#cot parody | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

iviarellereads · 1 year

Text

Harrow the Ninth, Chapter 29

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Third House icon) In which a dinner party is planned.

August holds to his promise to gild Ianthe's arm. Mercy is curious-skeptical of Harrow's mental abilities when she can't even get Duty’s name right, even though Harrow obviously DOES get the name right because she says Ortus, never mind the headaches and nosebleed-feeling when Mercy says it and touches Harrow's head.(1) Mercy declares that she lives "in the worst of all possible worlds."(2)

They lay in Ianthe's bed, not laying together but simply staying together for mutual protection. Harrow asks why Ianthe keeps all the scandalous paintings of the Third House founders in her room, and Ianthe says "It is the type of energy I wish to take into my future".(3)

They discuss the mission to kill the Saint of Duty. Ianthe says if it were up to her he'd already be dead, which Harrow doubts privately.

"The real problem is Teacher. I'm not sure you can kill Ortus quickly enough to avoid Teacher bursting through the wall with a merry, 'Not on my watch!' and bringing him back from a deathblow."(4)

Thus, she relays to Harrow that at her request, Augustine has agreed to distract God so they can kill the Saint of Duty. Harrow is surprised that Augustine would agree to helping kill his brother in arms, but Augustine doesn't particularly like Ortus, and with Ianthe at full function, they can totally take on RB 7. So, Harrow will have an hour after dinner, tomorrow.

They lay down to sleep. Harrow feels overwhelmed by all the pillows, the satin texture of the sheets(5), the breath of anyone else beside her. Ianthe expresses that she hopes Corona is sleeping well, as until Canaan House, they spent only three nights apart, and on one of those, Corona cried so hard she vomited. Harrow says she's never slept with anyone in her life, always alone in the cot in her cell. Ianthe says she'd forgotten that Harrow was a proper nun, and asks how old she really is, given Mercy's exaggerations of her youth. Harrow answers, eighteen. Ianthe says she remembers being eighteen. Harrow reminds her that she's only twenty-two.

Ianthe asks if Harrow still carries all those letters from her former self, and Harrow responds affirmatively, cataloguing the location of each in hollow spaces in her exoskeleton. Ianthe asks if Harrow has any regrets, and Harrow answers no. Ianthe says Harrow was more farsighted than herself, and Harrow thinks that's the highest compliment Ianthe's ever spoken.

Before closing her eyes to sleep, Harrow takes another look at a painting of Cyrus the First's cavalier, and realizes the woman would have died at Canaan House, and Cyrus must have brought these paintings on purpose, to remember her by. Her own cavalier doesn't plague her much, except as a headache in the temples, or in words stuck in her head. She mentally recites some of Ortus's Noniad to herself.

Warrior proud of the Third House! Ride forth now as my sister! Ride we to death, and the proving! Ride we with heads held high; we shall bloody our blades in the foe's heart; death shall we bring the foul ones-- Death shall we win for ourselves, as the prize for our high deeds done on the ash-choked plains of the ravens!

And then she falls asleep.

The next morning, they receive an invitation (on real paper!) to dinner, from Augustine. There's a parody of a makeover montage with Ianthe, during which Ianthe says Naberius was a dab hand at sewing, and she wishes that killing him gave her his needlepoint skill along with his sword.

The worst part was your sudden resemblance to your mother. "I am very satisfied," pronounced Ianthe. You said drearily, "I look like am imbecile." "You look just good enough that I'm proud of my handiwork, but not so good that I'll be consumed with lust and ravish you over the nut bowl," she said. "I walked a fine line, and I walked it admirably. Go and fix your paint; your skull's dribbly."

As an act of protest, Harrow applies the least aesthetically pleasing skull in the canon of Ninth face paint. Ianthe wears a gown that looks like a few layers of gauze, with her Canaanite robe over.

They go to Augustine's quarters for dinner. He reminisces about the old days, when Ulysses was a madman (affectionate and complimentary), and Cassiopeia couldn't hold her drink. Harrow asks him why he agreed to help her kill Ortus. Augustine admits that his brother occasionally forms obsessions from which he cannot be dissuaded, and in just the last forty years(6) he's caused Augustine no end of pain. He says not to worry, Duty will leave first and go to the training room, and Harrow and Ianthe will leave at the signal that they will absolutely recognize but he will not tell them first lest they give away that they're waiting for it. He adds that when he wants Ortus to leave, "he'll be giddy-gone" which doesn't make sense to Harrow.(7)

Mercy arrives next, and August asks if she accepts the terms of the offer. Mercy will accept if he swears on the sword, so he raises up his rapier and says "I swear by the sword of Alfred Quinque, best of men and cavaliers, that the details of your, ahem, business will not be told by me, or revealed by me, or let fall from the lips of my mouth nor the pads of my fingers - even though I think it will be the death of us," then bids her accept. She accepts, and demands to know the plan.

"Once you hear it, whatever you do to me, don't do it below the neck. None of my other shirts are pressed." "Stop drawing this out! Tell me!" He cleared his throat and said: "Dios apate, minor." You had a front row seat to Mercymorn's dreamy eyes going quiet; the eye of the tempest, before she reared back and punched him full in the face.(8) There was not much force in that blow, which barely snapped his head back, but he whitened as though her fist had been a battering ram. He gagged, doubled over his washstand, and ejected a mouthful of teeth--a tumbling, plinking bowlful; he held his hand over his red and dripping mouth and closed his eyes, and after a few moments straightened back up, a trifle greyer, running his tongue over his regrown incisors.

He repeats "minor" a few times, she says he's lost his mind, then they exchange information in their wordless shorthand of facial expressions, which seems to placate her. She says she's not wearing the right dress for this, but he says she's perfect. Ianthe looks at Harrow and quirks an eyebrow in a way Harrow recognizes to mean "Who knows?" Harrow worries that, in a myriad, she'll have the same facial shorthand with Ianthe that the olds have.

In the end, Mercy makes disgusted noises, and anxiously complains "White wine!" August takes the young women, one on each arm, and warns them that whatever happens, they are absolutely not to get involved. Ianthe looks smugly at Harrow behind August's back.

The plan moves forth.

=====

(1) Do you have it yet? I think it's safe to say by now that you can guess at least part of the answer to these nosebleeds and headaches and people's lips moving the wrong way for pronouncing "Ortus" when talking about either Harrow's cavalier or the Saint of Duty. Muir makes a mystery of it, not a secret. (2) I wouldn't precisely put money on it, but I would hazard a guess that this is a reference to "the darkest timeline". The TV show Community, which has not aged very well, had an episode where a d6 was rolled to determine who at a gathering would leave and get pizza. One particular roll resulted in several accidents and fires, a lost limb, and other horrible things. This became a meme for the remainder of the show, and in our hearts, the darkest timeline. Where all the bad things that can happen, will happen. (3) I'm not sure how common this sort of vibe is outside my circles, but this felt like a VERY common sort of thing on Tumblr circa… 2013-2015? Especially at the New Year season. (4) Kool-Aid Man reference, almost definitely. Bursting through walls, just casting anti-death magic instead of saying "OH YEAH!" (5) Fun fact a lot of people don't know: satin is a weave (or, really, a family of similar weaves) that can be done with most fabric making materials, not a fabric itself. Silk, polyester, cotton, even linen satins exist. (6) There's that time frame again. (7) But it can make sense to us! Giddy-gone may be a reference to the game Dragon's Lair, which has a room populated with Giddy Goons, and an achievement called Giddy Gone for navigating it a certain way. (8) What in the world could THAT mean? Well, Dios means "god", as derived from Latin "deus", and Apate was a Greek goddess of deceit. And, well, they are deceiving Jod to give Harrow an hour… but why would Mercy punch August like that for these words?

#the locked tomb #tlt #harrow the ninth #htn #harrow the ninth spoilers #htn spoilers #harrowhark nonagesimus #ianthe tridentarius #augustine the first #mercymorn the first

3 notes · View notes

talesofmetalandmagic · 2 years

Text

"A waste of time"

Azir was called that many times, during his life. Despite being a lover of studies he was never meant for wisdom, and Nasus himself welcomed his presence at the libraries more for a passion project than for any future as a scholar.

He was fast and passionate and always curious, but putting things in the correct order escaped him. Again, like the little girl from Fantasia 2000.

See, some people (= boomers, like Their Imperial Majesties) are of the idea that people shouldn't do things because they like them. They should strive to be the best, put their life on the line for them, and damn any expectation that's not perfectly fulfilled.

Xerath was always comforting Azir because it was his duty, and because at that time he truly believed there was a level of care from the little prince towards him. But when it came to this department, it was also healing for himself. He too, coming from his own background, needed to heal from being seen as a thing, and finding purpose in leisure and passion just like... well, just like anyone.

They'd spend clandestine nights reading in Azir's bed – Xerath would sleep in a cot right next to it, as he also served as a bodyguard and sometimes even a body double decoy – stuffing their faces with dates and candy, and he always made a point to tell Azir he was good, he was not wasting his time, all that mattered is that he was doing his best.

~ ~ ~

Now that Xerath wields the reins of power, the lesson he imparts upon Azir is quite different. Azir must serve, so he may live. If Azir doesn't fulfill his purpose he can only thank Xerath's infinite kindness for being alive, wasting everybody's resources with his abject idiocy.

Azir, being an Emperor, has never built a temple before. He tries his best, following the simple instructions that Xerath gives him and focusing more on losing his thoughts in the task tham on anything that may hurt him.

Seeing the temple rise is a glimmer of hope for the captive Emperor – the taller it gets, the more content Xerath will be, the sooner he'll be let go. Sivir will be so glad to see him again... and Nasus, poor dear, he'll be screaming his name into the dunes already. He cannot make them wait, they need him and he needs them. Imperial synergy.

"Azir."

Xerath has manifested himself right behind him, like a wisp, or like he's gone off to imitate Fiddlesticks to taste even more power.

"Does this look like a temple, to you?"

"I think so, my lord."

"The fact that you think it looks good shows that it, in fact..."

Go away, stay back... Azir raises his hands in a bird-like parody of a boxer's stance. He's never even learned how to boxe, and he knows all too well it wouldn't work on a mage as powerful as Xerath, but it's the best he can do in his situation.

"...it does NOT..."

No, Xerath, don't you dare do this to me. He can agree that the columns aren't the same width, or that some stones do in fact protrude from them... and even that the last he built looks crucially diagonal compared to the others. But Xerath cannot expect an emperor to know how to build with stone. They did not teach him that. It's not what he is.

"...even RESEMBLE good, Azir."

"I apologize." He knows the formula: bows his head, offers his hands for the caning. "I'm a stupid fool, I'm a..." He wishes to bite Xerath when he forces him to say it. "I'm a waste of time. I accept any punishment, my lord"

"Indeed you are, Azir. You're a waste of time, a waste of space, a waste of breath. Imagine, once you called yourself an Emperor."

Because I am the emperor. "But punishing you wouldn't work. Your poor parents tried punishing you all your life, yet your immense imbecility proved itself a foe too strong. What we do, to pieces who don't work... is put them to use. I've learned this way before other things I would have preferred."

Xerath has a strange spell towards Azir. He hates him, he hates him so much he could brawl him for as thousand years like poor Renekton did, he would spit on all his portraits and stamp upon his grave... but when he brings up his own pain, a pain that doesn't even exist as a figment of imagination inside the imperial walls, whatever sliver of tenderness remains within the ex Emperor's heart seems to quiver at instinct.

If we could just... just talk. If I could understand...

"So, Azir." One of his underlings climbs atop the stairs of the cave, holding onto a standard wooden pick. "Now you will tear them all down"

"...what?"

He falls back down on earth, numb, hazed, and Xerath looks as if he's about to explode. "This idiot... I gave you an order. Take this pick and tear every single one of these columns down. May nothing but dust be left when you're done."

"My lord, no." How much time will it take... months, maybe years. Azir feels dizzy just as the thought. Sivir is not an Ascended, she'll grow old like everybody else, and she may never find out he's there – waiting, hoping, staining the good name of Omah with every new day in ruins.

"You speak back to me, Azir? Yet again"

He stretches his back, facing him head on. "It may take eons, my lord. And I cannot..."

Xerath slaps him in the face, but he was ready to take it. He knows now Xerath's finest blades are those of the mind. And for those he braces, as his tormentor speaks again.

"Eons... you dramatic simpleton, I loathe you so much. But even if it was eons, we have all the time in the world, and eons would in fact be barely enough for you to pay for what you did. Now go to work, and spare me your squawking: tonight, for your insolence, you won't receive your supper and you'll be caned ten times on each palm. Goodbye for now, Azir: you endless, unrepentant waste of time."

And like a nightmare, he's gone in a flash.

With tears of frustration in his eyes, his back feeling as if it could break, beak already full of dust, craving nothing more than to be put back in his cage and hood so he can reflect upon his situation and find some sense in the paradoxes of pain that pursue him, Azir chops ahead. Dust falls onto his tattered feathers, sticking to his sweaty skin, and is so coarse to the taste he cannot even speak.

#lol #league of legends #azir #omah azir #emperor azir #xerath #whump #azir's new groove #i am working on the bingo for the record #they'll be more actual fanfics and less summaries like these #but I still wanna make extemporaneous scenes such as these

5 notes · View notes

dayscrazed · 2 years

Text

Chain of Thorns Countdown!

For each day leading up to the release of Chain of Thorns, I’ll be posting one song parody inspired by Rent!

13 days to go: “Out Tonight” POV- Matthew

12 days to go: “Will I?” POV- Jesse, James, Alastair, Matthew & Cordelia

11 days to go: “I’ll Cover You” POV- Lucie & Jesse

10 days to go: “One Song Glory” POV- Thomas & Alastair

One Song Glory

Thomas:

One song Glory One song That’s why I go Glory My friends I leave behind

Find One song One last revenge Glory From the pretty boy tall man Who won’t waste opportunity One song He had the world crashing down Glory With the loss of a young girl A young girl

Find Glory Beyond the dimly lit streets One song Before the sunrise Glory And another ended life

Thomas & Alastair:

Time flies Time dies Glory One blaze of glory One blaze of glory Glory

Alastair:

Find Glory In my words that ring true Truth like a blazing fire So I can stop the shame

Find One song A song about love Glory Unrequited love of a young man A young man

Find The one song Before the killer takes hold Glory Like a sunset One song To redeem this empty life

Time flies And then, no need to endure anymore Time dies

#chain of thorns countdown #cot countdown #chain of thorns #alastair carstairs #thomastair #thomas lightwood #thomas and alastair #chain of thorns parody #cot parody #alastair x thomas #cot #the last hours #tlh

11 notes · View notes

purkinje-effect · 1 year

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 94: CORE Components

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 25. Go to previous. Go to next. The stars are all aligning. CWs: Coma, assault, ARS, infrastructural hazards.

(For the full illustration, click through to the chapter.)

____________________________________

Choly's sluggish eyelids parted. Several slow blinks did not moisten his bleary eyes. Murmuring, discomfort, and the rattling of various glass, steel, and ceramic wefted a drafty ambiance through the warp of antiseptic and cigarette smoke.

He shut his eyes again and sank against the limp pillow under his head. He wasn't ready to wake up in the Gate City Clinic.

Hushed conversation at his bedside roused him. He listened without stirring.

"Still asleep."

"For the best," Sticks told Bledsoe. "I don't want him worrying. He'd make himself even sicker."

He’s all right, he thought, relieved. I don’t hear Angel, though. Is it really…?

A silence pinned them. Bledsoe exhaled through his nose.

"Who are you even putting this on for, anyway?"

Sticks leaned on the edge of the desk-turned-cot.

"Do you think worrying is going to help him right now? All he does is worry about something. If it helped, he'd be the picture of health." Sticks quelled grousing under his breath. "He probably has his months-long chem bender to thank for him making it out of that hellhole in one piece. God knows neither of us did each other any favors in there."

"Tch. The fact you're touchy tells me this is all for you." A drawer slid open, and a cigarette filter crinkled against glass. The drawer shut again. "Thought you said that place was a computer company. You two found a chem stash there, and you just let him have it all?"

"You wouldn't have wanted what he got into. Not good for business. He's not smart about what he puts in himself."

"You're telling me. Questioned those smoothie things from the start."

"Those are… probably the one smart thing he'll take. We need to get another in him this week. It keeps him from getting sick. I don't want to see him get… sick. And I would think you wouldn't, either."

"Since when did somebody in your line of work start caring about the health and well-being of his mark?"

A chair creaked, and the weight on the edge of the cot lifted. Sticks’s breath fluttered.

"You've got me all wrong. Not at all like that."

"I'll leave you and your act to sort yourselves out. I have better things I could be doing than listening to a parody of concern."

Sticks huffed as the flat clack of Bledsoe’s loafers faded. He leaned onto the cot again, and traced at ‘Choly’s hand through the sheet.

"You are contagious, you little cretin, smoothies or not. Look at me, catching feelings… Hmph."

Sticks didn’t linger long. He patted ‘Choly’s hand and gave it a soft grip, and left ‘Choly to continue sleeping.

The footsteps faded out. ‘Choly opened his eyes to stare off into the Clinic in a bewildered delirium. Had he misheard them? Had he heard everything clearly? He wrestled between delight, despondency, and disquiet. He insisted to himself that he didn’t have much context, and chose to focus on the confidence that Sticks had discarded the brash emotions that had careened him through the winter. He shut his eyes with a small, broad smile.

Maybe it won’t be so difficult, after all, to patch things up between us.

A firm squeeze of his hand woke him next.

“Hey. Mindy, hey. I need you to be awake.”

‘Choly’s eyes flashed open. He blinked up at Sticks a few times before stretching. The chroma so distinctly resembled stage gels now. Even without glasses, he could note a distinctive crispness within the soft focus of the iridescent non-color. In the fall, they’d navigated an enervating substance; now, the medium rendered their reality here without resistance or distortion. Out of reflex he scanned the space for the presence of seams, or any hint of outside observation. He pressed his eyelids tight. He’d just got used to ignoring these fourth wall delusions, but here he was, foisted into some uncanny soap opera.

“Hey, no going back to sleep on me.” Sticks squeezed his grip on ‘Choly’s hand. “Liam says your fever finally broke. How are you?”

‘Choly groaned softly and turned his face into the pillow. A fever. Right. Time would tell how much of what he remembered turned out to have actually transpired.

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to sleep enough.” He glanced up at Sticks through his sweat-coiled hair. The ghoul held his hand with his right. He sat up with resolve at seeing Sticks lacked his Pip-Boy just like he did, and with it the prosthesis. When he couldn’t find the words, he found ill-placed humor. “You look like hell.”

“I look like hell. You’re the one who only just decided to consider rejoining the living.”

‘Choly cracked a broken grin at him, and lurched into an embrace. His eyes and nose watered, and he sniffled into Sticks’s stained tee. When the ghoul wrapped his arms around him, he murmured through the fabric.

“I’m glad you’re ok, is all.”

Sticks ran his wrist under ‘Choly’s mess of hair.

“Makes two of us.” He pulled back to meet his sentimental gaze with worn optimism. “I’ve been busy while you got your beauty sleep, you know. Got a head start rebuilding our funds, regrouping. Worked out what we owe Liam, too.”

‘Choly’s euphoria faded into a neutral smile.

“Unlike you to pay cash for services.”

“It’s an investment. Just like with you, hm?”

As Sticks caressed the side of his face with a genteel lilt. ‘Choly all but let him reassure him.

Surely, he doesn’t consider Bledsoe a partner that way. Not that I’d take issue with it, I guess, would I? An investment.

Neither of them had their Pip-Boys.

‘Choly pulled away from the hug to look around for Angel. He didn’t expect to find it, but it tethered him just to act on the hope, just to spite the string of uncertainties that strangled him.

A series of clacks and low scrapes trailed up to them. 'Choly's heart jolted in recognition. He leapt to run to the Mister Handy crawling toward them. Sticks held him back, to help him down off the cot. Angel reached them before 'Choly's feet hit the floor. He could help not crying until the tripodal robot balanced itself against the side of the desk to reach up and grip one of his wrists. His face ran wet and hot. He clutched it and rested his cheek against its scraped up, mismatched chassis.

“You made it, Moy Angel.”

“I’d make my way back to you in one piece or a thousand, Sir. I’m just as relieved to know you both survived.”

Angel eased to balance on its thruster collar so it could use all three tendrils to reciprocate the hug. Where 'Choly expected his curved reflection to meet him in its chrome shell, only an indistinct silhouette met him. If the human mind could not correctly interpret text in dreams, he wondered whether the same held true of mirrors. The thought fell flat in recognition that the interplay of chroma's physics was very much beyond him, especially devoid of caffeine and Mentats. He squinted into the shape that looked back at him, and focused as best he could on the things Angel was saying.

“Once I hit the water," it continued, "I couldn’t reignite my flame. And without propulsion, I sank like a rock. For my exceptional craftsmanship, I’m not cut out for swimming, I’m afraid. Mud choked out my thruster. I ended up downriver quite a way from here. But I knew if you’d end up anywhere, you would end up here--so I walked back to find you. I pray I haven’t worried either of you. I’m here now, and not a moment too soon, Mister Carey. You desperately require my attention!”

It sprang back up on its tendrils to scamper off. ‘Choly’s smile skewed with the tilt of his head, watching it go to the back room.

“Never worrying about itself…” He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his thin robe, and slouched to toss Sticks an expectant glance. His nerves needed the confirmation he’d forfeit their Pip-Boys. “What did it take for See’s to let you escort Angel inside?”

Sticks lost his humor and straightened.

“Not much. They know it’s basically family to you.” He looked past ‘Choly with a certain humility in his dark eyes. “You had that big bright plan to get me back Blue. I think Angel might be a little more important to you than Blue is to me.”

“Only because it was underwater several days.”

The vacuum of Sticks’s heart crumpling sucked the warmth from his face.

Oh, he’d said that aloud, hadn’t he. ‘Choly’s hand covered his bated mouth.

“I…”

Angel clambered up. It seesawed on the elbows of two tendrils and the third which held a deep aluminum tray. Several complaints sprang up in its wake, but the noise ceased once it sat itself in front of its companions.

“Well, of course I was underwater!” It scoffed, sitting down the tray beside ‘Choly. “I’ve the jammed thruster and condensators to prove it. Now here, Sir. I haven’t much, but hopefully it helps--”

Sticks stepped back with a wistful smile and crossed his arms to watch Angel take over.

“--Half a tin of water. The nurse insists she opened it to divvy it. And a tin of porridge. Do try to eat something, Sir. From the sound of it, you haven’t eaten in days.”

Angel handed ‘Choly the water. He took a testing sip. Wetting his mouth made him realize just how thirsty he really was, and he took several swigs. He looked to the tray, then set the water between his thighs to accept the porridge and a spoon. The stuff was still hot. He alternated between blowing on it and nursing at bites. It didn’t taste like much of anything, but he could tell his body was grateful to have anything now that his fever had broken.

He dipped a few fingers in the water to wipe at his eyes, then dried his face with the shoulder of the robe.

“Are we to shelter in place still, or can I shower? I feel revolting.”

“No washing, period.” Sticks’s weariness rumbled in his gravelly voice. “Whole place is on boil notice until the purifiers are repaired. You’re lucky you’ve even got that tinned water. The Lane’s rationing it so the patients in the GCC can get first dibs.”

‘Choly flattened and looked at the water in the tin. He held it out to Sticks.

“You just had your fingers in that,” the ghoul said. He relented to grace and motioned for ‘Choly to fork it over regardless. He took a drink. “Thanks for splitting it with me.”

“If you wanted some, you could’ve just said so,” he teased. He hesitated. “I didn’t mean that before.”

“No harm,” he dismissed with a thoughtful frown. He took another drink. “Water should be back on soon, anyway. Few days, tops. Threw my hat into the ring once I was sturdy. I’ll have you know, I still know a thing or two about plumbing.”

“Just a moment, Sir.” Angel got into its storage compartment, to offer him the Mentat tin. “Mister Bledsoe prescribed you these. You’re best to resume your regimen.”

“Thank you.”

“Not the only meds he could use, but one thing at a time.”

‘Choly sucked on the tablet and put a hand to Angel’s chassis. He handed back the small dry tin and nodded in gratitude.

“I’m speechless that you’ve returned to me in one piece.” He wondered about the seal of the storage compartment. “Here, let me see if everything inside you has stayed dry.”

The Mister Handy tucked the tin into its storage and popped it shut.

“Once you’ve finished your food, Sir. You must keep up your strength.”

That energized him to eat. Sticks chuckled.

“If you’ll allow it, I can check for you. Angel’s right that you should be worrying about recuperating.”

‘Choly bristled. He chewed and looked up with a reticent nod.

Sticks fumbled a bit as to how to do such a thing. Following Angel’s gestures, he pressed on the panel to deploy the recessed latches. The compartment clicked open again. Sticks pushed its contents from side to side a bit before pulling articles out one by one to set out on the cot. Many loose leaves and scraps once sandwiched into the Merrick Pharmacopeia[1] had spilled out. He focused on removing the larger items so he could get at the paper to right it.

“Stuff got shaken up pretty bad, but I don’t think there was anything fragile in… here.” Sticks trailed off feeling something hard in the folded officer’s uniform. He unwrapped the STAR Core inside it and eyed the circuitry. “All seems dry. Guess you have a change of clothes, if you want to get out of those handouts.”

“I don’t have my orthotics,” ‘Choly said through a mouthful. He gestured with the spoon at the STAR Core. “Or my Pip-Boy--”

“--You do.” Sticks waved between the spoon and the belongings on the cot. “I got it all safe. Promise. They’re just… a biohazard ‘til the laundromat’s allowed to run water again.”

All that effort to get those orthotics, and to fix our Pip-Boys, and--

“Oh, leave all that to me, Sir. I’ll have it all like new the moment I can dive in!”

‘Choly glanced between Angel and Sticks, and frowned.

“Your hand--”

“--Like I said, contaminated. Glove’s all gummed up. I’m not happy with it, either.” Sticks picked up the Core to scrutinize its odd glow. “Lot of good just one is gonna do us.”

“At least we managed any.” ‘Choly drank more water, and shook the shame from his head. “We’ll figure out something. Give me time to think how we should approach the Hall.”

Nearby Sacristan Haidinger was making his rounds checking on the ghoul patients. Their conversation piqued his attention, and he rose from kneeling to approach with a restless caution. His glow etched an uneasy smile.

“It's best you pack back up your effects,” he assured them. “You can… scrutinize them later. May I request the time to talk with you? I’ll keep it short. Simple. I know you both still recover.”

‘Choly's forehead tightened. He pulled his robe shut. His fingers wrapped in the sash.

“Can I at least change first?”

Haidinger’s shoulders tightened like he didn’t want to disagree, but had to.

“No need to get presentable, mmh? This will only take a few minutes. I must discuss some things with you, in private. The sooner we do so, the sooner we can all go on with our day.”

“In private. Not here?”

“No.” His grimace tightened even more. “No, not here, I’m afraid.”

The pair eyed one another. 'Choly eventually nodded and slowly eased off the cot. Sticks resigned to ‘Choly’s decision, and helped Angel re-pack its owner’s effects.

As Sticks helped him step off the cot, 'Choly said, “Angel has to come with us."

Haidinger’s smile warmed.

“...Of course.”

The priest led them out of the clinic. He glanced back with a small smile, and fell behind the trio to shepherd them instead.

"We're headed to Sutter Grove. Once we're there, I can give more precise directions. It's an urgent matter, but I also don't want to get too far ahead of you."

Sticks put an arm around 'Choly's shoulder to help him along. He huffed under his breath.

"All the way to the other end of the mall, just for someplace quiet?"

"I have questions for you which are, ehhh, sensitive in nature. I must guarantee there is no eavesdropping. I am intimately familiar with the layout of this building, and know of one such reliable room."

Without shoes or his mobility aids, ‘Choly’s attention could only wander so far from the task of deliberate footwork. The stone floor chilled his soles, and some tiles now harbored sharp edges, having either cracked or come loose. At least the residents had cleared away most of the dead vine-like growths. Or, maybe they simply hadn’t grown out this far from the pit. He shivered into Sticks as they rounded the Lantern intersection. From the looks of it, the upper levels of both Big Steve’s and the Anchor Inn now espoused a more permanent residential block for those that had lost their homes and leases since October. From the smell of it, he could tell Big Steve’s still housed the community’s relocated kitchens. He paused a moment to look over the guard rail. Most of the broken glass appeared cleaned up, but it had not been replaced. Hundreds of armillaries illuminated the Lantern itself, now exposed like enormous fireflies pinned in the air. He could make out that the lower level of See’s had struggled to keep the floodwaters from burbling out of the holes Gerry had excavated in the foundation. Squeegees and makeshift sandbags only helped so much.

He squinted and hemmed, and decided he’d caught his breath. He should have grabbed that other pair of glasses from Angel’s storage when he had the chance. They were heavily tinted lenses, and they were the wrong prescription, but he could halfway see. It wasn’t like there was any light to obscure here, anyway.

The untied aglets of Haidinger’s worn basketball sneakers tinkled behind them.

“You seem to be mending well, Sticks.”

“I’ll be better once we’re done with this. You can see how hard it is for him.”

“I appreciate that you come with me. I promise to make this worth your time.”

“Don’t get me wrong, priest. I do appreciate you patching me up. You understand that I’m tired and hungry, and my patience is down to a concept.”

“You can eat and rest soon enough. …Dweller, I nearly didn’t recognize you without your Vault Suit or Pip-Boy.”

‘Choly’s head perked from his gait when addressed. He readjusted the security of his robe sash and glanced back over his shoulder to Haidinger, but did not stop walking.

“I learned you two had left Ant Lane when See’s brought you in from the floodwaters,” Haidinger continued, his rough voice small but persistent. “This is the robot that caused so much fuss months ago, I assume? I don’t believe See’s would have risked themselves to hoist in a robot, so perhaps its return to you is a sign that the waters recede at last.”

“It came up only to my thruster when I found a way onto the parking garage rooftop,” Angel replied. It put itself behind ‘Choly. “Do forgive me, reverend, for not introducing myself before, and if I’ve spoken out of turn. I’m Angel.”

“A metal thing that believes itself to possess a touch of divinity… Peculiar. How to put it…” Haidinger fell quiet for some time. “The Upper Level checkpoint in the Anchor Inn could not be opened. Flood survivors were brought in from the roof access. In all my years, I’ve not seen such a thing. The building was made in such a glorious image that it could preserve us from myriad catastrophes. The water levels wrenched restoration to a halt. Once things can dry, work can resume, and we can send for more supplies and labor.”

Ahead of them, a throng of heavily armored See’s guards hustled past and down the stairs. ‘Choly couldn’t see where they vanished off to, and hoped it had nothing to do with the pit. From where they stood, he could recognize their proximity to Gate City Drugs, and glanced down to regard the row of dark, empty stores.

“Oh my.” Haidinger hurried ahead of them to get a better look. “The doors to the Custom House must have been damaged more severely than I knew. I overheard mention of Merrilurks.” He turned to them and clasped his gloved hands together with a terse earnesty. “It is a See’s matter, however. Allons vite, my brothers. I’ll be quick.”

They followed Haidinger inside Sutter Grove. Based on the state of the lower level of Big Steve’s, as they passed the diorama in the entryway upstairs, ‘Choly presumed that they had relocated it to spare it from the floodwaters. The compulsion chewed at him, to open it and look inside, to check for a carousel to-scale, but Sticks pulled him along before the thought could fully form.

A short offshoot of tented skylights followed into Sutter Grove from the building’s central length. Once they traversed past the entryway, only armillaries and Haidinger’s glow provided them vision. ‘Choly had never really noticed before that the skylights did provide a small amount of light to the upper level. He wondered whether the unusual contrast of the organic, sinewy, carved stone architecture of the church had been engineered to actively block out light, and to maximize the visibility of the chroma.

He decided that he hated that the diorama had greeted them more than that the chroma somehow felt so much stronger here.

They struggled with their bearings as Sacristan Haidinger took them through the winding corridors. Barefoot, ‘Choly kept finding himself staring at the uniquely carved stone floors rather than merely watching his feet. He dreaded to speculate how long it must have taken to transform the space into what it had become, let alone how much of it had been part of the original property. Haidinger led them into a side room, and held open the simple metal door for them.

“This room’s design deadens sound,” he told them with a small smile. “No ears will pry. Most days, it is to hear whispers, not be heard. Today, it serves another function.”

Sticks rolled his eyes at him and let go of ‘Choly. ‘Choly and Angel looked at one another. The room lacked furniture. Highly textured curtains furnished one wall, framing a bas relief of intersecting and concentric circles. To ‘Choly, the lenses formed by intersections unnervingly resembled eyes.

The door shut behind them with a faint metal scrape, and a mechanical series of clicks.

‘Choly was about to request a place to sit, but as he turned to Haidinger, the glowing ghoul was removing his gloves. Haidinger’s posture straightened to belie the anxiety in his features.

“All right, out with it,” Sticks groused with a slouch.

“You are in-- in possession of stolen property.” Haidinger stopped blinking. He raised his hands slowly, but did not gesticulate with them. “Return-- you must return it.”

Sticks scoffed.

“That’s all this is? What exactly is it you think we stole?”

“You have stolen a component from inside the Lane’s walls.” His stuttering faded out, the longer he held his ground. “You’re to tell me where you removed it from the building so I can reinstall it, and you’re to tell me how you learned of them at all.”

“So you do know about the technology in this place!” ‘Choly sneered, incredulous. “We know the Lane needs these. We were trying to bring some back with us so--”

“--Reverend,” Angel interjected, with the greatest obeisance it could muster already on bent knee, “surely this is all a big misunderstanding. Forgive me if this is an insensitive request, but could I implore you to put your gloves back on? It may be of detriment to my companions for you to go barehanded around them.”

Haidinger glanced to Angel with disarming pity, as though he couldn’t have expected a robot to bear any personality.

“No,” Haidinger eventually apologized with a small, terse smile and tremorous shake of the head. “No, I cannot. Not until this matter is resolved.”

‘Choly’s ears rang, and he froze. He became hyper-aware of the metallic taste in his mouth.

Sticks shouldered the door, which had no observable latch or knob on its interior side, then shouldered it again with a growl.

“Buddy, we didn’t steal anything,” Sticks insisted. He glared at ‘Choly through gritted teeth. “We’ve been to where they made ‘em. Isn’t that right, Mindy?”

“You’ve locked us in here until you get what you want, haven’t you?” ‘Choly’s eyes deadened as he spaced out watching Sticks. “You wanted a room where no one would hear you kill us.”

Unlike you, to care whether you die, he teased himself.

“It doesn’t need to come to that,” he warned. His rigidity of his movements continued to escalate. “Nothing we discuss here can leave this room.”

“But we need to take it to The Hall so we can--”

“--NON!”

Haidinger’s composure crumpled in a fit of hissed Keb.[2] He lunged to wrench ‘Choly’s wrist in desperation. The heat of his grip seared far in excess of any mechanical pressure. ‘Choly’s features contorted and peeled back in an indescribable agony. His jaw locked up, and his shock denied him any ability to produce sound. It nearly blinded ‘Choly to stare directly into the luminosity which welled up from the glowing ghoul and poured into his wrist, but he couldn’t look away as the glow circulated all the way to his fingertips and illuminated his blood vessels.

“What is wrong with you--”

Sticks tried to pry him off ‘Choly with a headlock. He hooked the arm that had ‘Choly under the armpit. But Haidinger held fast.

“Promise me! Promise me this subject dies here!”

Angel involved itself. It reached up to try to pull back Haidinger’s free hand. As it tottered on its thruster collar, ‘Choly tried to steady himself. He gripped one of Angel’s handles. When no one’s hold would break, it retracted its ocular lenses and threw itself backwards. Everyone toppled over onto it. Haidinger propped himself up on his hands, and knelt over ‘Choly. He wound back his hand again, palm spread wide, with a desperate delirium.

“I am Atom’s conduit,” he whispered. “Her Light can give life. Her Light can burn all away. If you will not return the Core to the church--by Her will, I will cremate it and all traces of it!”

“This is not what a civil discussion looks like, gentlemen.”

Angel righted itself and lunged in to shove Haidinger off of ‘Choly. The tackle sent Angel rolling tendril-over-chassis. Snarling, Sticks pounced on Haidinger, to punch him in the face.

“Stay off of him, or you’re the one that’s gonna be dust, you asshole!” He punched him in the stomach.

When he swung a third time, Haidinger snatched his fist and cradled it in both hands.

“If you don’t stop, you will lose your other hand as well.”

A yell curdled inside Sticks until it erupted in a scream. He whipped his hand away from Haidinger and put some distance between them. He still had Haidinger backed into the corner behind the door.

“Sticks, stop… stop hitting him,” ‘Choly eventually wheezed out, still flat on his back. “You brought us here to talk, we’re talking. No more burning. No more hitting. Obviously this is more serious than you let on.”

“Sir, let me help you up--"

‘Choly swatted away its tendrils with his right hand. The whole room swam with a vibrancy of chroma generated by the intense excitation of Haidinger’s irradiated outburst, emanating from just the small armillaria fastened to his tattered, piecemeal raiment. Every contour of the engraved surfaces of the walls, floor, and ceiling undulated with iridescent caustics he could distinguish even without his glasses. His head weighed an impossible amount.

Haidinger lowered his hands, but did not yet put his gloves back on.

“You said you have been to the place which made them,” he reiterated with an unsteady calm. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“If you’re desperate to make sure they’re all accounted for, then you know exactly what they’re for. Don’t you?”

“Twenty,” ‘Choly bleated. Mentally, he wanted to sling his left arm across his chest, but he couldn’t muster the courage or fortitude to move it at all. “There’s supposed to be twenty of them. What we have… it isn’t one of them. Had a whole crate of them.”

“Of course I know what they’re for. I have been Ant Lane’s sacristan for eighty years!”

‘Choly squinted his eyes shut, to force himself to focus. Where words failed him, names spilled out.

“Lockreed. Taskerlands. Luther. Guh… Greeley. Wrigley…? These things, they’re part of AEGIS.”

“What do you know of the Great Marbled Taskerlands?”

Haidinger’s voice trembled. ‘Choly wished he could shove the name back in his mouth.

“You sound like you know now that you were in the wrong, buddy. If you apologize and make it up to us, we can negotiate a price for this lovely computer thing.”

“Talking is hard. Shut up.” ‘Choly mustered the breath. “Taskerlands bought the Lane because of AEGIS. No idea what he wanted with it, but I do know he remodeled the Concourse to change what it does… Amplify it, maybe…? Those god damned. Metal faces.”

“The original architect’s financier left Ant Lane unfinished,” Haidinger corrected. Enthusiasm mounted as he spoke. “Taskerlands saw its great vision to completion, to ensure every detail was to the letter before the Great Division. His efforts culminated in one moment of perfect resonance last Division Day, when the Granite gifted everyone with vision and clarity.”

“And lasting brain damage,” Sticks muttered. “Maybe that first guy was right to question the safety of including all that junk!”

Haidinger deflated, to hear Sticks talking like this, yet pleasantry stitched through his voice.

“We all remember again, slowly. It is a lot for the human and once-human mind to fathom, let alone retain. Dweller, you sound like you remember more already than most.”

“I can’t call my knowledge memory. I wrote down everything that happened during the Nor’easter, as it happened. I’ve read what I wrote down. Is that valuable to you?”

“It’s… possible such a thing could be of some value, yes. But the Core itself is priceless! You cannot keep it, no matter what you know of its origins.”

“We didn’t nick it. Lockreed had surplus.”

“Why would this Lockreed have had so many?”

“Same property that designed this place. They manufactured Cores for a dozen facilities nationwide.” ‘Choly turned onto his side, but stopped short of sitting up. The metallic heaviness began collecting into a pit in his stomach. “Pretty sure only Ant Lane’s got a full AEGIS, though.”

��Mister Carey, you desperately need medical attention. Can’t this conversation continue at a later time?”

“You don’t have any RadAway, do you…?” he asked it.

“You’ve only the three Rad-X left, Sir.”

Sticks soured and crossed his arms.

“If he won’t let us leave until he’s got what he wants, then we have to cut a price here and now. My turn to say my piece. We had a whole crate of these Core things. The flood water probably washed ‘em all away. Ours is the only one left that we know where it is and whether it’s safe. Now, I think we all need some first aid right now, Angel included. But ‘Choly will not shut up about how this place used to have robots. The last thing I remember before the flood water knocked us out was us having an argument over whether Ant could have any robot repair equipment left. I thought it was stupid to suppose an anti-tech settlement would have kept any, even if it ever had it to begin with, but you’ve got to appreciate that I also didn’t expect any of that tech to still be operating. Is there anything, and I mean anything, that would help my partner repair his robot?”

“Something about you disturbs me greatly, ‘Choly. Time and conjecture have skewed stories of the original fleet of robots. I have always thought they were right to be sent away. They were not part of the architect’s blueprints: the original owner of the property added them. But, as Taskerlands did not remove them, we have never removed the equipment used to maintain them. The Children perform all the maintenance roles which the robotics once provided. So yes, there is a robotics station here, but it has not seen use since before I became Sacristan. Yes, I want that Core, but more importantly, I need your word that you speak of none of this to anyone.”

The effects of radiation poisoning diffused his capacity for delight.

“Why don’t you want anyone to know what this place really is? Shouldn’t the Hall know?”

“If no one knows the design of Ant Lane, no one can alter or destroy it.”

“Everyone seems to think something supernatural happened during the Nor’easter,” Sticks muttered, “but it was just some leftover advanced military tech frying everybody’s brains. This isn’t just about keeping the building safe. This is about saving your own ass. This whole cult is a sham.”

Haidinger flustered with incredulity. From where he lay in the floor, ‘Choly looked up to the priest with a haunted smile.

“The tech wasn’t supernatural. The Quiet Granite is more the Silenced Granite. The tech was damaged. Otherwise, it would’ve prevented the images… That part… the image of it… it lives in the granite, doesn’t it, Sacristan?” His fever-clammy hair clung to his face. “The Pelèrins, wasn’t it?”

He paused, only to grin wide.

“You really must tell me more of the things you remember, once you’re fully recovered.”

“Angel first,” ‘Choly insisted. He relented to letting the robot help him sit upright. “We’ll consider the nice scar this will leave as proof we shook hands on it. You have to take us to that station once I’m healthy enough to use it, or I will tell as many people as I can that technology made everyone experience what they did. If you can help me fully repair Angel, you have my word I will never speak a word to anyone.”

Haidinger huffed and hemmed, and gave Sticks and Angel a doleful glare.

“Do I have yours as well? And yours, robot?”

“Begrudgingly.”

“You’d be surprised to know just how adept a Mister Handy is at keeping a good secret, reverend.”

The glowing priest shut his eyes.

“Do stop calling me that. I’m Haidinger. If you must use a title, I’m Confessor, or Sacristan.”

Haidinger walked to the opposite end of the room and waited in the far corner.

“You said you’d let us out.”

“Patience.” The door clicked. “This room acknowledges Atom’s glow.”

Sticks helped Angel right itself. Haidinger offered ‘Choly a hand up, but accepted ‘Choly’s refusal with a respectful nod. Once the Handy could crawl along, Sticks guided ‘Choly along with an arm around his waist. They didn’t make it ten paces from the room before Hierosacristan Fresnel greeted them in the hall.

“Ah, there you are, Sacristan. Several said you came this way. Unusual, that you’d bring non-family so deep into the church’s chambers. Was I mistaken? Have you decided to join us?”

“What, no.” Sticks looked like he’d been shot. “No, just having a… civil discussion. Isn’t that right?”

“A civil discussion. Yes…” Haidinger thought on it. “Hierosacristan, you know, you couldn’t have better timing. Might I implore you for a favor?”

Fresnel alternated between confusion and concern, before ultimately giving him an interested nod. Haidinger stepped up to her personal space. They whispered in Keb for some time. He placed a hand on her shoulder with a pleasant smile.

“I trust your judgment.” Beleaguered, he left the trio with her, mumbling under his breath. “Quelle bêtises en Atome…”[3]

“I’m to escort you back to the Clinic, but before I do, I must be certain Haidinger made the right choice not to kill you.” Her volume lowered, and she smirked. “He says you know something of the Quiet Granite’s history. I’ll spare you also, if you can promise you’ll use that knowledge to assist in our restoration of the building.”

“I’ve already been helping with the plumbing repairs,” Sticks complained. “What more could you possibly want from us? We’re not engineers.”

“Ah, but I am. I’ve been trying to convince Haidinger to let me explore the utility corridors of Ant Lane for years. He is understandably protective, but I dislike the thought of pressing him by way of my authority. I am certain that the damages this place has sustained are not isolated to areas which its inhabitants can see. But, I cannot investigate for myself, and I know such work is more than just the Sacristan can take on himself. You have uniquely convinced him to permit you access. He has given me permission to escort you to one of the utility wings. Your need for the robotics equipment… It will require multiple trips, will it not?”

She trained a knowing gaze on them. In his state, it took some time for him to catch her meaning, but ‘Choly eventually reciprocated.

“I’m sure I can keep coming up with more reasons I need to get to it.”

She grinned wide and clasped together her hands.

“Magnificent.” She spread her hands in offering. “Allow me to carry you, won’t you? You look like death.”

Before either could object, she had scooped him up bridal-style effortlessly. Somehow, ‘Choly welcomed the chill of her metallic armor against him.

“You don’t need any help along, do you, chap?”

“I do doubt you could carry me, Mister Sticks, even if you wanted.”

“I’m glad to see someone found your cap,” ‘Choly told her.

“And it seems I’m glad to see someone found you. What a mess.” She broke off in a bright laugh. She shifted her grip on him to avoid touching his burned arm. “You struck a nerve with him, I see. What did you say to win him over?”

“He got lucky dropping names,” Sticks muttered. “Something about metal faces.”

“Even the Aldermen seek your help,” she brightened. “How auspicious!”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to discuss things with The Hall,” ‘Choly uttered, struggling to follow.

“The Hall represents the Laners. The Aldermen represent the Lane itself.” She smiled down at him without missing a step. “Leave all the arrangements to me. I’ll come for you tomorrow.”

“As long as there aren’t more secret murder rooms in this place,” Sticks said.

“The Lane’s ten thousand miracles only present a hazard for the unprepared.”

‘Choly crumpled in her arms.

“And who could have possibly prepared for what happened?”

“Atom’s forces often labor in ways incomprehensible to Her Children. If it is Her Will, we must abide. I am confident that last Division Day has taught us all we need to learn how to restore the Lane to its full glory.”

“So you understand that it’s a public safety matter? That it’s imperative to silence the granite?”

“The Lane allows this Granite to sleep. It is not our place to demand that it speak, or when it speaks.” Fresnel murmured, sentimental. “I suppose my opinion might be abnormal, since most can’t hear that the Granite whispers in its sleep.”

“Well,” Sticks said, “hopefully the church will consider your authority and share your perspective. This place is dangerous.”

“This Granite’s voice is loud enough that it could deafen even the Daughters of Radon. I’ll do what I can to ensure this settlement remains safe. It is my foremost duty as Hierosacristan to protect the Granite: and in its current state, its own voice would threaten to destroy it. I won’t have it.”

“You were adamant before…” ‘Choly began to glaze, overwhelmed with nausea and delirium. “You argued with Knott before… whether she could have seen those images… The likeness exists in other granite?”

“I will not speak of it. Not with you in such a state.”

“Tell me a story…” he whined weakly. “I’m tired of always telling the story…”

Go to Next »»»

____________________________________

[1] A smallish retcon. The Merrick Index was named for the Merck Index, but the more I think on it, the more it feels better to term the reference text a pharmacopeia than an encyclopedia. They’re closely related, but this fictional text predominantly functions as a means to index monographs, while the Merck more broadly indexes a variety of pertinent information on any given pharmaceutical.

[2] Sacres survived in tact as Joual evolved into Keb. If you’re familiar with the intonation of a complicated sacre string, that’s exactly the expletive style that’s been spat out.

[3] What a crapton of nonsense…

1 note · View note

yaldev · 2 years

Text

Conversion City

When Bruzek first left his ancestral manor, it was for the minimalist lifestyle of a military academy. He went from resting in a soft bed with layered blankets to an Army-grade mattress with an Army-grade frame. On his journey to Wojpier, Colonel Bruzek’s cot managed to be less comfortable than the wooden planks making up the floor of the ship, so that was where he slept. But the cot was still more comfortable than gravel, so at the first base camp Bruzek used it begrudgingly. It was only on promotion to Brigadier that Bruzek had a budget for accommodations, and his first request was getting a mattress back as he traveled Asteria in bulky transport vehicles on unpaved roads.

The experience brought a valuable lesson: home is all about furnishing. It’s the place that, however bare, fulfills your needs.

When General Bruzek was building a home for the Yaostayans, he thought back to the lesson of his travels: home is all about furnishing. It’s the place that, however bare, fulfills your needs. The Yaostayans needed civilization in its most honest form, so Bruzek gave the buildings every shape and size that stood in the rest of the Empire. He filled the air with artificial lights to show the visitors what the Empire could do. He would have tiled over all the dirt before the horizon if that’s what it took to send the message that in greenspace was the exception.

The only part Bruzek couldn’t change was the sky. Its shifting colors were a constant reminder of the magic that saturated this noxious land. Brigadier Demlow suggested the windows out of the buildings, denying the inhabitants the sky until they became Ascendants. Bruzek shook his head. That wouldn’t be adapting the captors to civilization, but a parody of itself. The Ascendants were never denied the skies; cruelty was not in the Empire’s nature.

---

Yaldev is a sci-fantasy worldbuilding project by Ulysses Maurer, with art by Beeple. By looking at narratives, stylized loredumps, bad poetry and little details, we'll witness the story of a planet filled with magical power, the nation which tried to conquer it, this empire’s dramatic collapse and the new world which emerged in its wake. Along the way we'll meet the characters who live here, and we'll explore questions about nationalism, rationalism, the natural world and the quest to master it. For all stories in chronological order, check out the pinned posts at r/Yaldev!

1 note · View note

lothlenan · 4 years

Photo

The full image of my ‘Spirited Away’ homage to Cot! If you want to see the comparison to the original, hit my Tumblr profile and find it there. I LOVED THIS MOVIE GROWING UP. I wasn’t a huge Mononoke fan from the get go, so it was Spirited Away that actually stole my heart and made me a Ghibli fangirl. My absolute favorite part of this piece are the little soot sprites in the corner -- and it worked out great that the figures in the original painting were barefooted, because I really wanted to include the part where Chihiro’s shoe was being ‘put away’ by the sprites. AHHH this painting was full of complex little details that took so much time to do. You can find a link to my shop + my video tutorials by visiting my website lothlenan(dot)com! Pierre Auguste Cot was an academic painter from France, and painted ‘The Storm’ in 1880.

#spirited away art #Pierre Auguste Cot #lothlenan #art meme #academic painters #art parody #digital illustration #digital painting #tradigital #soot sprites #no face #romantic art #studio ghibli #ghibli art

531 notes · View notes

theguildawards · 2 years

Text

Term 2 2022 Winners!

Thank you to everyone who participated in the second term 2022 hosted by The Guild Awards! The mod-team is excited to see so much amazing fanwork and their creators recognized, as well as the love shown for this fandom! It is truly an awesome thing to see!

Without further delay, here we are!

Winners of The Guild Awards for Term 2 2022!

Best Action/Adventure Fiction: “Let’s Play the Quiet Game - Rescue” by @rook2020-fanworks / Rook2020 (AO3) Best Alternate Universe/Reality Fiction (tie): “Kintsugi” by @pencilofawesomeness & “let me be your haven” by @splendidlyimperfect Best Canon Fiction: “Reunion” by @zal-eska Best Angst Fiction: “just like me” by @anilesbian / DragonsAndCryptids (AO3) Best Dark Fiction: “Refinement” by @kiliinstinct Best Drama Fiction: “The Misadventures of Slitherfuck and Metalface” by @cobrakiin / lilykotsu (AO3) Best Humor/Parody Fiction: “Raging Shoes” by DancesWithSeatbelts (AO3) Best NSFW Fiction (tie): “smell so good” by @delirious-donna & “Use Me” by @blessedfatui / horromantic (AO3) Best Oneshot Fiction: “Laxus’ love tips” by @jemmahazelnut Best Character Portrayal: “Legacy” (Cana Alberona) by @tobethefairybest Best Romance Fiction: “Mirajane’s Matchmaking Service” by sadrareshipper (AO3) Best LGBTQ+ Fiction: “A Bet on Love” by @sandwitchstories Best Serial: “Greedy Dragon” by @moeruhoshi Best Ficlet: “I’m Not Jealous, I’m Curious” by Sofya29 (FFN) Best Completed Fiction: “Dawn of Adventure” by @heartofroses112 Best Action/Adventure Artwork: “twin dragons in fight” by @celestialrayna Best Alternate Universe/Reality Artwork: “Gruvia Week 2022 Day 3: Radiance” by @imyourcoopid Best Canon Artwork: “Untitled” by @moxiepoxart Best Angst Artwork: “I’ll take care of you” by @jmoart214 Best Dark Artwork: “Untitled” by @wolfcry77 Best Humor/Parody Artwork: “Dragon Slayers as Kids and their Dragon Saga” by @acnologias-ass Best Kiss Artwork: “Under the mistletoe” by @joshdinobarney Best Romance Artwork: “Untitled” by @imyourcoopid Best LGBTQ+ Romance Artwork: “The Prince’s Bride” by @twomanyideas Best Character Artwork: "ナツ" by @junryou Best Duo/Pairing Artwork: “Untitled” by rellanokid (IG) Best Group Depiction Artwork: “Untitled” by @k-cot Best Manga Coloring: “light and shadow” by @castkorb Best Redraw: “January Redraw” by @raptortier Best Overall Artwork: “Local Fairy Tail Fire Eater” by @evelyn-art-05

Congratulations to all the winners! Your awards will be ready soon! Please send one of the mods or our ask box your preferred email address so we can send them to you!

As this term comes to a close, The Guild Awards will be taking a short hiatus. This time is always spent reviewing the process and seeing what can be revamped for the next term. We also love hearing from the fandom (ie: YOU!) for suggestions regarding any changes or additions.

We will officially be back in full swing on October 1st! We will still be around in case you have questions or concerns, but please take this time to read new fanfiction and find new fanart. We strongly encourage for everyone to nominate different writers and artists for the next period, so to spread the love of this fandom around.

As the day gets closer to the start of the next term, we will be keeping everyone in the loop when it comes to changes and updates. We wish you a wonderful rest of the summer season! Thank you all again for making this such a wonderful experience! See you soon!

- The Guild Awards

#fairy tail #theguildawards #ft awards #tgat22022

131 notes · View notes

nat-20s · 3 years

Text

for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

#jonmartinweek2021 #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #AHHH this is just over TWO THOUSAND words #i really was like for the last prompt i will not Shut Up lmao #also fun fact! part 4 was specifically designed to not be clear whether it was from jon or martins perspective

295 notes · View notes

abarbaricyalp · 3 years

Note

Hi! If you're still taking propmpts. SamBucky, sequel to Push All My Buttons. Established Relationship: Sam comes back home to Bucky after Riley gets shot down during a mission and is a complete mess. Bucky comforts him to his best ability.

Friend. Friend. Friend. Why.

This is a sequel to Push All My Buttons. You don't necessarily need to read it to read this. This one is certainly not the same kind of fic.

CW: Severe suicidal ideation, discussions of grief, loss, and trauma, discussions of suicide

Link in the reblog

Excelsior

Bucky had nine months with Sam and Riley before they shipped out with the wings. He and Sam had been sleeping together for that entire time minus three days and they’d been dating for about two weeks less than that. As Riley had always said, ‘When you know, you know. Even if all you know is that they’re an irritating little shit.’ Which is what he thought both Sam and Bucky were, especially together.

It had been a really good nine months.

They shipped out late afternoon on a Saturday and that was a very bad month.

Bucky wasn’t military and Rhodes had left with the project and taken on his duties again elsewhere. Stark, in his own haze of being left alone, did not fill Bucky in on any developments with the wings, if he was even asking Rhodes.

The only thing Bucky got was the occasional phone call or text, in which Sam could barely talk about anything to do with the wings. Well, those and the program Bucky had on his computer. It was just the monitoring datastream for the jetpacks, essentially a condensed readout of what showed up on the wristlets. BPI and vitals of the wearers, elevation, fuel reserves, GPS, temperatures, difficult to decipher radar readings.

Bucky kept up with the readings religiously. He slept in his office space more often than not and scrolled through the information every morning when he did leave. So he was there at 6PM when the reading came screeching in. It was nearly a year to the day that they’d shipped out. It was a Friday. Bucky was actually packing up to go home and shower for once.

The program lost its mind the same way the wristlets would be. EXO-7 Suit 2 had lost all BPI and dropped elevation until… It hit the ground and went off line.

Bucky was pretty sure he passed out because he opened his eyes and he was on the ground, staring up at the fluorescents. There was almost no way to know for sure which pilot was in which suit. Suit 2, the Redwing suit, was usually Riley’s, but there was nothing to say that Sam hadn’t grabbed it that night. It would be about 2.30 in the morning over there. Mission like that could’ve been last minute. Could’ve taken them right out of bed. They could’ve grabbed whatever was closest. And Sam and Riley shared everything down to toothbrushes.

Bucky could comb through the data from the minutes previous. Try to rationalize out the BPI readings and find patterns, but the point of it being Sam and Riley was that they were similar pilots. Their build, their resting heart rate, the way they jumped into action. It was like watching twins move. Their readings weren’t different enough to prove anything, even if Bucky could make his arms and hands work enough to scroll back.

The other suit was still online. It dove halfway down before stopping as the radar lit up with projectiles. Again and again, like a bird dashing into traffic for another’s dead body, Falcon tried to get down to Redwing against enemy fire.

Bucky snatched his computer from its dock and raced to the elevator. His hands were shaking so badly he hit a few numbers below. The elevator went up to 88 and Bucky jabbed the door close button over and over. 89. 90. 91.

Bucky burst out on floor 92, tried not to think about the fact that just looking at elevator buttons had made him start crying, and ran towards Stark’s workstation.

“Call Rhodes!” he shouted and didn’t give a shit about the tears in his voice. “Call Colonel Rhodes right now.”

Stark sprawled upright, having apparently been asleep, and reached for his phone before narrowing his bleary eyes at Bucky.

“Barnes? What’s going on?” he asked.

Bucky set the computer down on a mess of other electronics. “One of...one of… Fuck!” A sob ripped its way out of his throat and he angrily swiped the heel of his hand across his eyes. “One of the suits went down. Someone...someone…”

“Shit,” Stark said and grabbed the phone again. He scrolled through the data reports and flinched which made Bucky snatch the computer back to look at what he was seeing. It was the radar report for Redwing. A large, explosive projectile had been launched into radar zone just before the suit fell. Bucky dropped the laptop and it landed lid first in a box of papers but didn’t shut so he still saw the WARNING WARNING WARN--

“Rhodey,” Stark said. “Rhodey, what’s going on on that end? No, I said I’d stay out of it if-- I don’t care. I’ve got-- Rhodey don’t you--” He fell silent but Bucky could hear Rhodes speaking on the other end. Stark kept shooting glances at Bucky and flinching like he didn’t have control of his body. “Alright. Thank you. That wasn’t so hard. Yeah. Yeah. No, I won’t tell anyone. No, not even Barnes,” he said. “Yes, especially not Barnes.”

He hung up and then looked at Bucky. “I’m not telling you this. It wasn’t Sam.”

Bucky fell back to the ground, catching himself on his knees this time. His arms were too heavy to pick up and the tears were falling even faster now that he knew Sam was okay. Because if Sam was okay that meant that Riley… That meant that Riley… That meant that Riley was wearing the Redwing suit.

Bucky curled into himself on the floor and screamed until his throat went sore. Stark, bless him, did not try to comfort him. He fell forward enough to press his forehead to the tile and shouted again, banged his fists on the floor and then buried them in his hair instead.

He did not go home.

Stark gave Bucky a cot to keep in his office. Bucky learned to live on it while he stared at the computer screen. That night, Sam had given up on getting to the ground and had to retreat. The suit was taken off and it had been quiet since. That did not stop Bucky from staring at it. One night, it pinged a reading--something like 3 PM their time--and Bucky watched the jetpack get taken up into the air. Higher and higher and higher and higher. Higher than he’d ever meant for them to go. High enough that he started to worry for whoever was wearing it. They were running out of oxygen. It better not have been Sam.

Then the wings retracted and the suit plummeted. Bucky nearly knocked his computer over jumping up. There was nothing in the vital readings to suggest the pilot had lost consciousness or suffered any medical episode. They were just falling. And it wasn’t a mechanical malfunction. The wings had been pulled in.

The pilot was letting themselves fall.

It better not be Sam.

Bucky was really going to watch another one die. He was going to see Sam k*** himself.

The pilot opened their wings ten feet before impact and soared back up, looping around one and then landing heavily on the ground.

The wings came back off.

Sam did it four more times, once each night, before the wings came off and stayed off.

That’s when the GPS started to move.

Two days later, Bucky was at an airport.

It had been slightly more than a week since Riley died. Riley died. Riley died. The words were wrong in Bucky’s head. His tongue rejected them without even trying to say it.

Here’s what Bucky knew about Riley. He knew Sam and Riley had known each other since their first tour. He knew that they took their education leave at the same time, went to the same school, and lived together for the three years it took them to get a degree. He knew Riley knew Sam better than Bucky did. He knew Sam had a sister who loved Riley like another brother. He knew Riley loved Sam like his own brother and Sam loved him back.

He knew that in the nine months he and Sam had been dating, he’d really only give himself six, maybe seven of those because Riley got the rest of the time and half time for the months Bucky did claim. He knew Sam called Riley before he called Bucky when he was upset. He knew Riley was such a good fucking guy and so important to Sam that that didn’t even make Bucky jealous.

He knew that Riley didn’t like coffee unless it had been turned into a sweet drink and had whipped cream on it. He knew Riley was from the middle of nowhere and sometimes talked like an obnoxious parody of a cowboy when he was tired or drunk and definitely when he was both. He knew he was a baker. He knew he liked poetry. He kept books in his army bag.

But even if he didn’t know that and nine months worth of other things, the only thing he needed to know was that Sam loved Riley more than he loved breath in his lungs or wings on his back. He loved Riley to the point of giving up concert tickets because Riley got sick and couldn’t go. He loved Riley enough to listen to bad country music in the car. He loved Riley more than he loved sex, if the number of nights he cut out on dates or netflix and chill to pull Riley out of a bad decision was anything to go by.

Sam loved Riley, Riley loved Sam, and Bucky loved Sam so Bucky loved Riley.

And Riley was dead.

Bucky had paced a hole in the floor waiting on Sam. His flight had been delayed three times already and they were two hours past the first arrival time. Energy and despair and hurt thrummed through his body and Bucky couldn’t dispel it no matter how hard he tried. He’d tried to use the gym at the tower. He’d tried to run it off. He’d tried to eat. Tried to not eat. Tried to sleep. Tried to not sleep.

Okay, that one he didn’t need to try to do. He just didn’t sleep.

It remained, locked around his heart and his head.

Sam was coming back on his own. They apparently hadn’t been stationed with a real unit, so there was no one else to send home. Even if they had been with a real unit, Sam was the only one who needed bereavement. So there was no sea of camo or cropped hair to alert Bucky that Sam was coming.

One second he was alone in his grief, the next second Sam was stepping off the elevator. They met halfway across the floor. Bucky was surprised there wasn’t a noise as they crashed together, arms coming around bodies, faces pressed to shoulders, tears escaping again. Sam wasn't in his fatigues or civvies. There was nothing distinctly airforce about him, so they were just two men losing it in each other’s arms and no one knew the depth of it.

Bucky thought about apologizing but there was nothing to apologize for. There were no words to do so anyway. So he just held onto Sam, one hand coming to the back of his head to hold him close. Sam sobbed once, twice, and then collected himself.

Bucky had no idea how long they stood like that. He could’ve stayed for days longer. The hole in his heart was still very much so there. But the luggage turnstile next to them had turned on and off four times and Bucky really wanted to get home and cry in private.

“Baby, let’s go,” he murmured softly, kissing Sam’s chin and then his cheek. “Let’s get you home.”

“I-I-I need to get to our storage unit. I need to-to sort his things,” Sam hiccuped without lifting his head.

“Later. Not right now. You’re coming home with me, alright?”

Sam nodded and wiped his eyes on Bucky’s shoulder. He lifted his head and actually looked at Bucky for the first time all afternoon.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, brushing his thumb over Sam’s cheek to catch other tears.

Sam held his wrist and kissed his palm. “Hey.” He leaned down to kiss Bucky, tentative at first and then Bucky remembered that he’d thought it was Sam who’d gone down in Redwing for three minutes. He’d watched Sam free fall hundreds of meters to the sand below over and over. He’d almost lost him so many times. And Bucky crashed into him all over again and Sam pushed back. New tears fell, mingling together against their noses and lips and pressed cheeks.

“I can’t lose you,” Sam breathed into Bucky’s mouth. “Not you too.”

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” Bucky said.

Sam’s mouth slid off of his, anguish on his face again. His forehead leaned against Bucky’s temple. “He’s gone, Buck. I couldn’t even look for…”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and saw Falcon dashing through enemy fire. “I know, Sam. I know. You tried.”

“Not hard enough. I saw it on the radar before he did. I was going to call out but I…I didn’t, Buck. I didn’t say anything.”

Bucky had nothing to say to that so he wrapped Sam in his arms again. “Let’s go home, Sam. There’s nothing else we can do here. Just breathe for me. Come on.”

Bucky grabbed Sam’s bag and lead him out of the terminal.

Sam slept on the floor, which was fine by Bucky. Something about how beds were too soft. After a week on a cot, Bucky might’ve thought the same thing. So he shoved his coffee table out of the way and threw all the pillows he owned on the floor and laid down several blankets and they slept on the floor.

Sam barely spoke the next day.

He went through the motions of washing dishes after Bucky made breakfast. It was just cereal, so there was little to clean up. He turned on the TV and let it play a documentary about the oceans. It played all day. Over and over. Bucky was pretty certain he could ask Sam anything about it and Sam wouldn’t be able to answer. He ate barely half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. He read a book of poetry on the floor all afternoon. He ate dinner and Bucky washed the plates.

The second day was much the same, but then Sam was agitated. He flipped through shows and got mad when he couldn’t figure out what to watch. He slammed doors when he left rooms. He threw the pillows and blankets on the couch when he lost his phone, which he hadn’t been answering at all anyway. Bucky had left it plugged in on the arm of the couch. They skipped dinner that night and sat on the couch with the TV off and Sam laid in Bucky’s lap and cried again. They fell asleep like that.

The third day, Sam got up and made breakfast. It was cereal again. Bucky put on music. Sam washed the clothes in his bag. Handed Bucky a beautiful leather bracelet he’d picked up when they’d first landed overseas. Gave him another box and managed to say, “For the birthday he missed,” before he dashed to the bathroom and got sick. Bucky left the box on a bookshelf and went to Sam’s side, rubbing his back and massaging his neck. The gift was a jean and sheepswool jacket. They skipped dinner again.

The fourth day, they sat on the floor, staring at the bare couch. Bucky got tired of counting how many buttons had gone missing, so he said, “You have to talk about it.”

Sam choked but didn’t run for the bathroom. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sam, you can’t keep it bottled up. Listen, after I got back from…”

“You wanna talk about things we should talk about: how’d you lose your arm, Bucky?”

“This isn’t about me. And I was just about to tell you that when I got back from my mission, I had to do a shit ton of therapy. And I hated it. And it took me a really long time to start being honest, but once I did, it helped me recover more than getting a new arm did.”

“How’d you lose your arm?”

“I saw him go down. I saw all the readings.”

“That’s not the same thing. I watched my best friend…” Sam gagged again and brought his hands up to his mouth. Tears filled his eyes and Bucky was sure it was a combination of getting sick and being upset. “I watched him die. I don’t know why I even thought I could find a body. I could… Fucking pieces if I’d gotten to the ground. That would’ve been it.” Bucky flinched and Sam zeroed in on it. “That what you wanted to hear, Barnes? Is that what I needed to say to heal myself? My best friend is dead. Maybe his body could be cold before you ask me to fix myself.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not what I was saying, Sam. Don’t attack me. I’m on your side.”

Sam stood suddenly, swayed on his feet, then found his balance. “I’m going to shower. Please just...give me time to myself right now.”

Bucky dropped his head to the couch.

The fifth day, they were both called into Stark Tower by Rhodes.

It was too early, Bucky thought, to ask Sam to do more debrief. It was too early to ask him to face the world. Bucky had laid on his sister’s couch for two weeks before he could so much as answer the door when he got back.

Sam was in a mood again. Actually, the mood hadn’t ever lessened from the afternoon before. It was back to the silent treatment and if Bucky did push him to say something, he’d be cruel and biting, over descriptive and intentionally mean. Nothing at all like Sam. Or maybe, just like him. This was, after all, Sam at his lowest. How was Bucky to know what that looked like? The only man who could’ve told him was dead.

Bucky had called ahead and had two of the strongest, plainest black coffees waiting in the lobby of Stark Tower for him and Sam. Anything that wouldn’t smell like Riley. They got into the elevator alone and Bucky passed Sam one of the coffees. The doors closed and before Sam could reach over and choose floor 92, Bucky selected 2 - 91.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asked. It could’ve been a snarl if the day hadn’t already been so long. If they hadn’t already argued about Bucky wearing the jacket Riley had given him. If Sam hadn’t knocked a glass off the coffee table and shattered it on accident then cut his fingers picking up shards. If Bucky hadn’t slept in his bed like a normal person.

“We have to talk,” Bucky said.

“I don’t...fucking want to talk,” Sam said, trying to double click the floors like something said would unhighlight them. It didn’t. The doors opened on the second floor.

The doors shut. “I saw what you did the days after Riley died.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Sam snapped, like he hadn’t told Bucky this morning about the blood that had been on his suit when he landed.

“I saw you free fall. Over and over. I watched that, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw steeled and he stared at his reflection in the stainless steel siding. “I free fall all the time. It’s one of the things we learn how to do.”

“Not like that, Wilson. You went into the fucking atmosphere. There’s no telling what the wings would have done at the speeds you were clocking.”

Sam’s mouth remained a straight line.

“You could’ve died,” Bucky said to get it out there.

“Good,” Sam said, ripping off the bandaid.

The doors opened on the fifth floor. “Don’t,” they both said to the woman who tried to step in.

“I’m still here,” Bucky said.

“I know. And I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I felt that way. I’m sorry I still feel that way. I can’t make myself stop.”

Bucky swallowed hard and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Sam...I tried too, alright? You don’t… I haven’t told you the whole story about my discharge and I will one day. This isn’t the day for that. But my story isn’t clean. Not even close. And I tried it too. I thought that’d be a lot simpler than the bullshit I was about to go through. I thought it’d be a justice for the people involved in my story.”

Sam looked at Bucky sharply, eyes red, tears wet on his cheeks.

“It wouldn’t’ve been. So I need you to tell me what’s going on and how we can fix this.”

Slowly, the fight seeped out of Sam’s shoulders. Common ground at last. A shock to his system. A bitter, bitter win for Bucky for the time being. Sam sank down and stared at his coffee cup. “I’ve known Riley for over a decade. More than anyone else in my life who ain’t blood.”

Bucky sat beside him. The elevator stopped on three floors.

“I’ve known him for a third of my life. The first serious third. I think I grew up more with him than anyone I went to school with. I’ve never had to do this on my own. He was always right next to me. I haven’t made a decision without asking him since I decided to sign up.”

“So, poor track record of making your own decisions,” Bucky joked softly.

“I was going to let myself do it,” Sam whispered then. “I wasn’t going to pull the wings back out.” Bucky’s heart went cold and still in his chest before roaring back to life. “I’m sorry you could see the readings. I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not upset I saw it. I’m upset that you felt the need to do it.”

Sam looked over at him. “Sure, but let me ask, what stopped you from following through?”

Bucky stomach twisted painfully. It was his turn to get nauseous. “I didn’t want my sister to find me. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Sam nodded. “If I know you might be watching those readings, I won’t be able to do it again.”

Bucky nodded and brought the coffee to his lips. It scorched his mouth and throat and he didn’t taste it all but the point wasn’t the taste. The doors opened on the seventeenth floor.

“We’re going up,” Sam said in a quiet voice.

The doors closed.

“He was my friend too,” Bucky said, voice raw. “You can talk to me about him.”

“I know that. I’m just not in the sharing mood right now.”

The doors opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. Opened. Closed.

“I fell off a train,” Bucky said. “I told you my SpecOps mission was in the mountains. I was knocked out of a moving train going around the side of a mountain and I… I’m not really sure how it happened. I might’ve reached out for the cliff face. I might’ve just hit it on the way down. I didn’t have my arm when I woke up on the ground.”

“Well, shit, maybe a bear ate it while you were out.”

“Nah, the doctors said it was too smooth. It was ripped off all at once.”

Sam flinched and then closed his eyes.

“I actually had a little bit left. I dunno, half of my upper arm, maybe. It was removed later. So, I guess it wasn’t that smooth and pretty. You know what I remember most?”

Sam hummed without lifting his head.

“I remember the jacket I was wearing. We’d been undercover when we were called into action. I was wearing a beautiful jacket that I’d picked up somewhere when the mission was still an adventure and not a nightmare. And I remember laying in the snow, looking at all that blood and my missing arm and being upset that my jacket had been ruined.”

Sam snorted and then lost the battle against sobs again. He set the coffee aside and moved over to hug Bucky, crying into his shoulder. Bucky wrapped his arms around Sam and kissed his hair. “We’re gonna get through this, Sam. You’ve just gotta trust me to hold you up. And you’ve gotta trust me to be on your side. I’m not gonna say shit to make you follow the rules or whatever. I’m gonna say shit that helped me, rules be damned.”

“I miss him so much. It’s only been five days. How am I supposed to go seventy more years without him? I’ve called his number a hundred times already and no one ever picks up.”

Bucky rubbed Sam’s back and nodded. “I know, baby. C’mere.” He pulled Sam more into his lap. Sam clutched at his shirt with trembling fingers “I’m gonna be right here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I feel so fucking alone.”

“You’re not, Sam. I’m right here. I’m with you.”

Sam pressed his face further against Bucky’s neck and Bucky felt his tears, cool and heartbreaking. He didn’t have words. He just kept rubbing his hands over Sam’s back, kissing his temple and his hair and saying, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” Hoping Sam would hear him through his grief and believe it.

He held him for forty more floors and they cried together. The elevator continued ever upwards. They pushed forward ever onwards.

“I’m right here,” Bucky said as the doors opened on floor 92. Sam nodded against his shoulder and slowly stood up.

Upwards and onwards.

#sambucky #sambucky fanfic #sambucky fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon #winter soldier #captain america #writing #i answer things

11 notes · View notes

vindicatedvirgil · 4 years

Text

not every wave is a tidal wave

Summary: Logan is a sea captain… but he has a bit of a fear of what lies at the bottom of the ocean. At times, Logan is unsure of his choice in First Mate, but Remus proves that he was the correct choice.

Inspired by a piece of art by Cat from discord!!

Title inspired by the song Tidal Wave by The Mountain Goats.

Ship: Platonic Intrulogical (Remus x Logan)

Warnings: Discussion/Fears of what lies at the bottom of the ocean, teasing from Remus, but fluffy platonic appreciation and platonic cuddles at the end. also i know nothing about sailing whoops

Word Count: 1406

---

Logan peered out at the waves rolling beneath the ship, and, for once, he let his mind wander. Sailing was peaceful (most of the time): the soft spray of ocean mist, the sound of the waves below and gulls above. When his crew wasn’t shouting over sail positions and trajectories, Logan found himself leaning against the railings, eyes focused on nothing but on everything — the horizon, the sun shining off of the sea… all of it.

As a child, Logan was sickly, and spent all of his time indoors, reading about pirates sailing on the open water, going on adventures, battling for treasure. And now as an adult, he spent all of his days on the water, seeking that same thrill that he felt every time he embarked on a journey with one of his books.

Books never told him how messy and uncomfortable life could be out at sea. They romanticized every aspect of sailing, a harsh reality that Logan had to confront once he became Captain of his father’s ship, Curiosi-Sea. It was a name that Logan absolutely despised, but his father’s final wish was for the ship’s name to remain. And so, Logan kept the name. Spitefully. He was a serious captain, not silly like his pet-loving, pun-making father. And he made sure that his crew knew that he was serious; almost every single one believed this.

Except for one. Remus was a strong-bodied and even stronger-willed crewmate who quickly proved himself to be worthy of being Logan’s First Mate. But compared to Logan’s neat appearance even on the roughest days at sea, Remus wore torn shirts and pants, his curls framing his face in an unprofessional light. And the comments that Remus would make… they made Logan shudder to remember.

And it was at that moment, that meditative moment in the early morning light, when Remus decided to rear his head once again, throwing Logan for a loop. The captain barely registered the footsteps thundering behind him, and so he jumped when a hand clapped onto his back.

“Morning, Cap! Hey, what’s with the long face?” Remus mused, leaning against the railing, a smirk toying beneath his mustache. Logan had to constantly bite back the suggestion that Remus trim or remove the mustache, because he knew that the first mate loved it; it separated him from his twin brother, who had remained on land to become a successful businessman. “Thinking about the name of the ship again, are we?” Logan blinked at the man; how could he perceive him so well? It was like Remus knew the ins and outs of Logan’s every move, and it was absolutely startling.

“What? No,” Logan lied, eyes returning to the spot on the horizon that he had focused on before being rudely interrupted. “Get the men up, we need to weigh anchor and get moving before the next storm hits.”

“Yessir!” Remus mocked, his hand flying up in a parodied salute before spinning on his heel, his footsteps slowly fading away, leaving Logan alone with the sea once again.

The rain battered against the window of Logan’s quarters, the flickering candlelight beside him the only thing keeping him awake to read one of his old battered novels. They had escaped from the brunt of the storm in time, but the rain and thunder still howled outside, his men safely tucked away in their cots.

Still, Logan couldn’t bear to sleep; not on a night like that, when there was sure to be flooding on deck the following day. There were plans to be made, and their next move to be planned, but Logan couldn’t allow himself to touch those things; he needed the comfort of one of his childhood books, the worn spine and dog eared pages reminding him of a time when his thin fingers would turn the pages so quickly they tore, all because he strove to know what would happen next in the story.

There was a banging out on the deck, and before Logan could even set his book down to go investigate, the door to his cabin swung open, revealing a frantically smiling, soaking Remus. Logan let his book fall to the table as he stood, grabbing some material from his linen closet to throw over the man.

“What in the world are you doing, Remus?” He demanded, trying to force his worry down his throat in favor of sounding more stern (though he was sure his eyes, despite hiding behind glasses frames, would give him away). “You could have been thrown off deck with no one to notice.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I had a rope tied around my waist in case that happened,” Remus laughed, carding one of his hands through his sopping hair. “You should have joined me, Cap. Dancing in the rain brings a lot of joy to one’s soul.” Logan couldn’t stop the hasty breath that pushed out of his nose in disbelief at this.

“I don’t dance, Remus,” he said simply, leading Remus to sit in one of the chairs at the table. Once the first mate was seated, Logan sat back down where he was previously, but his eyes were still trained on his friend. “Pretty late in the night for a dance, is it not?”

“It’s pretty late to be up reading an adventure novel, and yet, here you are,” Remus bit back, but his tongue stuck out between his teeth, showing that he was teasing his Captain. “Rumor has it that you’re afraid of the bottom of the ocean, Logan. Are you afraid that a squid might eat you?” Logan blinked, briefly wondering which of the older crew, which of the men that had previously served with his father, let this information slip. He cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses.

“I can assure you that those claims are false,” he said quickly, but Remus narrowed his eyes at the man, then nodded. Logan was grateful that, for once, the man didn’t press the subject any further. “I thought I would read a bit before charting our next course of action. We need to dock somewhere within the next week to refill supplies.”

“You should rest,” Remus finally said, his eyes landing on the perfectly made bed. When was the last time Logan had slept in his bed and not at his desk? “If we’re meant to dock within the next week, we might be running some late nights between now and then.”

“I can’t-”

“Because of the storm?” Remus asked. Logan looked down at his hands; they were dry from the consistent dampness of the ocean air, but then he nodded.

“I’m not as strong as my father was,” Logan admitted, his eyes trailing to the portrait hanging on the wall. His father was the strongest person he had ever known, despite the puns and silliness, he put his crew and family first. Logan could remember being brought onto the ship for the first time in his adolescence, and how proud Patton had been to show off his son who could read books, his son who would make an amazing captain someday. And yet… Logan was sure that he could never live up to his father’s shadow.

“You don’t need to be as strong as he was,” Remus said, pulling Logan free of his memories. He blinked up at his first mate, who was drying off gradually, but had a serious look on his face, an unusual sight. “That’s why you have a crew, and a first mate. You’re exactly the kind of captain that you need to be, not the kind of captain that your father was.” Logan sighed, but nodded, knowing that Remus was right. Logan had let his own insecurities wash over him instead of allowing himself to feel emotions. His father was the most emotional man he’d ever met, and yet he was still fully capable of being a great captain. “Get some rest, Logan. I’ll stay here with you tonight.”

And Logan listened. He shed his overcoat and set his glasses on the desk, then burrowed himself underneath the blankets of his bed. He barely registered Remus changing out of his damp clothes, blowing out the last candlelight, and climbing into bed behind the captain, holding him to protect him from the nightmares of dark ocean abysses and squids eating him alive.

Remus was a great first mate, but he was an even better best friend.

---

[SEQUEL: harbor me when i’m lost, when i’m breathless]

if you enjoyed this, please reblog! it helps creators like me spread our work to more readers.

[AO3] [tumblr masterlist]

#amanda writes sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #platonic intrulogical #logan sanders #ts logan #remus sanders #ts remus #intrulogical #please reblog

63 notes · View notes