Even in his potent firestorm, the resolute steeled resolve of his intrinsic warrior-philosopher’s outlook on life remains suffocated in unconsciousness, as gossamer comfort lets Scorpion to live the dormant inner peace silently. Paying attention to his thoughts as they come and go, and reflect upon his feelings, as tremendous excitement stirs the living heart dwelling in dead, tainted flesh, Scorpion once again lets all the most brutal truths of his being pierce his heart and stir the dwelling flames within. 

He will never be deigned by the impurities of Netherrealm’s onslaught; for nothing will strip his settled grief and righteous vindictive justice, as the deathly pearlescent cyanic gaze beneath the heavy veil of his eyelids will transmogrify to retain the obsidian human depth of dark brown, as he still stays dormant beneath the silence of the dawn, tethered by the whispering breeze. Hanzo Hasashi’s pain may be a raveled deceit packaged in his weary heart robbed of relief and belief, for mayhem like a treacherous blinding storm continues to burn his eyes as the frostbitten human flesh continue to chisel and erode, spilling bone and marrow, thickened globs of sinew and blood. Pain may accentuate the defiant vicious throes of death’s final strike, of all the senselessness, the sacrilegious dishonor exacted against his everything. And through his guilt, inadequacy, remorse, the amalgamation of trials and tribulations he still carries in the rampant wildfire of his everburning embers, Scorpion lets himself unshackled as the bitter light of reality shines once again, stimulating him urgent - and yet, without the blemishes of the body, with mounted lacerations littered on his heart and soul. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||