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snarkybluechristian · 4 years

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Hazbin Hotel: Yandere Alastor x Vaggie Chapter 45

Angel laid in his chair, staring at the ceiling while the monsters discussed their plans to torture him into being normal.

It made Angel sick to his stomach. His family never loved him for who he was, even after they had all died. It was their cold and abusive behavior that made him turn to burying himself in his mafia work, then to drugs, to sex, and eventually, to Valentino who made his life so much worse. The sins were his, but the self-hatred came from them. It was all their fault. It always was.

Now, their prejudice had enabled Alastor to do the same thing to Vaggie and Sir Pentious to Cherri.

It was the cycle of continual hatred like Charlie had talked about in one of their therapy sessions. First, you decide to hate a person and then you do everything to hurt them more and more and more until eventually you destroy them and everything they care about.

Their hatred hurt him and extended its reach to the people he loved the most just to hurt him even more. It was bullshit, and it had to end.

Angel closed his eyes in the first prayer he had said in decades and felt his resolve grow stronger.

His family wouldn’t win. They couldn’t. Angel wouldn’t let them or Alastor or Sir Pentious for that matter. Even if he got sent to Double Hell in the process, he wouldn’t.

Angel would beat them all. All he had to do was wait.

“I’ll come upstairs to join you for breakfast once I get Anthony fed and into his bath,” Dr. Red said, calling Angel back to reality.

“Good, we’ll see you then,” Henroin replied, walking up the stairs. “See ya later, Anthony.”

“Yeah, we’ll see you on Friday, little brother!” Arackniss called over to Angel from the bottom of the stairs. “Please be a good boy for the doctor while we’re gone.”

After that final plea, Arackniss followed his father up the stairs and left the basement, leaving Dr. Red alone with Angel.

Dr. Red stood over Angel’s chair and studied his face for a moment before adjusting the chair so that Angel was sitting up again.

Angel hardly lurched forward at the sudden movement since his restraints kept him so snugly in place. He bowed his head down to stare at the floor with the most pitiful expression he could as Dr. Red pulled out his bag of medical instruments and started rummaging through it.

Once he found what he was looking for, Dr. Red turned back to Angel.

Much to Angel’s surprise, Dr. Red placed a finger under his chin, moved his face so that the two of them were looking eye-to-eye, looked at him with a warm and comforting expression, and said, “Don’t look so hurt, my patient. I know this process hurts now, but as soon as it’s over, you will be normal and so much happier. I promise.”

Dr. Red wiped away a few tears and the corner of Angel’s eyes with his thumb before he let go of Angel’s head.

Angel continued staring at the ground, feeling completely confused and taken aback and trying his best to hide it on his face.

Without any warning, Dr. Red pulled out his stethoscope, reached the cold end inside the straitjacket to the skin beneath the fur on Angel’s chest, and said, “Take a deep breath, Anthony.”

Despite the uncomfortable sensation, Angel immediately obeyed, breathing as deeply as he could muster in his straitjacket.

“Good,” Dr. Red said moving the stethoscope down to Angel’s heart while looking down at his watch. “Just as I hoped. The electroshock therapy has calmed your breathing and your heart rate.”

Dr. Red stuffed the stethoscope down into his doctor’s bag, walked over to a cart with a covered plate in the kitchen area that Angel didn’t notice before, and said, “Now, Anthony, it’s time for your breakfast.”

Dr. Red uncovered the plate to reveal a steaming breakfast tray with eggs, ham, and toast cut into small pieces with butter and jam on the side and orange juice with a straw sticking out.

“Let’s get some food in your stomach and we’ll get you ready to take your medicine,” Dr. Red said, spraying sanitizer into his hands before cutting up Angel’s food with the fork and knife on the side.

The gargoyle demon picked up a piece of ham with the fork and offered the food to Angel.

Dr. Red held the fork in front of Angel’s mouth and cooed, “Here comes the airplane coming into the hangar now. Easy does it…”

Angel opened his mouth and bit the ham off the fork, swallowing all his pride with the food in his mouth.

“Alrighty then,” Dr. Red said, putting down the fork to jot down some notes on his notepad. “Subject now seems to be obedient.”

Dr. Red quickly rubbed some sanitizer on his hands before he returned to feeding Angel and said, “I’m so glad to see that you’re now obeying me, Anthony.”

Angel didn’t respond, except to sit back comfortably in his chair and open his mouth so that Dr. Red could continue to feed him like a baby.

Dr. Red picked up another fork full of food, fed Angel, and said, “You don’t know how happy you’ll be when you’re straight. I know the treatment feels harsh now, but you’ll thank me for it later. At least, I hope you will. None of my other patients ever thanked me when I was alive…”

Without changing his facial expression in the slightest, Angel chewed his food while Doctor Red prepared the next bite and continued, “…You see, I was part of the Eugenics Movement at the turn of the last century, a movement dedicated to improving the genetic quality of the human population through selective breeding and the sterilization and suppression of the inferior and unfit. One way I helped keep the fit, superior members of the white middle- and upper-class strong was by helping parents whip their wayward sons and daughters into shape whenever they were more interested in pursuing their lusts than in doing their duty of increasing the white superior stock with advantageous marriages, if you know what I mean…”

It was all Angel could do to hold his tongue. As he received the next bites of food, he chewed his food into mush without swallowing just to keep himself from saying anything.

“…I kept these rebellious children from eloping, from committing miscegenation, and of course, from engaging in sexually deviant relationships, like you. I did such a good job with them. They married advantageously and produced genetically superior children. But none of them ever thanked me. I can’t figure out why…Anthony, you need to swallow your breakfast or you’re going to choke on it.”

Angel reluctantly swallowed and bit his lip while Dr. Red picked up his knife and spread jelly and butter on the pieces of toast. If it weren’t for his restraints, Angel would have been fidgeting uncomfortably.

Completely oblivious to the discomfort Angel was feeling, Dr. Red continued, “Anyways, I don’t know why none of my patients ever thanked me. I mean, most of them didn’t want to be there. Sure. Others tried to fight me and had to be given medicine and special treatments like you. But still others seemed willing and left happy. I don’t know why they didn’t thank me. Those ingrates! Some of them even committed suicide!”

Angel couldn’t take it much longer. Thankfully, Dr. Red fed him pieces of toast before and after he continued speaking.

“I don’t understand why God sent me here either,” Dr. Red said, gently feeding Angel a piece of jelly toast. “I directed human evolution in a positive direction for him. I did so much to improve the white race and the black race when they gave us the opportunity to improve them. I helped people defy their base desires for the greater good of reproducing a superior stock! Surely, that’s a noble cause that heaven must recognize!”

Angel finished eating his toast and Dr. Red placed a straw in a glass of orange juice and offered it to him.

“What an ungrateful bastard he must be to deny that!” Dr. Red raved while Angel managed to get the straw in his mouth. “If it weren’t for the Eugenics Movement, there would be even more burdens than there are now. It’s not our fault that Adolf Hitler decided to go as far as he did…Wait, Anthony.”

Dr. Red pulled the straw away just as Angel was about to take his first sip and said, “I almost forgot. I need to give you your medicine. Hold on a moment.”

Dr. Red took out a white prescription bottle and took out a red-colored pill that looked like no pill that even Angel had ever tried before.

He eyed it nervously while Dr. Red took it in his fingers and said, “Open wide, Anthony, and don’t worry. This pill will help you feel better. I know. I made it myself.”

That hardly reassured Angel. Despite his usual penchant for drugs, he didn’t want this one. Even if it did what the good doctor said, Angel knew there was more to it than what he said there was. It was meant to keep him under their control, just like Val kept him under his…

“Anthony, you don’t need to be nervous,” Dr. Red said, interrupting Angel’s thoughts. “Open up…Oh.”

Angel opened his mouth wide and allowed the doctor to drop the pill in his mouth.

“Good boy,” Dr. Red praised while offering Angel his orange juice again. “Now, drink this and wash down your pill so we can get you into your bath.”

Angel obediently sipped his orange juice through the straw until it was all gone.

When he finished the drink, Dr. Red put the cup back on the tray, petted Angel’s head, and praised, “What a good boy! You’re behaving very well.”

Dr. Red then picked a napkin off the cart and wiped the crumbs and juice off Angel’s face.

Once he was done, Dr. Red took the tray to the sink. While he wasn’t looking, Angel opened his mouth, lowered his tongue with the pill wrapped around in it, dropped the pill, and let it fall onto the floor.

Angel smiled to himself. That was a trick he had learned long ago when dealing with Val. It was one of the few tricks he rarely caught on to.

“Alright, Anthony,” Dr. Red said as he finally made his way back to the chair and started unbuckling Angel’s restraints. “It’s time for your bath. For now, your baths will be lukewarm to hold down your urges until you are strong enough to resist temptation and expose yourself to hot water again.”

Angel nodded silently and sat patiently while Dr. Red unbuckled the last of the restraints.

Dr. Red then helped Angel to his feet, put a hand behind his back, and guided him gently to the bathroom.

The bathroom was a plain one with white tile and a white toilet on one side, a sink, and a shower with a tub to match on the other side of the room. There was no color to be found except for the soap bottles on the shelf beside the tub. Even the towel hanging on the rack below the shelf between the wall and the door and the mats on the floor were white.

Dr. Red turned the faucets on and put in the stopper. The lukewarm water began filling up the tub while Angel watched patiently, resisting every urge to kick Dr. Red into the tub himself.

Dr. Red turned to Angel, requested for him to turn around, and finally undid the straps of his straitjacket.

“There, we go,” Dr. Red said with a warm smile as he pulled the jacket off and carried it out of the room.

Angel moved his arms around in relief at finally being able to use them again. He retracted his third pair of arms and stretched his two other pairs of arms around to get the blood flowing.

Angel turned and looked at himself in the mirror. The white shirt and black pants Alastor put on him the other day were still there looking slovenly yet classy, too classy for his taste. As soon as he got the feeling back in his arms, Angel began unbuttoning the shirt to let his fluffy chest breathe.

Unfortunately, before he could get too comfortable, Dr. Red walked in and coughed to get his attention.

“Anthony, you should wait for me to leave before you start undressing,” Dr. Red reprimanded.

Angel looked at himself in the mirror, summoned the most defeated look he could muster, turned around to face the good doctor, and said, “I’m sorry, doctor.”

Dr. Red’s disappointed look slid back into a warm smile and he said, “All is forgiven, Anthony. Now take a look at your new clothes.”

Angel looked down and tried not to grimace at the clothing in Dr. Red’s arms. It was the gray uniform that Vaggie described.

It was a gray long-sleeved t-shirt, long gray slacks, a white undershirt, a gray pair of underwear, and a gray pair of flats to cover his feet. By anyone’s standards, the clothes were atrociously dull.

“Do you like your new clothes?” Dr. Red asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, uh, they’re just fine, Doctor,” Angel replied shyly as he held his arms open to take the clothes.

“Excellent,” Dr. Red said, dropping the clothes into Angel’s arms. “You have seven other uniforms just like this one in case this one gets dirty. I’ll wash them weekly to make sure you always have a clean outfit to wear.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Angel replied.

Dr. Red smiled and walked past him to turn off the water in the tub.

“You may take your bath now, Anthony,” Dr. Red said, reaching outside the room and placing a white basket in between the door and the tub. “I shall go upstairs to eat breakfast with your father and brother. Then, I’ll come back here and clean up your kitchenette. Please do remember. Turning on hot water is not allowed yet, so don’t turn it on.”

“Yes, doctor,” Angel said submissively.

“As for the clothes you’re wearing now, please put them into basket you see there,” Dr. Red said, gesturing with one hand while holding the other hand behind his back.

“Yes, doctor,” Angel replied. “Is there anything else?”

In one swift movement, Angel felt the gargoyle doctor’s stone arms wrap around his chest and hold him close. Dr. Red’s lips curled into a smile as he shut his eyes and leaned against Angel.

If Dr. Red could see Angel’s expression, he would have seen his face contort in confusion at the sudden mood swing. And Angel thought Val had wild mood swings…

“I’m so happy to be working with you, Angel,” Dr. Red whispered. “I know this is hard, but I’ll get you through it. I promise.”

Angel’s mouth fell open in absolute bewilderment and his eyes stared down at the doctor holding him for an uncomfortably long time.

They stood there like that for over a minute with Angel at a complete loss for how to react. He literally felt like he was embracing a statue and he might as well have been. The stony body was hard, cold, and confining.

Angel looked down at Dr. Red’s face and grimaced. The doctor’s expression was a genuinely warm and comforting smile that he found more unnerving than comforting.

Angel kept his form rigid transferring the clothes he was wearing to his lowest pair of arms to make his position more comfortable. Apparently taking that as a sign that he wanted to be comforted even more, Dr. Red moved even closer and held Angel more tightly for yet another long, uncomfortable minute.

So, Angel stood still, not knowing whether this was a test or an honest-to-God attempt to show compassion.

Finally, Dr. Red let go and said enthusiastically, “Enjoy your bath, Anthony. I must go meet with your father without any further delay to discuss your treatment plan.”

Without another word, Dr. Red left the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Angel stood there completely dumbfounded until he heard Doctor Red climb up to the top of the stairs and lock the basement door behind him.

When he was sure Doctor Red was gone, Angel stepped back until he reached the toilet and sat down. He sighed deeply for a moment before setting his new clothes down, undressing, and climbing into his lukewarm bath.

#hazbinhotel #hazbinhotel angeldust

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bewareofchris · 5 years

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Public Relations 23/??

R atm | Alec Hardy/Dr. Bill Masters | Broadchurch, Masters of Sex | Strong language, eventual sexual situations

“The fact that Alec Hardy was not currently, had not ever, and did not want to date the American sex research did not seem very important at all to the town of Broadchurch. They did what they had always done with a little bit of juicy gossip: they made a spectacle of it.”

<< prev | Part 1 | AO3 Link

A man had decide what he was willing to give up. Bill hadn’t decided and that must have been why he lost everything. All those decisions: whether to commit to Virginia fully or stay with his wife? Whether to love his children or tolerate their existence? Whether to atone for his past misdeeds or pretend they never happened. He’d wavered in and out of intentions for so long that everyone he thought would wait indefinitely had decided for themselves how they wanted to be treated.

Bill was left with the thing he’d spent his life pursuing. His study. His most precious lover. The thing that he had thought would bring him happiness. And he had it still, after he’d lost all the other things he’d never tried to keep.

Bill wasn’t happy.

Bill was laying on his couch, with a crust of chip crumbs pressed into his cheek, watching nonsense procedurals. He hadn’t moved since the last time he’d used a bathroom. And excluding trips to the toilet and kitchen for fresh supplies of snacks, he hadn’t moved at all.

(Not since a skinny man with no bearing on his life, said he didn’t care who Bill slept with.)

He told himself (at first) that he was taking some time for himself. He’d convinced his brain that his body needed the rest. When the excuse stretched thing, he laid in a slump and he thought about what he planned to do next.

All his daydreams were fantastic plots to leave this place he was in and never come back to it. He imagined plane rides like escape plans. He could go anywhere in the world. Libby didn’t want his money but Bill had tons of it. He was swimming in wealth. He never had to work a day in his life again.

All that frantic energy he’d wasted on the study had amounted to nothing but this moment. Discoveries had been made. Babies had been conceived and delivered. Women had covered his office in thank you letters and baby pictures and Christmas cards. He had a scrapbook of newspaper clippings. He had a certain reputation of infamy.

And he had a crumb-covered couch, and unwashed smell, and a swell of self-pity.

He had a phone with no new messages. He had a flagging sense of arrogance about how he shouldn’t have to be the one to send the next text. But a week later and Alec hadn’t so much as sent a hello through.

Bill had thought a lot about possibilities and plane rides. He’d thought about the merit of throwing himself into anything at all that took him away from where he was right now. And he thought of how disheveled and out of order his life would be if he didn’t stop and pick it up.

Between one predictable conclusion and the start of another repetitious episode, Bill picked up his phone to say:

How’s the case?

And he thought, if you squinted at the words hard enough you could certainly mistake them for: I miss you.

--If he could have managed it, Hardy would have been pissed. All his best effort toward anger left him too exhausted to do anything but sit quietly in place and stew. He just marinated in his anger, letting it simmer under his skin until it followed him into his dreams and out again.

“Well you’re in a mood,” Miller said right at the start. She was pushing Fred up the path to his front door, looking haggard enough herself to not want to deal with him. She stopped when she said it, and looked back over her shoulder. “Alright,” she said, “let’s go. Get your coat, we’re going to get something to eat. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it. I’m hungry, and you’re grouchy and we won’t get anything done.”

They found themselves smashed into a little booth in a corner of a nice enough restaurant. Fred was tucked between his Mom and the wall, boxed in and unable to cause trouble. He had a selection of toys that he didn’t seem to be interested in playing with.

Miller was staring at the menu with a frown pinched between her eyebrows. She was managing what Hardy could only hope for. Her anger and discontent was as thick as a cloud around her. Even Fred was looking across the table at Hardy like he was expecting to be rescued from his upset mother. If the kid had been old enough to understand, Hardy might have told him that there was just nothing that could be done. Moms were people, and people got upset sometimes.

“So,” Hardy said. (He didn’t used to be this awkward. He didn’t used to talk like he’d never used words before in his life.) “Has, uh, Tom come back?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Hardy stared at the menu laying on the table in front of him. He considered his heart-healthy options, and found that none of them appealed to him so he settled on the top option. When he was done (a busy five seconds later), he cleared his throat.

Miller glared at him over the top of the menu.

“How’s the--uh, the job?” Hardy asked.

“Aren’t you chatty today?” Miller dropped her menu down on the table so it was laying half-over his. She sighed like a great balloon of overheated air deflating. And then she said, “can’t we talk about anything else? Not work, and not murder, and not Tom. Can’t we talk about--what’s happening with you?”

Nothing was happening with Hardy. He’d been ignoring Bill Masters for a week. Although one could not count it as ignoring when he had not been sent any messages that required a response. He was being ignored in equal measure to the effort he was putting in ignoring. Hardy shrugged his shoulders.

That might even have been the end of it, but Miller looked like she was disappointed. Hardy was enough of a disappointment to himself without spreading it around. Miller’s disappointment looked like defeat and why wouldn’t it? Here he was, tucking away his secret ongoing involvement with Bill while Miller was trying to figure out how she planned on living her life. She was holding it together after a trauma that ripped her family to pieces. She was coping with loss, and grief, and guilt.

“I,” Hardy found himself saying without any notion of how he intended to proceed. “I’m waiting for a text.”

“A text?” (Miller was unimpressed.)

“Yes. A text from Bill?”

“A text from Bill? Why are you still texting Bill? Bill does not deserve to be texted.”

“Miller--”

“Any man that can just pack up and leave, knowing what we know about your health. That’s not a man that you need in your life. And an American? A sex researcher? What have you got in common with him anyway? It can’t be a lot. What do you even talk about? Oh hello, Bill, seen any interesting…” The humor didn’t fail her but the presence of other families and her own son made her clear her throat rather than continue. She lifted her glass of water to take a sip. “A text from Bill,” she muttered to herself.

Hardy frowned at her.

“Don’t make that face at me. I’ve got more experience with men than you do. If I decide to start texting some other woman that leaves me on death’s door--”

“For Christ’s sake, I’m not on--”

“Then you can sit here and tell me all the same things. Not on death’s door? You collapsed!”

“Lower your voice,” Hardy hissed at her. He straightened up in his seat as if fixing the slouch his body preferred would make his health anymore respectable than it was.

The conversation was interrupted by a very friendly waitress that didn’t seem interested at all in their personal drama. She made promises of quick delivery on the food and took their menus with her when she left. The quiet she left behind was as brief as a single breath.

“You’re waiting on a text,” Miller prompted.

“I’m not going to tell you about it if you’re going to be judgemental.”

Miller’s expression promised him that regardless of whether or not he explained himself, judgements had already been passed and they were not favorable. It felt good to have someone on his side. He was vindicated by Miller’s disapproval of Bill. Even as misplaced and misinformed as it was, there was a definite, relaxing camaraderie in disliking the same person at the same time. She managed to even out her expression into something approaching neutral as she said, “I’m sorry. I’ll try.”

(No, she wouldn’t.)

“Bill with his ex-wife and--”

“Why are you waiting on a text?” Miller all but shouted at him. Her hand slapped the table top in outrage and poor Fred, who had been idly pushing a toy around the table top, jumped. His little face went lax in shock and his lip trembled. Miller comforted him, but she was hissing, “have some respect for yourself, Hardy. Slept with his ex-wife. I bet he did. Accidentally, I assume. It’s always an accident with men like that. What happened?”

At some point, Hardy did need to tell Miller that he had never been dating Bill. He wasn’t dating the man now. He was just hinging a series of silly fantasies on the man. And it wasn’t fair to hinge his fictional happiness on the man but emotions were never fair.

“He went to talk to her about their children. It’s complicated. They only separated a few months ago.”

“A few months ago, and he’s already decided that he could move on? Must not have been much of a marriage.”

Hardy hadn’t meant to smile, but a certain level of meanness felt good. He cleared his throat at the tail end of his little grin and said, “that’s enough, Miller. I told him I didn’t care who he slept with and he hasn’t answered. I don’t know, maybe it’s the end.”

Miller was going to explode, sitting there, biting her lips. She was putting so much effort into listening to him. She wasn’t shouting at him about how it was already over, that it shouldn’t have ever begun. But she was thinking it in very loud thoughts, projecting them across the table. “That’s a bad thing?” she managed to squeeze through her clenched jaw.

“We’re just friends,” sounded very nearly like a lie. It didn’t feel like the truth that Hardy wanted it to be.

“Well, he’ll text you. If he doesn’t, he’s not a good friend. Not the sort of friend that would make a long drive to see you on her days off. Not the sort to make sure you get a decent amount of food once in a while. Not the sort that’s going to help you solve a case that’s ruined your reputation. A friend like that, well, you’d think maybe you might put a little bit more effort into sending a few more texts in her direction. But if it’s Bill that makes you happy…”

“Are we friends that text?” Hardy asked.

Miller just stared at him as if he were stupid. But when she spoke, the words were low and uncertain. “We could be.”

Life had been hell to her. It had driven her out of her home. It had robbed her of precious friends. It had left her alone, and hurting, and hurtful.

“We should be,” Hardy agreed.

@it-is-ineffable, @marvelmisha, @e3105eb, @may-darling, @bigleosis, @stardust-andwine, @echelongaga, @imnotokaywiththerunning, @heirofsarcasm

#public relations: the fic #illogical husbands #alec hardy #bill masters #masters of sex #broadchurch #grouchy bastards in love

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imjustthemechanic · 7 years

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The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt Part 5/? - Making the News Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - More Impossible Part 8/? - The Shield Thieves Part 9/? - Reality Sinks In Part 10/? - Preparing a Quest Part 11/? - The Marvelous History of Sir Stephen Part 12/? - Uninvited Guests Part 13/? - So That’s What It Does Part 14/? - The What and the Where Part 15/? - Gearing Up Part 16/? - Just Passing Through Part 17/? - Dinner with Druids Part 18/? - Kracness Henge Part 19/? - A Task Interrupted Part 20/? - The Red Death Part 21/? - Aphelion Part 22/? - The Stone Giants Part 23/? - Nat the Giant Killer Part 24/? - An Interrogation Part 25/? - Guilt

Several things Natasha is going to have to deal with whether she likes it or not.

Natasha didn’t sleep well that night. She was used to nightmares – in fact, she didn’t think she’d had what might count as a good dream in years – but these were intense, and horrifying. In each, she was pumping somebody for information while that person disintegrated in front of her, yet even as she watched them die she kept demanding more. Some of them were strangers, foreign agents or followers of the Red Death, but others were people she knew, like Sam, or Sue from Dundee, or even Allen Rushman. He begged her, as his body crumbled, to have mercy on her father, to which she only replied in a cold voice that he was not her father, and never had been.

She woke up curled into a tight, trembling ball, listening to her phone jingle. She had a text.

Nat and the others had spent the night on cots in the half-empty infirmary. Another ship was supposed to be there at eight thirty in the morning to take them and the remaining refinery employees back to the mainland. Nat rolled over and picked her phone up off the floor next to the cot, where she’d left it to charge.

“That better be important,” grumbled Sharon from the next cot over.

Nat tapped the icon to bring up the message. It was from Dr. Hughes at Dundee, and said paternity positive. Who is it?

Rather than reply, Nat just set the phone down again and rolled over. So… Rushman was her father, at least genetically. It didn’t surprise her. The whole point of this mess seemed to be that the lies were plausible, and came true in plausible sorts of ways. The Loch Ness Monster was a type of seal instead of a surviving dinosaur, and Allen Rushman had the right DNA to have fathered Natasha. She told herself she didn’t care. He was still a lie, and he still hadn’t lifted a finger to try to help her yesterday. She could take care of herself, of course, but that was beside the point. If he really believed he loved her, he could at least make an attempt. Maybe it was true that Nat had always wanted a father, but she didn’t want one who was a coward.

The boat was half an hour late, but it did come. The Pentland Ferries company had re-routed one of their vessels, and brought breakfast for the remaining survivors. Nat and the others boarded along with the refinery workers, each stopping to give their names and addresses to a man who was keeping a tally. Tempting as it was to say she lived in a mansion in Morven Hills and see if it came true, Nat instead supplied the address of her actual flat in Dundee. Rushman gave them his fictional address in Manhasset, which was no worse a lie than anything else about him – but Sir Stephen had no permanent address.

“He’s my fiancé,” Nat said, sticking to the lie she’d already used once without consequences. “He lives with me.”

“Congratulations,” the man said, writing that down.

They continued up the gangway. Sir Stephen was still bruised and suffering from a headache as the morphine they’d given him wore off, but although he was leaning on Sam to walk his legs were under him, bearing most of his weight. It was enough to make Nat wonder if anything could actually kill him, and whether Sir Stephen himself ever wondered the same.

“Do people not think it strange that we would live in the same house, not yet being married?” Sir Stephen asked Nat. “I would not want to compromise your reputation.”

“Nope,” said Nat.

Sir Stephen waited for more explanation, but she didn’t give him any. She was not in the mood.

Once the ferry was underway, the crew brought out breakfast –sausages, eggs, toast, and fried tomatoes, with fruit just and plenty of hot tea and coffee. Sir Stephen was ravenous and dug right in, finishing his first plateful before Nat had even bothered breaking the yolks on her eggs. Everybody else ate more slowly, particularly Natasha and Sharon. Neither had much appetite after what they’d seen and done the previous night.

“Where did you girls go after the first boat left?” Sam asked. He looked around at the other people, sitting in the passenger benches with paper plates in their laps. “I keep hearing rumors somebody brought in a guy who died of Ebola?”

Nat and Sharon glanced at each other. “One of the HYDRA guys got left behind, and he was still alive,” said Sharon.

“We questioned him,” Nat added, “and then he just died, right in front of us.” She blinked a couple of times, trying to make the images from her nightmares stop dancing in front of her eyes. Ebola was probably as good a diagnosis as any. Hemorrhagic fevers caused internal bleeding that went on until the organs simply fell apart. Those took days, though, while this had set in within minutes.

“As happened to Heinrich the Potter’s Son,” said Sir Stephen, his mouth full.

“Yeah,” Sharon sighed. “Although we didn’t remember that until after it happened.” She still felt guilty about it. It was nice, Nat thought, not to be the only one.

Sam must have heard the same note in Sharon’s voice that Nat had, because he leaned forward a little. “Are you gonna be okay?” he asked cautiously.

Any of Natasha’s bosses or colleagues in the spy business would have simply asked what she’d learned, not considering the man’s death, or its effect on her, important. Sam’s concern was a privilege she had rarely enjoyed and one she didn’t feel she deserved, and it took her a moment to get the lump out of her throat before she could reply.

“I’ve seen worse,” said Nat.

“I haven’t,” Sharon said, “but I’ve seen things that weren’t much better.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Sam said gently.

“We’ll live,” Nat assured him, and then when he started to correct her again, she added, “we’re fine, okay?”

“Okay,” said Sam doubtfully.

It was time to change the subject. “Anyway,” Nat said, “from what he managed to tell us, we can get an idea of what the Red Death might do next.” She had to stick to the important stuff. They were saving the world, or something, and the emotions she’d been trained to suppress were not essential to that. She dug into her purse, and pulled out the two pendants, still wrapped in plastic. “He’s going to go looking for more of these. Apparently they’re fragments of the Grail, and if he’s got enough of them the Druids can find the whole one for him. That means we have to find them first.”

Sam nodded, chewing thoughtfully on a forkful of tomatoes. “What do once we find them?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Natasha admitted. “Bury them or something. Or… I don’t know, there has to be some way to get rid of them permanently.” She looked at Sir Stephen. Out of all of them, he’d be the one to know.

“We could burn them,” Sam suggested. “If they’re made of ivory, a crematorium could take care of them.”

Sir Stephen scraped a last few toast crumbs into his mouth. “I would not like to try destroying something that is made of the very force of creation,” he observed.

He might have a point. Nat frowned as she fingered the plastic wrap. Zola had known that Nat had taken his pendant from him… why hadn’t he or the Red Death had somebody search her possessions? Could it be that the reason Zola had activated it while Nat was on the phone with Sue was in order to keep her from using it for something else? He evidently hadn’t known that Sir Stephen had one, or he would have taken it while he was searching the police locker room for the shield.

“Maybe we can drop them in the ocean,” Sharon said. “Somewhere like the Challenger Deep.”

That would make them very difficult to retrieve, but not impossible. “What were you planning to do with the Grail once you found it?” Nat asked Sir Stephen.

“We had not decided,” Sir Stephen admitted. “The important task was to find it before the Red Death could. It is the same with such fragments – find them first.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Sam. “So how do we do that?”

“Easy,” Sharon said. “We know who stole them out of Pierce’s car.”

This meant nothing to Sam or Sir Stephen, but Natasha perked up immediately. “Mick O’Herlihy!” she said.

“Exactly!” Having figured this out apparently gave Sharon a bit of her appetite back, because she speared a sausage on her fork and bit the end off it. “That was what he got arrested for, stealing stuff out of cars. By the time Pierce tracked him down, he’d already sold them all or given them away, and didn’t know where they were anymore, so they…” she paused, perhaps remembering the blood at the warehouse crime scene. They knew what that meant now, too.

“So they killed him,” she finished for Sharon. “They stabbed him with that magic dagger the Red Death had, and used his blood to bring the two statues to life.”

“Magic cannot create life,” Sir Stephen repeated.

“Yeah, but if first they used one of their remaining fragments to convince somebody that the legends about you and the Red Death were true, and that you’d been turned to stone in the middle of your final battle, then the statues would technically already be alive,” said Nat. She shook her head. “That’s a sentence that just came out of my mouth and I hope it makes more sense than I feel like it does. In that case, the magic would only need to restore life. The Grail is a force of creation. It should be able to create life, no problem.” It had apparently, for example, created Allen Rushman. “And,” she added, “we know the name of at least one of the people Mr. O’Herlihy gave the fragments to.”

“Exactly,” said Sharon. “There is no way the Loch Ness Monster has just always been there and we never noticed it. He gave one to Darren O’Herlihy, who’s got to be a relative, so we need to go back to where we saw him last and see where he went next.”

Sam was amazed. “How did you ever figure all this out?” he asked.

“I’m a detective,” said Sharon, annoyed that he would ask.

“I’m an archaeologist,” Natasha said. “Figuring stuff out based on clues in context is what we do.” Another beautiful lie, she noted – figuring stuff out based on clues was what spies and assassins did sometimes, too. “You must do the same thing when you diagnose a disease.”

“Yeah, but I have textbooks to look through,” said Sam. “There’s no textbook for this!”

“Anyway,” Nat went on. “If we can work this out, we have to assume that the Red Death can, too, and that he’ll also go looking for O’Herlihy. We have to get going as soon as we can.”

“No rest for the wicked,” sighed Sam.

Sir Stephen was on his third helping of fry-up and upset about being interrupted when the ferry put in at Galltair, but he also looked stronger and was walking better. Maybe food accelerated his healing. Sugars and proteins were the building blocks of the body, after all – having more of them available probably allowed his superpowered immune system to work faster.

Nat got that far in her train of thought, then realized she was expecting something to make sense again. When was she going to learn?

It was sunny but brisk in Galltair. The day would have been warm, but the Orkney wind was blowing again, going right through everybody’s clothing. Even so, there was a crowd there waiting for them. Friends and relatives of the refinery employees must have come in from all over Scotland to meet them and make sure they were safe. Allen Rushman was not among them. Of course he wasn’t. Nat didn’t care.

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

It belonged to a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with steel-gray hair up in a bun that was quickly being unwound by the wind. She was wearing a dark blue windbreaker over an off-white Aran sweater, and she had just worked her way to the front of the crowd, her eyes on Nat.

“Are you Natalie?” she asked.

“Yes,” Nat replied carefully. As always, being recognized worried her. Zola and the Red Death knew what she looked like and now they knew that she was working with Sir Stephen. What sort of trap might they have laid for her?

“Oh, good,” the woman said, relieved. “He did say I’d know you when I saw you! Your Dad’s in the Oak and Thistle. He’s been there all night and we haven’t gotten much out of him besides that he came here to see you and it’s all gone pear-shaped. I think you’d better take him home.”

#fanfic #natasha romanov #black widow #captain america #steve rogers #falcon #sam wilson #agent 13 #sharon carter

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paperhatcollection · 7 years

Text

Call for help

Dr. Flug Slys contacts a band of local heroes to seek out protection from his boss... he'd a good actor, isn't he?

Strongarm set the file on the table in front of him, taking a moment to acknowledge how thin it was. Almost as thin as the man it was about, in fact.

With nothing else to do with it, Strongarm flicked it open to remove the first page, containing the most bare bone basic information they’d been able to scrounge up.

“Dr. Flug Slys, correct?” Strongarm asked.

The man sitting across from him managed to give a court nod, focus still on the bowl in front of him as he twirled his spoon around in what had been ice cream, before it melted into a colorful slop. To be fair, he probably should have finished it half an hour ago.

Melted ice cream didn’t seem seem very satisfying to Strongarm, in fact it seemed more of a shame, as ice cream normally helped people like Flug relax. If only just a little.

Strongarm got that it was probably hard to eat ice cream when you refused to take the paper bag of your head, but it was even harder when the ice cream had already melted. Maybe he could get Flug a straw?

“You came to us for protection.” Strongarm stated frankly, shoving the folder asied. “And the weapons you turned over to us in exchange were… concerning, to say the least. We need to know more.”

Flug visibly shuddered, dropping the spoon in the bowl and shaking his head quickly.

“I can’t. You don’t know what he’d- what would happen to me.” Flug said, voice shaking slightly. Maybe someone should get the poor man some water. “I told you, I can give you anything else, but I can’t tell you about my employer.”

“We’re going to need names.” Strongarm pressed, keeping his voice firm. “Real names. We can’t help you if we don’t know who you’re running from.” And if he were being honest, he doubted ‘Flug Slys’ was his real name in the first place. But he had to admit, it didn’t really matter what his real name was, once Flug was relocated and given a new identity- well, that just about explained it.

This wasn’t his first time dealing with someone like Flug. Some port smart lad had gotten snatched up by a super villain and forced to make weapons of mass destruction by force. And more often than not, those scientists had never had the chance to work for anyone else. It had been their current employer or death for much of their lives, and the hero’s they approached were their only hope out of said life.

That didn’t mean they weren't still afraid of their employers once they were safe.

“I c-can’t…” Flug muttered, his voice soft, as if he was trying not to be heard.

Strongarm shook his head, leaning forward. His hands were clasped together on the table, like a teacher attempting to get a kid to tattle on the bad kids in class.

“You have to.” Strongarm stressed. “If not, they might come and take you back. They’ll keep hurting people. You might be accused of protecting them.” he wasn’t playing bad cop as much as he was… laying out the possible consequences.

Flug shuddered.

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do!?” he suddenly yelped, surprising Strongarm. Flug dragged his hands down his bag, unable to keep still all of a sudden. Strongarm was surprised the bag didn’t rip, with how hard Flug was tugging at it.

“Do you have any idea the weapons I would be taking credit for? All the deaths and pain that were caused by the things I was forced to create?” Flug asked, still unable to stand still. Strongarm watched Flug cross the room, letting him exhaust that pent up energy.

“We can offer you legal protection.” Strongarm offered. “You won’t have to face time in jail, but you will need to prove you dedication to good before you can re-enter society.” okay, maybe he was the good cop now.

“But what about the people who will want personal revenge for what my work has done to their friends, their families?” Flug asked. “What about other villains who had hated the competition? If I tell you who I worked for, I’d be opening the flood gates!”

Strongarm didn’t stop Flug from ranting as his voice grew in it’s panic. He watched Flug instead, waiting to see if he’d slip up.

“And what if you can’t protect me? You can’t be there every second for the rest of my life! I’d be living in constant fear that one day someone would show up to kill me in the most painful way they could think of! Just imagine what Black Hat would do if he found out-!” Flug’s voice shut off in the way it would if he’d snapped his mouth shut, and in the sudden silence Strongarm knew he’d realized his mistake.

“Black Hat.” Strongarm said slowly, nearly a question. “You worked for… Black Hat.”

Strongarm stood up, watching Flug closely. Suddenly, the meek man took on a new light. “You’re- you were one of the scientists forced to make weapons for Black Hat. To sell them to villains across the globe and watch as what you created tore the innocent apart.” he stated. It was… a bit harsh, but he needed to be sure that Flug regretted what his inventions did.

Flug tugged on his bag hard enough Strongarm was surprised it didn’t rip. “The scientist.” he responded after a moment.

“The… you were the head scientist?” Strongarm asked. Well, that made Flug a lot more valuable to get away from-

“The only scientist.” Flug corrected.

Strongarm stilled himself, his eyes widening a touch as he realized what Flug admitted to. Every invention that had come out of Black Hat Inc, each and every instrument of torture, the most sadistic and evil devices Strongarm had ever seen…

All came from one man too nervous to eat ice cream.

Strongarm stepped out from behind the table, approaching Flug and putting a hand on his shoulder. This was… well, Black Hat was a hell of a lot stronger of a foe then Strongarm had been expecting. But this was an incredible opportunity to take down the fiendish operation.

“We can help you. But we have to know more.” Strongarm said, keeping his voice firm. Commanding. “Weaknesses, strengths, how to take him down.”

Flug flinched, looking away. He seemed to be thinking, weighing his odds at survival.

“O-Okay, I-”

Before he could utter another word the lights in the room suddenly shut off, leaving the three in a moment of pitch back. Flug suddenly ripped away from his grasp, and a dull thud could be heard from across the room. A moment later the red backup lights kicked in, revealing Flug had flung himself across the room and was now clutching his head, shaking.

Strongarm opened his mouth to speak, only to pause as a muffled explosion rung out from further within the base. He gave a glance to the security camera set up in the corner of the room before he braced himself for a potential fight.

Strongarm moved a hand to his helmet, activating the commlink.

“Strongarm here, what’s happening?” he said, hearing a loud crash through his headset.

“Strongarm, it’s-!” Dr. Stevens began, only to be cut short moments later. Something akin to mechanical whizzing passed through his headset, followed shortly by crazed, female laughter.

Strongarm cursed, shutting off the headset.

“Get down Flug.” Strongarm ordered, moments before a loud CRUNCH came from the wall opposite Dr. Flug. The hero spun around, ready to fight.

The wall was crumbing as what looked to be a girl in a lizard hoodie crashing into the room to land on all fours, in a crouched position. What looked to be a camera with a bunch of mechanical arms and legs followed shortly after, a blue bear waddling in the a confused sounding grunt.

“S-sorry Sir!” for a second Strongarm thought that Flug was talking behind him, but then he realized an identical man was stumbling over the wreckage and making his way into the room, paperbag and all. “They changed some of the codes, we had to improvise.”

“I don't care.” the first Flug snapped, suddenly standing straight and talking in an annoyed voice. Strongarm looked back just in time to see him explode into guts and teeth, body shifting unnaturally as he rose, shape changing to better match a suit, his mouth too wide and too full of sharp teeth, with a black top hat on his head. “Just give me the ray gun, Dr. Flug.” Black Hat ordered.

Before the hero could react, the camera had grabbed his ankle, yanking him into a wall with a loud thud to stun him before tossing him into the bears grasp, who wrapped soft and fluffy paws around him. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Strongarm’s superstrength was not enough to break free of the bears grasp.

“Cambot, set up.” Black Hat ordered, passing Strongarm without sparing a glance. Instead the demon marched right up to Flug and snatched the gun from his hands, the scientist barely flinching.

Black Hat spun around, giving a wide smile to the camera just as the red recording light flicked on.

“Greetings, Villains!” Black Hat declared, raising a hand to fix the edge of his coat. “Black Hat here, with the newest invention to get revenge on the heroes that try and ruin all your hard work!”

Black Hat gestured to Strongarm, the lense camera spinning as if zooming out. Strongarm struggled once more, but still failed to break free.

“Such as this… arrogant hero that thought it be a good idea to raid one of my warehouses.” Black Hat declared, and suddenly it clicked in Strongarms mind. He just didn’t know how Black Hat knew he had been the hero in charge, given that he’d blown out all the cameras before he’d even stepped foot inside.

And to be fair, he didn’t know that warehouse full of weapons had belonged to Black Hat. He would have gloated a lot more had he known.

“As such, he’d the perfect test subject for our newest device to enact revenge on your worst enemies. Observe.” Black Hat aimed the gun at Strongarm, and fired.

The beam hit Strongarm square in the chest, the bear dropping him onto the floor. Rather then jump up and clock Black Hat in the face as he’d planned, Strongarm collapsed to the floor, barely able to keep himself a few inches off the ground.

“As you can see,” Black Hat said somewhere above Strongarm, the demons heels clicking softly on the floor as he approached. “This wonderful device leaves even the most resilient of heroes completely helpless, allowing you to enact whatever form of torture you value best!”

Suddenly, a gloved hand wrapped around Strongarms neck, pulling his weakened body up to Black Hat’s level. A moment later he was flug across the room, smashing into the wall for a second time before collapsing back to the floor.

“Bidding starts immediately.” Black Hat declared. The camera pulled back, the little red light on its side going off.

“Now, as for what to do with you.” Black Hat mused, turning his attention back to Strongarm. “I suppose lit’ Jack would be getting hungry by now…”

“Sir, wait.” Flug spoke up, stepping closer to his boss. “Can I have him?”

“Have him?” Black Hat snapped his gaze back to Flug, pausing for a moment before suddenly grinning. “Of course Flug… just try and keep this one alive for a couple days this time, alright?”

Strongarm was struggling to get up, but when he turned his head to the side he jumped as he realized the girl was… clinging to the wall, smiling brightly at him.

“Night!” she chirped, the last thing Strongarm saw being a mace suddenly flying at his face.

#villainous #flug #demencia #505 #cambot #blackhat #paperhatcollection

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addictionfreedom · 6 years

Text

Crystal Meth Recovery Stories

Contents

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For over 5 years. about 18

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