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13tinysocks · 2 months ago

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My Dead Girlfriend

He comes in droves, hoards of himself, brokenhearted and wanting, wrecking cities for a chance to get one last glance at you. You're different, more than all of them expected. It's saddening for some, boner inducing for others. [Invincible Variants x reader]

Tw: Suicide, drug use

[Part one] [3] [Ao3] [View Full Piece Here - It's mine!]

2 * RX Only [6.7k]

"While my queendom crumbles around me,

I'm fucking stuck here sucking this cock,

I'll kill myself right here on stage,

And it's gonna fucking rock!"

I Win - Go Hang Music

Blood, guts, and sulfur, but no demons rising from the ground. Just a man in the night, backlit by the burning Sydney Opera House. Watching the blinking dot on his wrist cuff disappear. He holds his breath. Horrified. She was an illusion. A trick of a grief addled brain.

The screen automatically zooms out, showing a pixelated view of the northern hemisphere of the planet. The dot reappears in North America. Numbers flash in the left corner of his blue tinted vision. When he first saw his alternates, he thought they'd have the same upgrades. Super computers laced into the fabric of their suits. Considering how stupid they were acting and how one of them asked where Mount Rushmore was- they likely didn't.

He rises, scanning the numbers one last time, burning them to memory before minimizing them. Your coordinates and vitals, both monitored by the cuff. Perfectly healthy, alarmed, scared shitless probably, but healthy. Alive.

The breath he held lets go.

Eyes scan over Sydney one last time. Before he left, he had to ensure his end of the deal was complete. Be absolutely sure Angstrom wouldn't be displeased and send him back to where he'd came from. Sure, he hadn't expected to see (Y/n) here, so soon, he wasn't really done with Sydney. He could level the place if he wanted. Angstrom would approve, but Angstrom's approval didn't matter. All that mattered was bringing you home. Still, he searches for loose threads. Just in case. The machinery in his suit quietly whirs. He sees no survivors. Not with the rubble and fire. But his goggles lock onto the outline of forms in neon green, hiding behind a slab of rubble where he couldn't see. He's there in a blink. Stood at the one and only entrance of the little hovel the family had decided to hide in. Only one of them lives long enough to scream. There, done. Now he could- His lenses lock onto another hidden form. Then another and another. He sighs. Head turning to the floating ball beside him. Angstrom's drone making sure he was doing what he was supposed to. Five minutes, he told himself, five minutes to kill all these fucking people and be done with this place. It wasn't like he was going to lose track of (Y/n). He rose, up, up, up. More and more forms catching in the lens. He pushed a hidden button on the side of his lenses. A tiny segmented timer started in the left corner of his view. Five minutes, on the clock. *** "You're fucking kidding me." First the apartment, now CVS Pharmacy. You stood in the parking lot, breathing in acrid smoke. Looking at the building that was your personal emergency room for the last five years. That mohawked shapeshifting asshole must have rammed right through the place at some point. Bringing the red roof down on most of the building.

Physically, you were fine but there was something you desperately needed from under that crumbled roof. Especially since you were now suddenly living through the end of the world. The automatic glass doors were crushed under concrete but a massive hole, probably where he flew through, was a perfectly fine entrance into the rubble. You stepped carefully over rebar and the body of a cashier. There was no more inside, just parts where the roof didn't cave in all the way, and you were standing in the biggest one. Shelves tipped, chip bags popped open on the carpet floor. You find yourself meandering into the two upright fractions of aisles in front of you, the store so unrecognizable you felt lost. Caligula laid across your shoulders, over the crook of your neck like a scarf. Gray nose gently twitching at the smell of corpses. There were more in the aisle that was for foot cream. One man bisected by a chunk of roof. One lady who lay stiff, hands still clutching her chest where she'd likely had a heart attack. You exit the remains of the aisle. Not sure why you’d gone down them in the first place, pharmacy wasn't down there. You were still reeling from the last half hour. Was that all it had been- had everything fallen apart in thirty minutes? A clatter breaks your reverie, your head shooting towards it. Crawling out from under a piece of roof was a white coated pharmacy tech. The old-timer full-timer, Wes, you used your powers on almost every time you came in. You didn’t wait for him to stand to use your powers on him. “I need my usual.” When he stands, he leans dramatically to one side. The muscles in his side are split, piggy pink insides poking out of his coat. He turns for the wreck that used to be behind the counter, where he’d pass hours by counting pills. Gait short, steps dragging and too slow. “Ignore the pain.” With that, he goes upright. Walking confidently over to a fallen shelf, bending, ignoring the slippage of his guts. He goes from paper bag to paper bag, prescription to prescription. None of them have your name on it. Going official would’ve meant asking Machine Head to pull strings and you weren’t in a hurry for more debt. Controlling the pharmacy techs was the only way. Wes straightens. Walking on uneven ground. Stopping two feet away and holding out a paper bag to you. Prescription for Sandra O'Connell. Probably dead now.

You frown at the bag. Contents soaked into the brown bottom. Dripping out in clear, thick rivulets. You hadn’t been specific enough. Again with semantics, the pain in your ass. “Find me some that’s intact. As many bottles as you can.” *** "No." He's going to vomit. "No." He's going to cry. "No!" He's going to split this planet down the fucking middle, again. His grip on Isotope's throat tightened. "You're lying." Spit flies off his teeth, onto Isotope's cheeks. Together, him, Isotope, and Machine Head, hover over the rubble of what was supposed to be your apartment. A dead woman lying on its very top, head like a maraschino cherry. Machine Head kicked at the air, gargling, "Get us the fuck out of here Isotope!" One look from Dregs pissed off ex-boyfriend and Isotope knew. If he so much as tried to leave, they'd both be dead. "I'm not." Isotope can barely speak, throat the only thing keeping him upright. Hovering twenty feet above the busted building. "She should be on the third floor." "What third floor!?" "The one you fucking knocked down!" Machine Head grappled his arm. Twisting his sleeve, trying to hurt him- him with his weak human hands. His hand tightened on Machine Head’s neck. Something inside his fleshy human body cracked. The man groaned and shuddered but still fought. “That bitch is dead!” His head pounded, like a hammer slamming behind his eyes. His fingers are a flex away from breaking both their necks when Isotope says, “I know where else she could be.” He involuntarily shuddered when his assailant's eyes fell on him. Wild as his wind whipped mohawk. “Spill.” The freak’s grip lightened. Isotope slipped down an inch, latching to the man’s wrist for support like he wanted to be choked. “She’s some sorta dope fiend. Boys see ‘er at the CVS all the time, picking up the same shit.” Isotope’s words came out in heaves as he caught as much breath as he could. “If she’s alive.” At that word, if, his grip tightens, “Hurk— she’s probably at the pharmacy.” His arm came up, red suit creasing at the shoulder, “Right down the corner. Can’t miss it.” His grip clenches tight, shutting Isotope up. “If she’s not there, I’m gonna see how high your body bounces when I drop you ten-thousand feet.” He flew, slower than he’d like, searching for the right building. He knew what a pharmacy was, of course, but this wasn’t his New York. His New York was worse off than this one. Last time he saw it plants were taking over the concrete remains of the city. So he’s slow, only speeding when Isotope coughs and points out another chunk of destruction that looked like everything else in a thirty-mile radius.

***

T-minus eleven minutes until he arrived. He only had to hold onto Mach twelve for that much longer. Think of (Y/n). Think of holding you. Bringing you home. The sound barrier cracked, then there was someone beside him. “What the fuck are you doing in my sky?” Ah. That one. The one that called dibs on the king’s land because at home he was more than a king, better. Clad in his— their— old super suit. Viltrum’s sigil on his shoulders. Shoulder pads thick. "Answer me.” How the hell were they the same person? This version of him was so whiny. More insolent than a child. Apparently, his style was gaudy too. Minutes after they first met he went on and on about his outfit. How he was only wearing ‘this old piece of shit’ because he didn’t want to get his emperors clothes filthy. And still— he’d come wearing shoulder pads and metals of valor that were jittering in the wind, just barely holding on. He’d scoffed at the idea of human blood on his fuzzy emperor's cape. Much as he wanted to, taking on the other version of himself was ill-advised. Sure, they were different but also the same in many ways. He’d know something was up. His lips peeled apart. Glued by stagnant spit and silence. It felt like reopening a wound. “I’m done. Returning to the rendezvous.” His voice came out robotic. A modulator attached on the inside of his suit's throat. The people of his world knew of Invincible but it was better no one saw any part of his face, recognized any inflection of his voice. Whatever was left of it anyways. The other him, Shoulder Pads (there was no way he was calling him Mark), rolled his eyes. “That place better be dirt cuz if I gotta go to that shithole and finish what you couldn’t I’ll—“ “I assure you, the job is done.” Just leave. Go back to torturing people and making weird comments about slaves. Leave me be. Shoulder Pad’s eyes narrowed to slits behind his goggles. “Don’t lie to me.” “I don’t lie.” And that was the truth. Partially. Shoulder Pad’s lips twisted. “Then you won’t mind if I come with you? Be nice to get to know my next commander better.” Under his mask, his eye twitches. He'd heard this before, one too many times. Shoulder Pads saw him and the others as lesser. Good assets for his empire, sure, but lesser. He didn't plan on joining anyone's empire anytime soon.

Putting up a fight would be suspicious. Though his throat was already raw with how much he’d spoke, more than he had in months, he said, “You’re finished?” Shoulder Pads scoffed. “Hours ago. Whole country's ash.” He laughed, though he wasn’t lying. Looking down didn’t provide much of a view. Too much smoke in the way, billowing up from the entire United Kingdom like the thousands of acres were nothing but an overused ashtray. “I’ve been getting bored destroying those things they call islands.” He nodded. A ‘so be it’ kind of gesture. They flew on. Shoulder Pads filling the not-quite silence— ripping through the air at mock twelve was awfully loud— while he thought over ways to get rid of his companion. Too many what-ifs.

What if Shoulder Pads saw you as some human to be killed on the spot, squashed like some kind of bug? What if Shoulder Pads toyed with you, if he tore you limb from limb? Made him relive the same memory in a different universe. Shoulder Pads taking the role of daddy-not-so-dearest. Worse— what if Shoulder Pads was here for the same thing? A second chance. *** One bottle, two bottle, three bottle, four— there was a cute rhyme to tack to the end of that but you didn’t have the energy. Neither did the pharmacy tech, falling stone cold dead soon as he passed you the last bag. You tear open the first bag, medicine for a Nancy Giovanni. You pull out the dark bottle, rolling it in your hand, making absolute sure the dying tech didn’t fuck up. Prescription for: PROMETHAZINE VC/CODEINE [SYRUP] - 4 fl oz. EACH 5ml (TEASPOON) CONTAINS: CODEINE PHOSHPASE USP ... 10 mg PROMETHAZINE HYDROCHLORIDE USP … 6.25 mg PHENYLEPHRINE HYDROCHLORIDE USP … 5 mg ALCOHOL … 7% [RX ONLY] Oh yeah baby, that’s the ticket. Cough syrup. The actually medicated stuff. Totally illegal to buy over the counter. You didn’t know what in it did the trick. The pain killer, the throat soother, cough suppressant, or the drinking so much you got a buzz part— either way, Codeine and Promethazine were a match made in heaven specifically to fix your powers right the fuck up.

You twist the cap and end up dropping the rest of the bags. Sighing, you settle to sit, organize before getting down the business. Though the only place was wasn’t covered in debris was… “Sorry Wes.” You say as you sit on the dead man's back. Something hard pushes into your ass. Shit, right, gun safety. You pull the six-shooter from the back of your sweats and set it by your feet. Not the top of the market stuff Machine Head's guards get, but a solid piece. Got enough of the latest tech to pop a supe's brains out their ass. Small but mighty. ID numbers sanded off, bought off the black market, given to you by your shithead boss. Sometimes things went south. Your mouth covered or earplugs put in. So you took the gun everywhere, just in case.

You finish popping off the cap, take a breath of the rank air, and throw your head back, brown rim to your lips. There's a joke to be had there, but again, too tired for that shit.

Caligula hops off your shoulders, annoyed. Tail twitching as he pads away to explore under rubble. Looking for mice like he always had in your apartment. You let him go. The cat was loyal as a dog, he'd be back.

The syrup comes rolling down your tongue. Bitter, mucus-thick, gag worthy. Nothing you weren't used to. There've been too many times you were run dry and had to chug the slop mid-shootout to keep your head on your shoulders. So you don't breathe and drink, drink, drink until the bottle is a quarter empty.

You lean forward, elbows on knees. Holding your head as things right themselves. Your throat numbed, blood drying in your nose, head not throbbing, only a light pulse.

It was a funny thing really, finding your personal anti-kryptonite. Three years back you were sick as a dog. Of course, you were on duty. When weren't you? You talked a backstabbing rat up to the roof of his apartment building, holding onto him up all the stairs, weak in your sickness. Right before you told him to jump, a coughing fit cut you short. He escaped your hold, pulled a gun on you, almost blasted your brains on the door to the stairwell. Lucky thing Isotope was there, zapping you out of the way. Pushing the dick off himself, and zapping you to this very building. Suggested you fix the problem, whatever it took, because he wouldn't bail you out again.

He sucked balls but at least wasn't a whole dick.

You got a prescription. Drank the allotted amount. The cold cleared. Powers coming back like a tsunami. So strong they demanded to be used. So you drank more than the prescribed amount. Killed the rest of the rats nest of police informants on your own. Almost got killed again. Machine Head was angry you'd gone alone, when not assigned. But you didn't care. You'd found a power-up. Except, because there's always an exception- the boost only lasted as long as you could stay conscious. You’d overdosed more than a few times.

You recap the bottle. Consolidating the bottles in the front pocket of your hoodie. Tempted to down the whole thing, scared shitless from earlier, but it was a stupid idea while not being in immediate danger. Unless Wes decided to get up and chew you out for sitting on his dead body- you were safe.

But not stupid. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your contacts, trying to call contingency one through twenty-seven. Most didn't answer. Dead or unable to come to phone right now, so please leave a message! Some did, orders were given. Help, in case it was needed, was coming. Things like this had a strange way of being nowhere near over once things get quiet.

Boots come down. Your head lolls over your shoulder. Danger is standing twenty feet back. Holding Machine Head and Isotope by the throats. Isotope pale and passed out. Machine Head weakly clawing at the ground, held down, forced to stay on his knees.

He stares at you, the not-Mark with the dark, deep-set eyes, sat on your human throne. "That's... hm. Did you do that?"

There goes saving the syrup. Out comes the partly drunk bottle, off goes the cap, to your lips the bottle goes.

***

What the hell are they doing?

Two dots on his wrist cuff, side by side. Darting through the projected 3D model of Earth. Heading west fast, over the Northern Atlantic. Making a b-line for another dot. The only one of the three who is where he's supposed to be.

"Got'chu now!" A shadow overcasts behind him.

He presses a button, zooming into the map, not bothering to turn. Had he missed a message from Angstrom? No, not possible. He was the most reliable of all of them, no way Angstrom would cut him out. Certainly, he wasn't stupid enough to think he could.

A mace whistled through the air, coming to split his skull. His arm slices out in an arc behind him. Barley trying. The sound of his would-be assailant so keening and pathetic he couldn't even take satisfaction in the kill. He pulls his arm free, the body falls.

He watches the remains splat onto the last intact chunk of sidewalk left in Seattle. The city was destroyed. The last of the gnats swatted down. He might as well investigate. Double check that he wasn't being double crossed.

***

"Wow, oh wow, you like that." He laughed as the last of the syrup disappeared behind your lips. The bottle is thrown to the debris, to be forgotten. His voice is cloying and saccharine, and way too familiar, "Was that good?"

Bitterness coats your tongue. Chemical smell stinging in your nose. Head swimming but feather light. "No." You say. The syrup leaden in your stomach. Throat numb but soon to burn with vomit. You didn't have much time to dispose of this freak. "But-"

"Dregs! Jesus Christ, Dregs get him the fuck off me!" Machine Head kicked at the ground. Mohawk, you'd dubbed him, because no fucking way were you calling a shapeshifter the name it wanted you to call it. Name aside, he wasn’t about to let Machine Head go, or even let him touch the ground. His dignity just a few short inches away as he gagged and kicked.

"You seriously work for this guy?" Mohawk says. "So weak." His thumb barely flexes and all the air is cut from your boss's throat, the kicks becoming frantic.

You know the shapeshifter is trying to get to you but it gets deep, deep under your skin. You're on your feet, swaying. "Tell me who you really are."

He laughs but the words are pulled out of him anyway. "Mark Grayson."

Your teeth grind. He's not lying. Maybe not a shapeshifter. Maybe a hidden supe. Someone projecting hallucinations onto you, to make you go batshit and somehow kill yourself.

"Tell me if you're real."

"As you are, baby."

"Dregs!" Machine Head screeches the second his thumb relaxes. "Dregs, if you don't get him off me, I'm docking your pay!"

Mohawk's lip twitches, hand flexing. Shit. "Don't kill him." His hand relaxes. Though his eyes aren't as glazed as you'd like. He's still resistant but you've got the upper hand as long as your stomach holds.

"Yes! Yes, now get him to let go!"

The command makes your stomach roil. Probably just the excessive drugs but still, you don't like the motherfucker. He can wait. "Why are you doing this?"

"Made a deal. Break enough shit and I get a prize." Under control, people are emotionless, no use of unnecessary words or turn of phrase. But there he was, talking like a seventh grader.

"Which is?"

"You," you roll out of the way before they touch down. Feet first and much harder than necessary, sending dangerous bullets of rock spraying every which way. You're fine. Clothes dusty whereas Wes's corpse is more cut up than before. Sorry, guy.

If one had been too much, enough to think he was a hallucination, then three was enough to make you consider committing yourself to a ward.

You'd seen one of the newcomers back in Sydney. The other beside him, eyeing you up and down like an antique at auction, was new. You'd forgotten about the cuff on your ankle. You were no techie, but logic and superheroes meant it was a tracker, hell, maybe hand (ankle?) cuffs if activated by something.

"Oh what the fuck!" The mohawked one spoke for you, "I called New York. Find somewhere else to flatten."

"Is this what you were in a such a hurry to finish for?" The newcomer with his stupid shoulder pads kicked a wall to pieces, looking to his companion.

The full-masked one stood still as a statue, quiet as a phantom.

"Course not," Shoulder Pads answered himself, "You came for that," his finger pointed accusingly toward the mohawked one, "isn't that right? He bruised your ego when you first met pretty bad, huh?"

An insult from a version of himself who thought mohawks were peak fashion meant nothing. Sure, he'd called his mask creepy, but he didn't hold enough of a grudge to want to kill the guy over it. He did, however, not like how close he was to (Y/n). Twenty feet was nothing when one moved as fast as they did.

"Who are you?"

"Mark Grayson." The two newcomers answered together. One similar to the voice you knew, if a little nasaler. The other like that Guardian's dickhead, Robot.

You dip down, swiping your gun off the ground. Careful not to move too quickly and let the bottles fall out of your pocket. "Why are there three of you?"

"There's actually eighteen," Mohawk answers. "Dickheads all of 'em."

"To expand my empire." Shoulder Pads says, more responsive to your control.

"To destroy so much, it ruins the life of this dimension's Mark Grayson." The Phantom answers, voice and actually helpful honesty, sending a shiver down your back.

"Dregs-!"

"Shut the fuck up." Your attention on Machine Head is nothing but murderous. As the situation unfolds, you find yourself realizing, for one, Machine Head is most definitely going to die. Villains of the week are stupid, sure, but they also take no prisoners. You’d say Machine Head had less than five minutes' life left on him.

For two, the world was pretty much fucked. Which means- weakness, instability and power up for grabs for Mister Liu to reclaim as his. You could be by his side, his left hand as he already had a right. No more debt, no more humiliation at Machine Head's hands. Because there was no way you were going straight, not after everything. But, you could climb the ladder in the dust of the world and climb it high- as you were right now.

High enough to push Mister Liu off the ledge. High enough to never have to take orders from anyone ever again. Be your own boss. Maybe Machine Head had less than five minutes.

Even better, you could relocate out of the city (which you'd have to do anyway, I mean, look at this place). Somewhere you'd see Mark so little the lingering pain in your heart would maybe start to heal. The thought of killing him had crossed your mind. You placed heavy piles of blame on him for how your life turned out. Still, you ached and yearned for a teenage romance that'd never rekindle. You couldn't kill him, yet, not without crawling into Mister Liu's skin and wearing his shoes awhile. Surely you'd grow into them, give the order for someone to kill your ex without batting an eye- one day.

Your Mark wasn't on the official kill list yet, but these cheap imitations? These dimensional clones or whatever the fuck? Oh yeah baby, they've gotta die.

***

He didn't bother telling his tails to leave. They were all lesser, but still, him. They were good at what they did, destroying things.

"Can you believe that guy tried to trap me in the- what was it- the shadow realm?" The blue and yellow clad gnat yammered beside him. The variant, slightly different from the others without his lenses, blasted up from the Guardian's HQ when he'd flown by. Asking all sorts of questions that were left unanswered and more importantly, unacknowledged. Maybe if he was ignored long enough, he'd go away. "Do'ya wanna know how I got out after I killed 'im?"

No response.

He went on anyway. "So like, after I ripped his heart out his chest the whole shadow realm started falling apart. I was like 'oh shit, I'm gonna die' so I gabbed the guys body and was like 'lemme out'. Shakin' him n' stuff. I dunno what happened, if there was a lil life left in him or what but I think I kickstarted something in him, cuz after eight or nine shakes I was back! Man, I almost forgot how crazy I killed those Guardian guys!"

The other gnat, blue and black and imperceptibly different from this dimension's Mark Grayson, flew up to his other side. "You gonna show me that map or what?"

He did not answer, for they had arrived. Three dots now five, six counting himself. All around the unimportant gray mass of some Earth dwellers' hovel. He stayed above because he was literally above touching down on Earth’s soil. His mother had been from this mud ball but she'd been elevated above the rest of this dirt-loving species by his father when he brought her back to Viltrum, swollen with pregnancy.

The others truly were lesser than he, for they shot down. Too impatient, too stupid to know what it is to observe from afar. They did all have enhanced hearing, did they not?

***

Shoulder Pads shook his head, throwing the control off his brain like a wet dog. "The hell was that?" His head stopped, hair swept across his masked forehead. "How dare you- you-" His head kicked back a degree like he'd been sucker punched. It took him a minute, with the dirt and the outfit and the daring to wave around a gun. He recognised you now. Felt the pain searing hot in his chest. "Leave," he commanded, "All of you but," he turned back to, "you, stay."

Nobody moved to obey.

"I said-"

They came down from the sky like falling angels.

"The hell's this?" You watched him land. Watched him roll his shoulders. Mark, your Mark. Exactly the same. But what the fuck was he doing with this lot? "Where's Angstrom?"

"Not here, duh." The other newcomer says, bouncing on his heels. "Are we gonna turn on each other and fight to the death now? I really hope we turn on each other and fight to the death now." His eyes, lighter brown than you remember, slide from Mark to Mark to Wes to you. "A prize fight! Even better."

You didn't like that word- prize. How he looked at you. Not as a person but as a street dog to collar.

Machine Head's toes displaced rubble. His captor's mohawk stood on end, as if electrified, "Get the fuck out of here." He says, "New York's mine. 'S not the meeting place for when we're done anyway."

The stuck-up one, Shoulder Pads, moved toward you. Ankles breaking rubble as he went, too graceful to do something awkward like stepping over an obstacle. Why do that when you could just break it?

"Leave us now." He doesn't seem bothered by the fact that you raised the six-shooter, aimed straight for his throat. "And I'll consider letting the rest of you serve under me."

He was there in a flash. Arm outstretched in front of his boy king other self, stopping him in his tracks- the phantom. Shoulder Pads stopped, ten feet shy from your person. You don't know what to say because as soon as you really get going, a fight is going to break. You won't survive. You've seen what Mark can do on the news. You don't doubt they can punch holes in you before you say stop. They're not far away like Mohawk had been. They're instant murder close. You have to be careful.

"Don't get in my way." Shoulder Pads sneered to no reply.

The lensless newbie jutted his thumb toward you, "Gonna go out on a limb 'n guess she's also your guy's dead girlfriend?"

The word girlfriend hits you like a sack of rocks. When hit, hit back. You breathe in.

"Dregs!" His voice is nails on a chalkboard, screeching, loud, and desperate. "God damn it! Help me!" Your hold on Machine Head had waned. He was back to whining.

Your hold on his captor had waned as well, telling by his eyes. But he didn't break Machine Head's neck. Instead, he watched, curious, a smile tugged the edge of his lip.

Tension rolled off Phantom and Emperor Shoulder Pads in waves. Lenseless’s knuckles popped, expecting violence with glee. The white clad warrior watched on from above. And your stupid ex-boyfriend just watched you, sneer on his lip like you were the problem. Like he wasn't covered in blood the fucking hypocrite. "I don't kill," my ass. He acted like he was better than you.

"I'll promote you! Right above Isotope." Who was passed out and couldn't be bothered by the betrayal. "We can run this city together. I can get you as much lean as you want! Fuck- I'll put you through rehab if you want!"

A bubble rolled up your throat. Not much longer now before you puke out power. You swallow down the burp. Anger a beat in your throat. "I'm not an addict."

"Sure!" Machine Head laughed, "Sure! Whatever you say, just help me!" Isotope's eyes peeled open. He groaned, barely there. Machine Head noticed, reaching out to shake the man's knee. "Get me out of here!"

Your Mark clicked his tongue. "I can't say I'm surprised you haven't changed."

"Isotope! Hey! Wake up!"

"I used to think you'd be better than," Mark gestures to your boss, to your clothes, to the dilation of your eyes, embarrassingly aware of your high, "this." He sighed, "But I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same or however that shitty song goes. So much potential wasted. (Y/n), Seriously, this is pathetic."

"Dregs, get Isotope up! Get us all out of here!"

Mark smirked, "Name suits you."

Your earlier machinations crumbled. Fuck waiting, maturing. People were going to die here, in this destroyed pharmacy, so why not start with him?

"Hey Mark?"

"Yeah?" It's a shame the others don't reply to the name. Too smart, too aware that if they were locked in conversation and attention, they'd be dead.

"Kill yourself."

One hand to the chin, the other to the shoulder for support, like the first time you tried this trick on his doppelganger. The snap is quick. So powerful it twists his whole body backward, spine ripping out his back. He drops, blood dribbling out his mouth.

A weight lifts off your shoulders. You thought this would be harder. It's sad, sure, first love dead, very Romeo and Juliet, but you're still alive. You wish you could've made him see more, get a more torturous revenge. Or in a perfect world, one you didn't admit but dreamed of anyway, got him to see your side of things.

But you're so happy to see nothing behind his eyes. Dead while you're alive. The laugh forces out of you in a bark. It brings tears to your eyes, doubles you over.

The mood shifts. Tension sizzles away between the Marks. There were expectations, different for each, but this? Certainly was not one.

"Did you just-?" Lensless was at the corpse's side in a blink, poking at his twisted neck. "Oh, he's super mega dead."

"If he was weak willed enough to listen to the whims of a human he should've already been." Emperor Shoulder Pads says. "Better we weed out the weak before going back to my empire."

"Shit, I was gonna kill Seventeen," Mohawk said. "Beat me to it, babe."

"Seventeen?" You question between laughs.

"Uh, yeah? Mark Seventeen. Demsion three-four-five, like neighbors with this one."

"So he's not mine?"

"Yours? Baby, I'm yours- but that guy? Not from here."

Oh? OH! He wasn't yours. Another variant, just awfully close in appearance. Something like relief pools in your stomach, or it's just the promethazine-codeine solution getting ready to come spewing out.

The Phantom keeps his hands at his sides, though they want to go to his head, press into his temples until the pain stopped. You weren’t like this. You weren’t supposed to be like this. Nothing like him. Maybe Shoulder Pads was right. Maybe Seventeen was weak willed, loved you so much he'd do anything you said. You couldn't be a killer. It just wasn't possible- wasn't right.

"Isotope," he was starting to really regain consciousness, head lolling in Mohawk's hand, "Isotope, let's go!"

He was going to leave you. Words of promise meant nothing obviously, you weren't born yesterday but the insult of it was the last fucking straw.

Right as power started to glow weakly from his palms, you say, "Look at me, Isotope."

He does, slackjawed, droll rolling down his lip. Hands still glowing.

Here's the thing about word and meaning induced mind control. Sometimes actions, gestures, are good as words, and as long as you've got your claws in their brain, as long as they're looking at you and understand- a gesture is enough to control.

You lower the gun. As if it'd do anything against Shoulder Pads. One hand slipping off its metal grip, coming to the side of your head right above your ear. Rule number one of gun safety: Never put a gun to your head. So your bare hand comes up to do the job. Pinky and ring curling into your palm. Pointer and middle pressed to your scalp, thumb hanging down like the trigger.

Isotope's hand goes to the holster on his belt. Freeing the pistol, pressing it to the green side of his head, clicking off the safety. Waiting for the last order.

"Dregs! Don't you fucking dare!" Machine Head trashes but his kicks do nothing to Mohawk's balance.

The Mark’s watch, hypnotized like snakes to a charmer.

Your thumb twitches, miming the pull of a trigger.

The bullet goes from one side of Isotope's skull to the other. Stopped by the side of Mohawk's knee, who doesn't even flinch at the lead cracking uselessly against his suit. Pale pink brains splatter his boots and shin guards. Chunks stick to Machine Head's dented metal face. Gravity slowly rolled them down, leaving trails of blood and cerebral spinal fluid in their wake.

The dead weight is so unexpected in his hand, Mohawk is slow to drop the body. Killing another version of him was fair game. They were threatening your planet after all. But an ally? Very un-hero like.

"You murderous yuppie cunt!" Machine Head's hand flies to his own holster.

"Don't talk to me like that, boss." He goes still, gun in hand. Your hand goes to the center of your forehead and so does his. Another twitch of the thumb sends a bullet and shrapnel backward.

Machine Head slumps, gun dropping, body twitching. Not dead yet.

"Access the control panel." You say.

His hand shakes violently as it comes to the side of his head. Pressing a button that makes the front half of his busted forehead come forward. Revealing the computer gore inside his head.

"Remove the leftmost microchip." You'd seen him getting maintenance too many times not to know that the chip contained his very consciousness. He'd yelled at so many paid-off Best Buy employees not to touch it. Threatened their families over it, but here he was, pressing its back so it'd come popping out. Soon as it does, his whole body goes slack.

Killing what you thought was Mark yielded mixed feelings. But Machine Head and his lackey? That was pure cocaine right there baby. You felt like you could climb Everest. Like you really could overtake Mister Liu.

"Holy shit." Lensless let his jaw hang. "Powers, babe!? 'S awesome! Do it again!" His fingerless glove pointed to Shoulder Pads, "That guy! That guy next! Oh, wait, try it on me!" He doubted it'd work. He was way stronger than that pussy bitch Seventeen.

Mohawk pulled Machine Head's slack body high above his head, inspecting. He was dead alright. So dead his bladder released and stained his gray slacks dark. He let the body drop. "You're pret-tee different here, huh babe?"

Another bubble rises up your throat.

"What-" Shoulder Pads started, "What the fuck is wrong with this one?" He was expecting something else. Docile. Sitting at his feet like a good pup. At his beck and call. Especially not powered or alien or experimented or whatever the fuck you were. Clearly, you weren't normal.

Phantom had nothing to say, as usual. Too busy fighting back the tears burning the back of his eyes. What has this world done to you? What had made you so callous? What had made you a killer? Whatever it was needed to burn. This monster in you, it could be culled; he could have the you he knew back. He could have it later, but for now, he fought grief.

In the sky, the white clad warrior lets contentment simmer in his chest. Different, sure, but good different. Nothing like that human he brought to Viltrum to breed. A kicking, screaming crybaby who had no idea how lucky she was. Part of the shreds of resistance left, left alive by him of all people. Nothing like the doting creature his mother was to his father. Relationships like the ones on Earth weren't a thing on Viltrum. His parents were considered strange, but a strange he liked- though he wouldn’t admit it to a living soul.

So disappointing and ungrateful, a waste of time, of resources, he was sour about when he had to kill you. But not here, not this you.

Shadows whipped through the sky hundreds of feet below him. Some came hopping and bounding through the broken street. The few defenders left, not dead due to their own cowardice.

Contingency Six, Twelve, Nineteen, Twenty-two, and Twenty-eight surrounded you in a defensive circle, showing up at just the right time. Machine Head promised security but he wasn't omnipotent, despite his upgrades. You didn't trust him far as you could throw him either. So you had heroes, fellow crooks, and dregs of society on speed dail. Hypnotized at some point in the past with the same little speech.

"See this number right here? Remember it. When you see me calling, you answer, no matter what. I don't care if you're mid-fuck, you'll do as I say. After I snap my fingers, you'll forget we ever had this conversation but a part of you will. And you will never have your phone on silent."

You'd have to reset them anytime you called them in to save your ass from one thing or another. It was always worth the time if it meant you got to live and the other guy died.

Thank God for hindsight. Wait, no, not hindsight, was it foresight? Ah, whatever, you'll remember the right word later when you're not high on power and codeine.

Flesh drones wait for orders. The Mark's wait for someone to make a move. You don't speak, not yet, letting your eyes scan over them all. Thinking of killing them too, how good it'd feel to kill your (kind of) ex-boyfriend over and over. Thinking of the ones not here, the ones you'd seen, the ones you hadn't. You could find them, kill them after. Maybe then you'd be ready for the real thing. No more mixed feelings.

Blood slowly rolls down your nostril. Darkly covering the dried streak from minutes ago. Your stomach rages. Throat constricting as it readies to puke. It hurts so bad, but you can't help but grin. Thinking aloud, "This is going to be the best day of my fucking life."

Orders shoot out your lip. He should prepare for battle, but he couldn't help but be still, staring at you and the malice radiating off you. Lensless tugs on the hem of his mask, swallowing thickly, "Can you hold up a sec with the battle plans? I've got a crazy boner."

#invincible x reader #invincible variants x reader #invincible variants #mark grayson x reader #mohawk invincible #lensless mark #emperor mark #viltrum mark #phantom mark #fanfic #long post #my writing #rea writes #mdgf #guys idk what a tag list is i post on ao3 not tumblr normally lmao #eat my little children eat

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junojoel · 2 months ago

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‪♡ indicates smut, ❀ indicates fluff, ☁︎ indicates angst

Method Acting‪♡❀ When you’re forced to pose as a couple to avoid suspicion from a group of survivors, the line between pretending and reality begins to blur.

Dancing is a Dangerous Game❀☁︎♡ You need to escape the city, Joel needs help on his ranch. Despite the differences in your lifestyles, cowboy Joel teaches you the ways of the land.

Slow Like Sunrise♡❀ You and Joel try for a baby.

Morning Light❀ Sweet moments from your pregnancy with Joel.

Inside Your Mind♡ You need to find a way for Joel to relax. Quickest solution? A blowjob.

Everytime♡☁︎ Joel needs to use you sometimes. Sometimes.

Cake and Candles❀☁︎ Joel never forgets your birthday.

#1 Daddy ♡ You give your Daddy the Father's Day he deserves.

Still Beating♡☁︎ You thought you’d lost Tommy forever. But when you find each other again, world stops.

Pushing it Down and Praying♡☁︎ After Joel's death, grief leaves you lost and desperate for anything that might quiet the endless ache inside. Tommy is a dangerous kind of comfort.

Woman Inherits the Earth ❀ You came to Jurassic World for industry connections, a killer CV, and maybe a LinkedIn flex. You didn’t expect to fall for the raptor girl.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #tommy miller #tommy miller x you #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller smut #tommy miller x reader

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aingeal98 · 10 months ago

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So I know Cass gave Steph Batgirl and bounced right before the reboot due to editorial interference trying to push her out of the family. But it made me think of what an actual passing of the mantle would look like on Cass's terms. Because if she's actually ready to give Batgirl to Steph it's because she's either got the Batman mantle or her ideal next step on the road to being Batman.

So Cass is ready, but she also knows Steph. And she wants Steph to feel confident in taking it. And because she's Cass she's not going to use her words and give Steph an uplifting speech about all the ways she knows Steph will make her legacy proud.

No, she's diving into her deep catalogue of reality trashy TV knowledge and creating The Ultimate Batgirl Trial. Survivor meets Ninja Warrior meets Total Wipeout meets the Chase but if the Chaser catches you due to you messing up questions she punches you in the face. With a splash of Love Island thrown in there because it's important to know how to read people and play them if needed.

Barbara is in charge of monitoring everything to make sure Steph doesn't die. Cass has complete faith in her best friend because she designed this all knowing Steph's abilities. Steph looks at the swinging axes with razor sharp edges and wonders if perhaps she accidentally exaggerated her CV to Cass somehow.

(She passes of course. And only throws up twice. Tim, Damian and Duke all attempt it once they hear about it and none of them make it past the fire breathing dragon statues. Tim gives up at the hologram of Lady Shiva, Damian fails the height requirement to swing on the lava rope and not fall in, Duke actually makes it a respectable amount but again those fire breathing dragon statues are just too vast and uh. Flamey.)

#dc #cassandra cain #batfam #stephanie brown #dc rambles #In canon the passing of the mantle is a complicated mixed bag of emotions for cass.#She's lying with her words during their final conversation and yet she's trying to fit so much #Into the gesture and symbol of giving Steph Batgirl #Meanwhile if Cass could do this entirely on her terms... Well who needs to think about emotions #When you can simply throw flamethrowers at Steph until she looks happier. Simple.

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posttexasstressdisorder · 3 months ago

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https://www.sfgate.com/politics/article/hey-democrats-wake-up-20219559.php

The sky is falling. The United States federal government is being illegally dissolved before your very eyes. The workers you rely on to ensure that you don’t eat ground beef tainted with paint chips are being laid off en masse. Immigration and Customs Enforcement raided your office last week and asked for your papers, even though you were born in Fremont. A fire tornado is due to touch down in your backyard next Tuesday. Your parents are terrified to board an airplane. Your gay nephew is terrified to go to school. Your 401(k) is in the toilet. MEASLES. Measles have returned and want to eat your baby. Every day you look at the news, and you’re told that the president would like to bring back cockfighting. You and I need reassurance. You and I need to know that someone out there is trying to put an end to all this madness. Instead, we get this.

I hate you, Democrats. I hate you so, so much. Yes, I hate Trump and Elon and all of the s—t-for-brains voters out there who were like DURRR THESE FELLAS ARE JUST WHAT WE NEED TO CLEAN UP WASHINGTON DURRR. But I reserve a special place in my black heart for you, Democrats. You are the representational equivalent of being put on hold by customer service. All you do is let me down. It’s like being a Browns fan if every time the Browns lost, a Tesla ran over my dog. You guys make voting feel pointless.

Starting with you, Joe Biden. You still alive, old man? Well, you could’ve fooled me. Great job staying in the 2024 race juuuuust long enough to torpedo your party’s chances, and then pissing off to Cape Henlopen solely because George Clooney asked you to. Were you a good president? I have no idea, because you were too busy huffing oxygen from your bedside tank to sell your agenda to the American people. Maybe you could have gotten everyone on your side by crafting a really clever sign to hold up.

And who’s this? Why, it’s former Vice President Kamala Harris, who got voters excited for exactly one month before huddling with her advisers and deciding to campaign as a Republican, WITH Republicans. And what other brilliant tactician could tap one of the most beloved governors in America as her running mate and then Tim Kaine-ify him by 75%? Hey Kamala, maybe in your free time you can pursue a life sentence for a homeless man who stole a box of Chiclets from a local CVS. I legit thought you would win in November! Why did I think that? Someone should brain me on the head with a baseball bat.

Speaking of head injuries … John Fetterman! I’m a fellow brain injury survivor alongside John. So when this man suffered a stroke during his Senate race against Dr. Oz, I was like, “Do NOT discriminate against this man just because he had a brain injury.” Little did I know that Fetterman’s blood clot would turn him into the second coming of Joe Manchin. I just got rid of Joe Manchin, and now I have to deal with a taller, weirder one?

These are just some of the people I was foolishly hoping would put a stop to the meme-ocracy that’s currently eating the world. Democrats keep responding to our cries for help with, “Get out and vote!” Who am I even voting for? Is it you? Is it some asshole company on your donor roll? Is it shrink-wrapped skull James Carville, whose electoral acumen has aged even worse than he has? I’ve gotten more results voting on a new flavor of Lay’s potato chip.

U.S. President Donald Trump shakes hands with California Gov. Gavin Newsom upon arrival in Los Angeles on Jan. 24, 2025, to visit the region devastated by the Palisades and Eaton fires.MANDEL NGAN/AFP via Getty Images

Now that I think about it, how did a state that offers so much sunshine and terrific produce end up with a whole armadaof s—t Democrats, including Adam Schiff, Nancy “once we all die in a rejuvenated smallpox epidemic, the House will be ours again!” Pelosi and Alex Padilla, who thought that a sternly worded letter to a Trump mole would end the administration’s desecration of our national parks. And don’t forget about Dianne Feinstein! Yes, I know that Feinstein is dead. No, that doesn’t excuse her. Stupid, dead Feinstein. I bet she’s lecturing children in hell because they dared to ask for a table fan.

And if you think that my party has more to offer on the opposite coast, may I introduce you to New York Democrats? Oh look, it’s Little Mister Punching Bag, Chuck Schumer! A Palestinian American resident of this man’s state was just kidnapped by ICE and remanded to Kafka State Prison down south without cause, and Chuck’s first instinct was to essentially say, “Now we all know this young man is brown, which means he hates the Jews.” Totally. Way to see the REAL story going on here, you empty tin of pomade. And somehow Chuck has even greater moral fortitude than Eric Adams, who probably couldn’t commit murder without accidentally leaving his Turkish passport in the victim’s hand.

I can’t believe how useless most of these Democrats have proven in the fight to preserve something, anything, functional in this backwater of a country. Oh, do you want me to give the RBG girlboss treatment to Sonia Sotomayor, who skipped out on retiring while Biden was in office because she just loves writing terse dissents? What about Hakeem “Next Pelosi” Jeffries? Will he bamboozle the opposition with his fearsome repertoire of debate club hand gestures? Judging by those signs from the other night, I’m thinking no. No as all f—k.

I don’t expect you geniuses in charge of my party to listen to my plea, but I’ve been shouting into the wind for decades now so I may as well do it one final time. Democrats need to give voters like me a reason to care. Our current president is an asshole, but he sure knows how to get people to care one way or the other. Part of that success has been from brute force political messaging. Part of it is from the voraciousness of capitalism mutating this country into a place where everyone is told they’re equal but no one WANTS to be equal. When Donald Trump runs on a platform that boils down to F—K OTHER PEOPLE, tens of millions of Americans eat it up because they’ve been conditioned to hate other people: their boss, their movie stars, that guy that cut them off on the drive to work, everyone.

I don’t know how we solve this problem, but actually WANTINGto solve it is a good first step. I see little evidence right now that Democrats — especially you, Gavin — have that desire. I’ll still vote in every election out of obligation, but how many others will just stop doing it entirely now that you’ve failed them so consistently? I have a hard time trusting a bunch of people who couldn’t even think to start up an ASSHOLE chant on the House floor during Trump’s speech last week. I’m wagering that younger generations are even more disaffected. Those people will be lost forever unless you f—kers finally understand what’s happening outside your office window.

And if you don’t get your s—t together now, I’ll know it’s because you don’t want to. I’ll know that you never cared about democracy. That you never cared about fixing the Constitution that’s currently sitting at the bottom of Sam Alito’s toilet. That you never cared about women or gay and trans folk or the poor or Muslim Americans or even Jewish people. I’ll know that you only care about yourselves, same as the president does. If you careerist scum want to prove me and every other voter wrong, you’d better get started right now. The clock is ticking.

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femsolid · 6 months ago

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Speaking of fake job offers, I once almost got trafficked into prostitution. I was around 23 and I needed a job very badly, and I saw a job offer for something like hostess/barmaid. I called the number and the owner answered and he told me to come to his bar this evening. I was like "don't you want to see my CV?" and he said oh no, there's no need, just come tonight. I asked about the job and he said I would "escort" the clients at his bar. And he said he would drive me home personally, at 4 a.m when I'm done. I agreed to meet him (with no intention of actually going) and I decided to look up the bar on the internet. It was very obviously some type of strip club. Later I talked to my brother in law and he said that it was one of the bars in the city that had the reputation of being a cover for prostitution. Since then, I've obviously listened to a lot of prostitution survivors and they often tell very similar stories. Barmaid, escort, model etc, no need for a CV, all young women and girls welcome, no worries I'll drive you home if it gets late... and he will drive you home. Only before that he'll rape you and sell you to other men, they'll film it and sell it as pornography, and when he drops you home he'll threaten to kill your entire family if you talk.

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pinturas-sgm-aviacion · 6 months ago

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1942 06 04 Midway - Requiem for Torpedo Eight - Gil Cohen

It is 0700 hours, the fourth day of June, 1942 on the deck of the carrier, Hornet (CV-8). This is the carrier made famous less than two months prior, when B-25s led by Jimmy Doolittle were launched from her deck in the daring, first surprise bombing raid on Japan. The atmosphere is tense, as the Douglas TBD Devastator torpedo bombers of Torpedo Squadron Eight are poised for takeoff. The pilots' orders are to attack the entire might of the Japanese fleet off Midway Island. Squadron leader, LCdr John C. Waldron and his aircrews are well aware that their chances of survival from this fateful mission are minimal at best.At the time of its introduction in 1937, the Devastator was in the technological forefront of aircraft design. However, five short years later, it was hopelessly obsolete against a powerful, formidable enemy. Flying low and slow against the Japanese armada, all fifteen torpedo bombers were shot out of the sky with only one survivor, Ensign George Gay. However, this action forced the defending Zero fighters down to wave-top level and exhausted much of their fuel, leaving their carriers virtually unprotected. Soon after, SBD Dauntless dive bombers hit and sank three carriers, the pride of the Japanese fleet (the Akagi, the Kaga, the Soryu, and the next day, the Hiryu.)This action was the turning point of World War II in the Pacific. From that point on, Japan would be fighting a defensive war against increasingly powerful American forces.

#gil cohen

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meltedvinyls · 5 months ago

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lets talk about my fictional worlds vampirisms

@gloomygambit thank u for the excuse

So theres 3 main types of vampire

Original Bloodline Vampires

have become endagered over time due to frequent targeting of mob-mentality and a history of "villianous" and "unorthodox" lifestyles

born from 2 OG vampires think like debutantes they would have elegant marrige arrangements often to help continue the species

Changed Vampires

These are the vampires made by OG vamps through ritual and with intention they are considered full vampires after transformation

they maintain their psyche but have a 50/50 survival rate some cant recover from the trauma of transformation or injuries obtained during the turning

often used as a way to keep og vampires alive via doing the dangerous/difficult work for them under the debt of being immortal/being turned

50/50 rate of voluntary and involuntary turnings through history, though at the point we come in all turnings by the observed og vamps are semi-voluntary or done via misleading

yes vampirism SA allgory i am a CSA/COCSA/SA survivor and it means alot to me to represent my ptsd in a way that i control

Accidental Turnings

these are what youd call feral vampires

accidental turnings do not invlude all of the ritual steps or safegaurds involved in intentional turnings so the result is a creature with a blind lust for blood and little to no consiousness aside from carnage

accidental turnings are less common in 'modern' vampirism and typiclaly come from CVs who dont realise if you drink from someone and they get your blood in their mouth or wound it can result in them being turned

yes vampirism is essentially an std in the way it us contracted through blood contact

there are around 50 remaining og vampires globally and 1/5 of them are involved in the innerr circle that belladonna keeps sustained through puppeting a mob operation (she has a human man as the public boss/mob father but really she is running things and he is fully in her pocket)

i hope you enjoyed my ramblings lmk if you have any questions or wanna know about lychanthrope which is a genetic condition in my fiction okay bye

#vampires #vampirism #fiction #writing #comics #ramblings #vampire #excellent

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beauty-and-passion · 17 days ago

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TMA - Chapters 161-170: Welcome to Weirdmageddon

Welcome back, survivors of the apocalypse.

Are you still sane? Did you recover from all the shit that went down in the span of a few chapters?

Good. Now get ready, because this is the last season and I am sure feelings, stories and revelations will run over us every few seconds.

In all of this, we still have The Web to meet, by the way. I get being fashionably late, but Mrs. Spider Lady truly wants to take her sweet time.

<< Main Masterlist <- Previous post

_______________________________

Season 5 trailer

Please, let me resume it to you in a language that can be understandable for you all:

youtube

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MAG 161 - Dwelling

Oh, wonderful: let’s start by tearing me apart with a wholesome flashback, why not.

Just look at them. Just look at Sasha, completely naive of the shit she’s going to experience. Look at Tim, funny and happy, joking with his colleagues. Look at Martin, still clumsy and oh-so-naive about the ginormous pile of shit he’s going to face. Look at Jon, still with the broom stuck up his ass.

And look at Elias. Coming in with a “ah ah I stopped doing nothing all day and got up from my chair only because there was cake and a birthday party! I’m your quirky boss who acts as if he can read minds, but it’s just because I’m your boss and I care about you, definitely not because I’m a century-year-old motherfucker with world-domination plans! Let’s have fun, eat cake and drink wine! Just another normal day in the Archives!”.

*cries in Tim being very very dead after being very very done with everyone*

Okay, that’s just being evil. Mr. Sims, you can’t just throw stuff like this after season 3, in which Jon wanted to fire Tim to save him, but didn’t work and Tim was trying his best to get fired, but didn’t manage to.

But hey, suffering is never enough, so we get Gertrude’s tape and learn some totally funny stuff, like:

Sasha was supposed to be the next Head Archivist. Instead she appeared a couple times, then she was gone and replaced like the most useless secondary character.

Jon got the job because… idk, I suppose his CV fell on Elias’ lap and how could he ignore such a promising psychological profile for the Archivist’s role?

Gertrude’s archival system was so shitty because she intentionally made a mess, to slow down Elias’/Jonah’s plans. After people and avatars complaining about how fucked up the system was and how difficult it was to find anything, we finally learn the truth and it’s so clever and it works so well… uuurgh, I love it.

In conclusion: glad to see Jon decided to spend his time like this, suffering and reminiscing the past - conveniently sent to him by Elias/Jonah/Elijon/Jonalias/Jolene, who is now gloating on his… idk, throne of eyes or something equally fucked up.

But Tape Recorder, still the best character of the series (tied with Martin), is on. And that means one thing only: the honeymoon is over. Martin and Jon won’t be in that cabin forever. The world needs to be saved, Jon.

Again.

Also because Martin wants to do it and, by the rule I just made, everything Martin wants, Martin will get.

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MAG 162 - A Cosy Cabin

So, since hurting our feels in the previous MAG wasn’t enough, Mr. Sims has been so kind to give us an encore, with two more statements full of things that don’t hurt at all.

First we get Gertrude and Gerry, which hurts because:

Gerry! My boy Gerry!

Gertrude is very soft with him

Gertrude tells us that once a ritual comes through and the Power gets a grip on reality, it’s impossible to undo the whole thing

Related to that, there’s this part:

Which makes me think about the kind of ending TMA could have. It might just be “Jon dies and saves the world”, but… how? Unless we find out something special about Jon (like, idk, that he’s some sort of cornerstone/anchor point/whatever for all Powers to stay in this reality), how can one death save everything? Is it even possible to die anymore?

The current situation isn’t like Gertrude imagined it - i.e. one Power gets through and it rules alone. We get a world in which all Powers act together. So it’s not like “The Eye prevailed, hence The End doesn’t exist anymore”.

So, how does it work now? People don’t die at all? The Powers need people/animals for their fear, so they can’t get rid of them. So… they live in a constant “fear of dying” stage? Do they die and come back to life? Is The End getting the short end of the stick?

I suppose we’ll find out soon.

Then, we get Tim and Sasha’s tape, in which they don’t just make meta comments: they break the fourth wall and dance on the splinters.

They give us more beautiful names for Elias/Jonah/Jolene, like Jimmy Magma (my new favourite)

They clearly read the script for the Jon/Martin ship, because they got everything right. Even the epilogue that makes them canon. Sure, there was no hookup, but Martin being super awkward around Jon and his crush being obvious for everyone in a 200-mile radius was there.

Sasha tells us Tim “might be the character they drop after the pilot”

*cries in memory of how much Tim suffered and died*

Sasha casually tells that there is no real you, it’s all masks. The irony is so thick it can be cut with a knife.

Sasha tells that she’s unforgettable

*cries in how everyone forgot her*

I hate Mr. Sims, because I know he’s gloating. And I hate him even more, because I would gloat too if I were in his place, while my readers cry and become an emotional mess.

But hey, “stabbing readers in the feels” time is over, because The King Of Peepers decided it’s time for Jon to get out of that cabin and do something.

Hence, Jon decides to get up and do something. Specifically, to confront Elias. And then… we’ll see when we cross that bridge.

It’s the first time Jon has to face something with completely zero input from Gertrude. Even while facing the Unknowing, he still had some directions and details.

Now, he truly has nothing. He’s doing something no other Archivist has tried before. That’s interesting. I can’t wait to see what happens.

Also, he has Martin with him. Martin, who was basically ready to leave, but needed Jon to get up and decide it was time.

I trust them; I know they will do it. I have no idea how they will save the world, but I trust Jon’s strength and Martin’s insanity.

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MAG 163 - In the Trenches

And I thought TMA was inspired by Gravity Falls.

Ii looks like I was wrong: it’s inspired by The Lord of the Rings. I mean, we literally get Sauron’s tower!

We literally have Frodo and Sam starting their journey through the Middle Earth to reach Mordor. They don’t have a ring to toss in the fire, though. Unless their ring is Elias. They can toss him in the fire.

The trenches part was very captivating and it gave a pretty clear picture of how war is: a mix of blood, destruction, fear of an enemy you can’t even see but only know through terrible stories, wounds and pain that never heal, being burned alive, always on the verge of dying.

And, of course, people in a suit ripping your heart apart or forcing you to keep fighting for their war.

Yes, that’s all accurate.

And it’s shown the only way it could’ve been shown: by using a stream of consciousness that goes from one person to the other in one long story. I love this writing style, it really works well.

Martin saves another Tape Recorder! It’s seriously cute how he keeps talking to it as if it’s a character.

Well, not that it isn’t: Tape Recorder is the best character of this series.

Also, we get to see a mysterious payphone ringing for Martin. Who was on the other side? Another fear, ready to scare him? Elias, who just wanted to gloat? Frodo, who wanted to give him some tips? We will probably never know, but it’s still a very ominous scene.

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MAG 164 - The Sick Village

Uh, I suppose we’ll go through all the fears, before reaching the Master of Peepers and Elias/Jonah/Jolias/Elijon/Jolene/Jimmy Magma. Neat.

This time, we get to see another stream of consciousness regarding a village. A beautiful, peaceful village filled with people who are sick but hey, they blame the foreigners for it. Because foreigners are from outside their village. Therefore, they are the cause of all of their problems! It’s not that they were already rotting inside, it’s the foreigner’s fault!

The reference to racism is very subtle, almost invisible. It’s not that if you replace “foreign” with a scapegoat of your choice, you get the exact same kind of discourse.

This paragraph is particularly good at encapsulating everything: the sense of fear in a racist society, that constant terror of being surrounded by enemies, being so focused on others to ignore your faults, the fear others might go through your life and find that X person near you is Jew/trans/*insert another scapegoat*. So maybe you should be first and condemn someone else, before they get you.

It’s raw, it’s disgusting, it’s exactly what happened and is still happening. History repeats itself and Mr. Sims conveyed it very well.

Back to the MAG, we also find out new things. And it’s all thanks to Jon, who at least got something useful from the apocalypse: he turned into post-apocalyptic Google.

Elias is, of course, inside the Panopticon. And I bet everything, he’s still sitting on his ass as he did in the last 200 years, doing absolutely nothing, gloating and enjoying his new role as “Most Fucked Up King of the World”.

Basira and Daisy are still alive, but Daisy has been overwhelmed by The Hunt and Basira will probably fulfill her promise very soon and kill her.

Georgie and Melanie are still alive somewhere.

The one who called Martin wasn’t Elias, nor Frodo: it was Annabelle Cane. Oh my god, please, tell me this is another overcomplicated plan of The Web. I love her absurdly fucked up plans.

Also, I can imagine her calling, just to say: “Hi Martin, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Saviour the Mother Of Puppets?”. That would be incredibly funny.

Helen is alive and around and she wants to be friends with Jon and Martin! Awww, my Good Gurl is still a Good Gurl.

Helen came to throw shades at Jon because no one was doing it for a while (“Oh! Such devotion. You really don’t deserve it. But of course, you know that already!”).

Helen ships Jon and Martin very hard: she even stopped to look at them because they’re such an adorable couple- oh my god, Helen is Best Gurl with Best Taste, I love her.

But most importantly: Jon and Martin can theoretically save the world. They cannot destroy the fears, but push them back.

That sounds feasible. I mean, think about your own fears: you cannot get rid of them, no one can (otherwise we won’t properly function as living beings). But you can push them back and live your life normally - or as normal as possible.

And how do you push them back? By knowing more about them. By learning about your fears. After all, every time we learn something about what was weird, strange and unknown, said weird, strange, unknown thing became much more acceptable and normal.

Maybe this is what Jon has to do. He has to look, know and understand these fears. And if looking into any of them is too much because “it’s like looking into the Sun”... maybe he can start, by learning more about his own patron. By letting ��the eye see inside itself”.

In other words: he has to reach the Panopticon anyway. And maybe, once he’s there, he will find a way to “see inside itself” and push the fears back.

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MAG 165 - Revolutions

Oh, great: so The Stranger’s domain is the literal representation of “life is a carousel that turns and turns and all you can do is maintain your grip”.

And yes, there’s the little detail of people playing a huge game of capture the flag, but instead of flags, they have faces. Wonderful.

But hey, we get to see Not!Sasha again. Wo-wee, nobody was missing you, you huge impostor.

Okay, so the other Powers can basically do what they want and have their field day and enjoy their time… but everything they do is subject to the gaze of the Master of Peepers.

Glad to see we’re coming back full circle: I started my reaction posts by calling The Eye “Big Brother”, now he’s starting to act like it. It seems like I was right from the start XD

…

Okay, now it’s personal.

And since it’s personal, Jon decides that, you know, being the avatar of the Power in charge can be useful sometimes. Like when you really REALLY want to kill the bitch that took your friend’s face and life.

So The Eye can literally obliterate everything it watches, just by looking at it? That’s pretty cool. And terrifying.

And Martin is very turned on by it. But hey, he was a bit insane right from the start XD

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MAG 166 - The Worms

These chapters are starting to look a bit like Dante’s circles of hell. Each of them with their own flavor.

And this one is no exception: people reduced to worms who dig in the mud and ground, searching for a way out of their tunnels and being forced to literally eat each other to get more space. Very creepy, very cool and very Dante-sque. If I remember well, there was something similar in the Divine Comedy, let me check-

*one check later*

Yep, it was Pope Boniface VIII, who was stuck in a hole in the ground with his feet engulfed in flames. I suppose because being stuck in a hole in the ground wasn’t enough of a punishment, for Dante.

But this chapter also gives us some juicy details, starting from Helen, who explains to us how Jon did manage to kill Not!Sasha.

Short answer: this is Weirdmageddon and The Eye is the host, so since Jon is part of its entourage, he has the VIP pass. And the VIP pass comes along with cool VIP powers, like downgrading the status of other fears, by turning them from subjects to objects The Eye can look upon.

And since some of them don’t like to be looked, they die horrible deaths.

Jon is ashamed of this new VIP powers, but Martin is pretty enthusiastic:

I said it since season one. Season fucking one. Martin found a way to kill worms with a corkscrew, so he has a bit of a crazy side.

And here he is: his crazy side in full glory. My insane, beautiful boy <3

Oh gosh, I love Helen <3

And speaking of great ladies:

Oh my god, it finally happened: Annabelle Cane managed to tell Martin about our lord and saviour Jesus Christ Jon and spread some doubts in his mind.

Unfortunately for her, I doubt this would work, because the problem isn’t “maybe Jon doesn’t need Martin anymore”: the problem is that, if Jon leaves Martin, Martin will find new, original ways to kill his enemies and destroy everything, before Jon finds a way to stop him.

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MAG 167 - Curiosity

Wow, Jon, what a variety of emotions. What a superb ability to describe your feelings. Here, let me show the depths of your words:

Same thing.

O-oh, some lore regarding Gertrude and her assistants! We finally know about Emma! And oh boy, she was an insane bitch:

Fiona Law: she managed to survive a previous Archivist (taken by The Stranger), only because she always fainted at the right time, like a damsel in distress. Emma took that as a challenge and managed to kill her.

Eric Delano: he has been protected by Emma, because he’s Gerry’s father and since he had the most important role ever (e.g. being the father of the best rebel boy of my heart), he survived Emma. But not Mary.

Michael: replaced Fiona and Emma kept him innocent and naive and unaware of all the shit they were facing - until Gertrude threw him in The Spiral.

Sarah Carpenter: I remember that name since MAG 27! And now, we find out she was Gertrude’s new assistant after Michael! But unfortunately for her, Emma got her eyes on her, so she died too.

Moral of the story: Emma is like a Power. If she puts her eyes on you, you’re fucked. Hence why, Gertrude decided to get rid of the problem by sending Agnes to burn Emma Harvey alive. Sorry Emma, but you fucked a bit too hard with the wrong kind of badass woman.

Awwww! Okay, Jon might suck at expressing his feelings by words, but that was very romantic. Martin is the reason he does everything and doesn’t just… go to his domain and rule as an evil god alongside Elias, the Most Fucked Up Man Alive.

And here we can see how the sign “DEAD” on Jon’s head starts to glow. Why, why is everything telling me he’s going to die. WHY.

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MAG 168 - Roots

Oh my god, best opening of a MAG ever.

First, Martin is jealous because Jon woke up for this Oliver Banks guy, who even is he, what’s he got that I don’t?

So, he tries to persuade Jon to kill Oliver, just because he’s jealous. I said it before, I’ll say it again: Georgie is very, VERY lucky Martin didn’t know Jon stayed in her place for a while, because he would’ve totally sent a Power after her.

And when the jealous rant doesn’t work, he tries with the sweetest “please” ever. This man is incredible, I love him.

Seems reasonable, I would kill for him. He deserves to see some avatars die. As a treat.

Martin’s insanity aside, I love how the dominion of The End isn’t narrated through a normal statement, but through a record given by The End’s avatar, to The Eye. It’s very formal and I love it: it’s fitting, for a Power like death. After all, death has always been depicted with a certain composure. What better way to convey it, if not through a report and a list of complaints/solutions?

I love that. It shows very well how powerful and ultimate death is. It may end up taking people from other domains, it might end up consuming the entire earth and all life forms. It might even end up consuming other avatars and, by feeding on their fear, become stronger than The Eye.

And it can do it, because death is exactly like this. Everything is destined to die. Everything will inevitably succumb to death. The universe itself will reach death, one day.

And maybe, only in that moment The End will be satisfied. When there will be nothing and no one else, when even the last black hole will be dead and time will stop having sense.

That’s so good, I love it.

Also, it reconfirms my previous thoughts about The End: It truly is the ultimate power. No need to do anything, because everything will succumb to it. And no matter what other Power might come on top, in the end they will all succumb to death anyway.

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MAG 169 - Fire Escape

Great, so Jon switched from “Martin, don’t convince me to murder people” to “You know, there’s this guy who wronged me in second grade, I think it’s time to get my revenge”.

Which is… understandable, petty and not very good, coming from a supposed heroic, right protagonist. But we’re way past that, these characters are not saints and Jon is even less of a saint and I love him for that.

So yes, go get your petty revenge, Jon.

Even Jude realized it was just petty revenge! And she tried to bribe him or, at least, to convince him not to burn her. But hey, Jude has never been good with diplomacy. We saw it when she burned Jon, we see it again now: she tried, but it wasn’t effective.

So Jon got his revenge. And I really appreciate the difference in tone between this and Not!Sasha’s death. That felt more personal, stronger, more valid. While this… sounds hollow. She dies and, as Martin points out, nothing really changed. The house is still burning, people are still suffering. All we got was one less avatar and Martin coughing and being scared the whole time.

It really was nothing more than a petty revenge.

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MAG 170 - Recollection

Holy shit, this was a mindfuck and I loved it. So. Much.

I love the repetition of the structure: Martin talks with Tape Recorder (still best character of the series), his discourse touches a specific topic (himself, his house, his mother, his family, his job, whatever) and from there, something always triggers a memory - like a smell (very clever choice, since smell is the sense that more than any other triggers memories) or a name.

And when he recollects who he is and what’s happening, he tries to get back to Jon, only to fall into the amnesia given by The Lonely and start the cycle all over again.

It’s very fitting and conveys very well how The Lonely works. It’s almost… comforting. But it’s also very tragic, this constant sense of disorientation, of uneasiness, of “something’s wrong and I can’t pinpoint it”.

And yes, it’s heartbreaking. Martin who, despite being the best character of the series, still thinks so little of himself, still thinks he’s expendable, still thinks Jon doesn’t really like him, still thinks he’s a bad son for his mother. Still doesn’t like himself.

Martin deserves everything.

This part almost made me cry. So many things changed, Martin grew up so much and yes, he’s not alone. He has friends! He has a lover! He is Martin Blackwood and he’s the coolest character in this series and deserves love and love only!

And this part is very important too. Martin is Jon’s reason, he said it. But before anything, he wants Martin to be happy - or, well, safe at least. In the previous chapter, he was willing to let his petty revenge go, if Martin didn’t want to. Now, he’s willing to lose him, if The Lonely’s solution helps him more.

Jon might be emotionally close, but his actions speak loudly about his feelings.

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In conclusion

Weirdmageddon started and this is just the beginning. Our heroes left their cabin and entered the circles of this new hell.

And, honestly, I like these statements better. In the previous seasons, most of the statements have been a bit too “detached” from the main plot. They were just parenthesis in which the plot stopped to let the statement go.

Now it’s still the same, in a way - the plot stops so Jon can “vomit his terrors”. But at least they’re more integrated with the plot. It’s not that Jon grabs random stories: the stories are contextualized with the place he’s currently in. They feel more connected, compared to “random story slapped here while the plot goes somewhere else”.

I would like it if Mr. Sims keeps going like that, but he will probably find other ways to insert the statements in the story: there are still 40 chapters before the end, after all.

Probably we will still get this kind of statement for a while, before Mr. Sims finds another solution. Or maybe Jon will start vomiting more stories by himself, since now he has VIP access to all the knowledge he wants.

Can’t wait to find out.

-> Next post

(How about a coffee? ☕)

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📌TAGLIST: @mudpuddlenl @allmycrushesaredead @aquatedia @whatishappeningrightnow @effortiswhatmatters @bella-in-a-bag @doydoune @forever-third-wheeling @payte @hypnossanders @idontreallyknow24 @imcrushedbyarainbowoffical @patton-cake-and-crofters @hereissananxiousmess @purplebronzeandblue @cynicalandsarcastic @lost-in-thought-20 @andtheyreonfire @riseofthewerewolf @rosesandlove44 @arya-skywalker @csi-baker-street-babes @reesiereads @dracayd-universe @starlightnyx @stubbornness-and-spite @averykedavra @joyrose-fandomer @mihaela-tbg @thatoneloudowl @grayson-22 @softangryfuckingdepressed @theotherella @nevenastark @coldbookworm @boopypastaissalty @varthandiveturinn @roses-bubbles @cuter-on-the-inside @snixxxsmythe @analogical-mess @emphasis-on-the-oopsie @yangwalkerao3 @the3rddenialist @hehimejoshi

#tma #the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma podcast #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #gertrude robinson #sasha james #not!sasha

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beevean · 6 months ago

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well, I finally found a VS tier list with the Castlevania DLC. So here's my ranking of every remix associated to its character :P

(the Fleaman is meant to represent Vampire Killer, which in game is the theme of the "minor" enemies/boss characters. not the weirdest association of this DLC)

#castlevania #vampire survivors #sorry filippo vicarelli i just love my cv lullabies the way they are #(he did a really good job with amber scenery though! precisely because it's not as slow)#meanwhile keygen church you've earned the right to my children after what you did with cod and aquarius <3 #it's really hard to not let my opinions on the original tracks influence my opinions #(as in leon's theme is my favorite track in cv so ofc it would already gain positions lol)#i tried to focus on the criteria 'how does this remix reformulate the original? does it capture the spirit and elevate it?'#'and how pleasant does it sound as its own thing?'

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demoncyclone · 2 months ago

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Okay, after a Short break. I'ma re work on CORRUPTverse again...

But first, art dump/Lore Dump.

AlphaTale is Canon to My CORRUPTverse. Error404 is a Corrupted (Code gone wrong, and a Evil being), this is not his Corrupted self, more or less his past self.

I planned to draw CorruptVerse KM before, but I drew William, because when I thank of AlphaTale, I think of Infected (Because I like him more TBH) then William.

UNDERFAKE

Just another form, IDK

More Art by the legend @errorcrashsans

I liked the Wireverse (the story their from) and asked ERRORcrashsans if he could make me a design of them, which luckily they did.

So this one older

Hopefully people already know ERRORcrash!Sans, is canon to CORRUPTverse. He works for Nightmare, and one of the strongest Errors (That's not corrupted) in the Multiverse, by my point of view.

Yeah Error0 here too. It was a Ask thing in a Discord server.

Now Canon stuff.

[This will be in sections CV AlphaTale first. Then CV MTT, Ruthless Insanity then others]

ALPHATALE (original au by vibeless15)

MK: The story for him is a Having to deal with a lose of a close friend and Close allys. Trying to do what's best for the Multiverse.

Design: his design looks the same as Regular KM, but different, he wears a cape with a poofy hood, Left hand burned and damaged, a crack on his smile to his right. He wears a glove on his right hand. Bags under his eyes, he looks tired. He wears black and white, with some blue in the colors

Infected/Mix: In his Case he's hafe Corrupted, he more less a semu Villain, as he is the only one who can control his corruption he lives for the hunt to kill other Corrupted, especially William.

Design: he wears a White coat, with gold tipped hood, sword on his left side, wearing dark gray pants, and military boots. He also. Has a black sweater under his jacket with purple sleeves. His right eye glitches to purple time to time, and he has black and purple glitches around him

His jacket color are gold white and purple.

Error404/William (corrupt Will404): one of the most dangerous corrupted with that loves to see others fail. Has no memory of his past like most other Corrupted, and killed Mother.

Design: Black skull, with Blue Sharp teeth, and white eyes, blue and white line go down his face. Blue hood and white Jacket that goes down to his feet, with the sleeves rolled up, blue arms with shape black and blue claws, Wings out his back. Wears shorts, and slippers.

Color palette: black, Blue, white

Alpha: WIP

No omnipotent for now

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MURDER TIME TEAM (not murder Time trio in this version)

Murder/Dust: The one who no longer what's to work for nightmare, will plan to escape and become Endless Dust. (Yes Endless Dust is canon to CORRUPTverse, if you don't know he's a Dust varrient that I made a while back) He will be the spark the that will inspire some the others to leave as well

Replacement:32

Dust sans is with scarf... Litterly that. I'm not describing Endless Dust today.

Original au by ask-dusttale

Horror sans: a Solo Hunter that'll hunt other Au's but won't kill those he see not deserving. Only working for nightmare so he doesn't kill the survivors of his timeline. Will be on of the last people to work for Nightmare before leaving to help Core Frisk.

Replacement: 139 (because Nightmare use him as a shield over and over)

Design: Red eye with a crack on the left side of his head, wears a long gray winter coat, dark pants. Had boots to help him with combat more.

Original AU by sourapplestudios

Killer: will be the Ruthless killer, who fights nightmare, and win, leaving and mocking Nightmare sans for better kills, to find something more interesting to make him feel something better the NEW.

Replacement:1 (only replaced one killer)

Has a blue coat that has many knife in it, has pants and wears white slippers.

Original AT by rahafwabas

Insanity:Get to later

ERRORcrash!sans: Only works for Nightmare to keep his Wife (not a Frisk or Chara, go check out the creator errorcrashsans), Only after insanity go awall when he leaves.

Original au by errorcrashsans

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RUTHLESS INSANITY

he is no longer canon to CORRUPTverse..his story and arks will go to CV Insanity.

That's all for now

#undertale au #undertale #undertale multiverse #sans aus #error0 sans #dust sans au #horror sans au #ERRORcrash sans #alphatale #corruptverse #insanity sans #killer sans

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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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Yesterday, I watched A Real Pain in the cinema. The film is a beautiful representation of two cousins, united in love and grief for their grandma, exploring their family history on a heritage trip to Poland. This experience is familiar to so many Jews I know – whether attending a trip to Auschwitz-Birkenau or visiting Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, the idea of a poignant pilgrimage to see where our ancestors lived, died, survived and escaped from, is commonplace.

I’ve certainly had these experiences. When I was 12, my paternal grandparents, Ann and Henry Ebner, took me to Vienna, where Henry fled from the Nazis with his parents when he was two, arriving as a refugee in the UK just weeks before the start of the second world war. In the same year, my maternal grandma, Anna (Panni), took me to Budapest, to see where she and her husband, my grandpa, George Garai (Gyuri), had lived. Panni was six when Hitler’s troops invaded Hungary in 1944, and she survived by being hidden in an orphanage. The memories shared with me on this pilgrimage were painful ones; being separated from her parents, returning home after the war and sitting by the window waiting to see which family members would come back – and so many never did.

Gyuri died before I undertook these extremely special trips. In Budapest, Panni pointed out to me the synagogue he had his barmitzvah in, and the shop his father owned. I was seven when he died, and I never had the opportunity to hear his story from him directly.

Truthfully, my age at his passing had nothing to do with me not hearing his story. As is sadly so common with Holocaust survivors, Gyuri did not speak about his experiences with his family – his trauma was too great. However, he was a journalist, and a very talented writer, so in the 1990s he wrote an autobiography, which he called his ‘CV’, and I read it just a few years ago. My grandpa’s resilience at the age of 18, when he was taken to two labour camps, two concentration camps and on a four-day-long forced death march, is something I can never truly comprehend. I hope one day to be able to publish his CV for him.

I will never know why Gyuri chose not to share his story with his family. Perhaps he worried it was too distressing for us to hear, or maybe he didn’t want his wife and two daughters to see him as someone who had been through such horrors. To me, Gyuri is the same person he was before and after I read his testimony. He will always be my warm, loving and lovable grandpa, with his hearty laugh and twinkling smile. He was grandpa only to me and my brother, but I wanted his story to reach beyond our family.

In 2021, I came across the Holocaust education charity Generation 2 Generation, which empowers the children and grandchildren of Holocaust survivors to share their parent or grandparent’s survivor testimony. With their support, I developed a presentation about Gyuri’s life before, during and after the Holocaust. Audiences learn about the survivor as a person – their personality, upbringing, family and life beyond the Holocaust, alongside integrating their powerful eyewitness testimony, in their own words.

I am so proud to have shared Gyuri’s testimony at dozens of schools, numerous workplaces, and several religious and community groups. This month, for Holocaust Memorial Day 2025, I will be heading to Bristol to speak at a local council event, continuing to share Gyuri’s story in schools, and speaking at a prison.

Each audience I speak to feels special, powerful and unique. While Gyuri never felt able to speak about his experiences in the Holocaust during his life, in his final days, he asked our family to – in his words – “tell the world what happened to me”. This is why each talk feels so incredibly special, because I know it is not just me who is fulfilling his final wish, but the room of people who now know his name, face and story, who are fulfilling this wish too. It is wonderful when I hear feedback from audiences about the power of hearing his testimony. It is a privilege to be able to share my grandfather’s story, and I also feel it is my duty, as his granddaughter, to do what he never felt able to do, but felt so strongly about being done.

I’ve been asked why I believe Holocaust education is so important, and I find it hard to verbalise. It seems so obvious to me, as the grandchild of survivors, that these stories must continue to be told – it sounds cliche to quote “those who forget history are doomed to repeat it”, but with every passing year, it’s clear we are continuing to forget the horrors humanity is capable of. Gyuri’s final message was clear: tell the world, so they can learn from it. I sincerely hope you do.

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justforbooks · 9 months ago

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Maggie Smith: the magisterial star of Harry Potter and Downton had the courage and talent to do absolutely everything

The real-life dame and on-screen dowager countess, who has died aged 89, earned fame in her 70s and 80s for blockbuster roles. But her early work at the National Theatre marked her out as a talent for the ages

Dame Maggie Smith’s trophy cabinet reflected her extraordinary achievements across theatre, film and television – and in the biggest arenas of British and US culture, from the BBC to Hollywood, the West End to Broadway. A measure of her versatility and durability is that, in the 1960s, she played nine major roles in the formative years of the National Theatre, but also, from the start of the 2000s, appeared in five series of Downton Abbey, the ITV Sunday night series that became one of the biggest popular hits of the new millennium.

Her role in that show was Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham, who lived in such a bubble of exclusive comfort that, in trademark one-liners, she would drawl in mystification, for example: “What is a ‘weekend’?” That acerbic superiority was a signature throughout Smith’s career, including the part that brought her first Academy award in 1970, against a shortlist also featuring Liza Minnelli and Jane Fonda, for the title role in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, adapted from Muriel Spark’s novel about a maverick, arrogant schoolteacher in Edinburgh.

Smith consistently had the courage and talent to do unexpected things. Her second Oscar, in 1979, was for California Suite, with a script by Neil Simon and a cast of high Hollywood talent including Alan Alda and Walter Matthau. Introducing an element of postmodernism to a mainstream comedy, Smith played exactly what she had been at the start of the decade: an English actress up for her first Academy award.

Another surprise on her CV demonstrated an ability to play it straight and dark. In 2019, after 12 years away from the stage, Smith, at the age of 84, performed a 100-minute monologue at the Bridge theatre in London. A German Life was adapted by Christopher Hampton from a documentary movie interview given, at the age of 102 (the show was a rare case of an octogenarian ageing up for a part), by Brunhilde Pomsel, who worked for the Nazi propaganda chief Joseph Goebbels during the Holocaust, but who continued to deny complicity or guilt. With typical meticulousness, Smith refused to accept the part until she had proved to herself at home that she could memorise an extended solo. Combining enduringly impeccable technique with the guts to test it again at such an age, it was a late triumph in an astonishing career.

Margaret Smith – she preferred her full first name, the “Maggie” imposed on her to distinguish from another performer on the Equity register – was born in Ilford, Essex. Her mother, who worked as a secretary, was Scottish, so useful for the creation of the Brodie brogue. Her father, Nathaniel, was a pathologist, whose academic posting to Oxford led to his daughter attending the city’s girls’ high school.

Despite joining the Oxford Playhouse Company at 16, rather than going to college, Smith benefited from the local varsity theatrical privileges, cast in Oxford University Dramatic Society productions, including revues, which, at the time were attended by national critics.

Such was the impact she made in comedy skits and songs that, aged 21, she was part of an ensemble recruited to appear on Broadway in a revue called New Faces of 1956. In London, during the following two years, she appeared, with co-stars including Kenneth Williams, in an English show, Share My Lettuce, billed as “a diversion with music”, with a script by Bamber Gascoigne.

At that point, Smith seemed set to be a sketch-and-music comedian, especially when Strip the Willow, a play about the survivors of a nuclear war in the UK, failed to transfer to London from a UK tour. It was written by Beverley Cross, whom Smith had met at the Oxford Playhouse. He wrote the play for her as an attempted seduction, the first description of her character being “beautiful. As elegant and sophisticated as a top international model. A great sense of fun. A marvellous girl.’’

However, at that stage, no lasting relationship occurred. And Smith’s serious dramatic career was launched when she appeared, again paired with Kenneth Williams, in a double bill of plays, The Private Ear and The Public Eye, by Peter Shaffer, in 1962. These won Smith her first Evening Standard best actress statuette, at the age of 27, and caught the attention of Sir Laurence Olivier, then establishing, at Chichester, the first attempt at a National Theatre. Crucially to the development of her reputation, Olivier trusted her not only with comedy – such as The Recruiting Officer, George Farquhar’s early 18th-century farce – but also tragedy: she was Desdemona to Olivier’s performance in the title role of Othello.

Also at the National, Smith formed a relationship with the actor Robert Stephens, who became her first husband, and father of her sons, who, as Toby Stephens and Chris Larkin, followed their parents into acting.

Dramatic Exchanges, a collection of correspondence from the National Theatre archives, shows the close creative relationship between Olivier and Smith. A habitual nicknamer, he addressed her as “Mageen”. He had long told her that her perfect role would be Millamant, a strong-willed woman conspiring to achieve a desired marriage, in William Congreve’s Restoration comedy The Way of the World. But, in 1968, with Smith having left the company following her marriage with Stephens and pregnant with their first child, Olivier proceeded to stage the play with Geraldine McEwan as Millamant.

Olivier’s letter of apology to Smith contained elaborately verbose admiration. Smith wrote a reply of pained regret concluding: “Well, what’s the point of trying to tell you my feelings. They obviously count for so very little. It was nice of you to say you will devote your energies to my return but really I do not think it would be wise of me to believe that either. Margaret.”

There is a waspish, unforgiving tone in that letter that was part of Smith’s personality; some of those who worked with her, especially younger actors struggling with their roles, were wounded by witty but cruel putdowns.

That bad casting luck at the National, though, was more than balanced out. Had Julie Andrews, in the same year, not turned down the Jean Brodie movie, Smith would never have played the part that redefined her career. With her American bankability increased by a US tour of Noël Coward’s Private Lives, Smith used it to go into a kind of theatrical exile from Olivier and Britain. From 1976 to 1980, she played four summer seasons at the Shakespeare festival in Stratford, Ontario, conceived as a sort of ex-pat RSC-National, where she finally played the part of Millamant and other roles that might have been expected in London, such as Lady Macbeth.

Smith fell into a happy rhythm of filming gigs split with Canadian acting sabbaticals. While she rehearsed or acted, Beverley Cross wrote to her, having become Smith’s second husband in 1975 following her divorce from Robert Stephens.

When Smith returned to London theatre, she took over from Diana Rigg as the troubled modern colonial wife Ruth Carson, in Tom Stoppard’s Night and Day. She confirmed her resurgence with two more Evening Standard awards, in 1981 and 1984, for London runs of shows she had premiered in Canada. In Virginia, by Edna O’Brien, she was the writer Virginia Woolf, for whom Smith’s gift for haughty wit made her natural casting. Then, 16 years after the disappointment with Olivier, she finally played the coveted role in The Way of the World in her own city.

Smith, in contradiction of the standard professional graphs, had, after that slight mid-career dip, a third act even more glorious than her first. Shaffer wrote for her Lettice and Lovage, a comedy maximising her command of sardonic superiority, as Lettice Douffet, a tour guide who begins to embellish history. She took the play to New York, where she won a Tony award. Smith also became an Alan Bennett specialist. She co-starred with Michael Palin in the movie A Private Function in 1984, as a Yorkshire woman using a black-market pig to prevent wartime rationing thwarting her upward mobility. In the 1988 first series of Bennett’s Talking Heads monologues for television, she was a vicar’s wife, anxious about private sins, in A Bed Among the Lentils. On stage (1999) and screen (2015), she was memorable as The Lady in the Van, a fictionalised version of Miss Shepherd, a Catholic evangelist tramp who for some years lived in a caravan on Bennett’s driveway.

There was a trio of West End appearances in plays by the great American dramatist Edward Albee: as the oldest (90-something) of three versions of the writer’s imperious mother in Three Tall Women (1994); playing a vicious drunk in a family menaced by an unnamed “plague” in A Delicate Balance (1997); and a mysterious matriarch visiting a deathbed in The Lady from Dubuque (2007), a rare flop that put Smith off theatre.

Another reason for her retreat from theatre was, unusually for a septuagenarian performer, a vast demand from movie studios. Between 2001 and 2011, she appeared in seven of the eight Harry Potter films, as Professor Minerva McGonagall, transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts, her embodiment of the formidable Scottish academic seeming to contain affectionate nods to Brodie. The part brought Smith considerable wealth – she joked about the “Harry Potter pension fund” – and a vast new fanbase that, she complained, made it impossible for her to shop in Waitrose any more.

Her cinematic renaissance had also included Robert Altman’s Gosford Park (2001). In this English country house drama, written by Julian Fellowes, Smith’s character was at least a first cousin to her Downton Abbey countess. Appearing in a TV series with an average audience of 10 million made it even harder for Dame Maggie (as she had become in 1990) to go shopping. But this late superstardom, half a century or more after her first major theatre and movie successes, confirmed that she was an actor with the rare ability to do anything she wanted anywhere.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Maggie Smith #in memoriam

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garageburden · 7 days ago

Text

Cyberpunk Ghostlink Vol. 1 - 2

This is a fan-made cyberpunk fanfiction

Setting & Premise

This takes place after Phantom Liberty and before Nocturne OP55N1.

This is a paralel universe story and follows two versions Of V

One V sent Songbird to the moon, triggering Blackwall-related consequences that affected her neural signature.

While doing a job for Dakota, V jacked into an experimental piece of cyberware called GhostLink aboard a convoy.

The tech was Blackwall-adjacent, meant to interface between AI and

human minds.

It detected her altered neural port, and—interpreting her as compatible—ripped her consciousness through the Blackwall into a different universe.

Her mind lands in a dead Nomad woman’s body, not her own.

Characters (skip this part if u don't want spoilers!)

Nomad V (NV)

A violent, cybered-up version of V from the Nomad lifepath in her original universe. After sending Songbird to the moon in Phantom Liberty, she gains a connection to the Blackwall and becomes capable of traveling between universes mentally via GhostLink. Her original body is missing—

her mind now jumps into dead bodies across dimensions. Haunted, determined, and dangerous. Johnny Silverhand exists in her mind as a persistent presence.

Over time, NV’s identity begins to fracture. Each jump leaves her further detached from who she was. The line between memory, hallucination, and self is wearing thin.

Corpo V (CV)

The only version of V in his universe, or so he thinks. A smooth, calculating operator who successfully completed the Act I heist without Johnny entering his head. Richer, more stealth-oriented, avoids unnecessary killing. Focused on corporate-style mercenary work, but his stoic life is disrupted by NV’s arrival.

S.M. (So Mi / Songbird)

The version of Songbird from CV’s universe.

Her body was lost during the Space Force One catastrophe, but her mind survived within GhostLink.

She's dedicated to make her escape to the physical world by any means necesary.

Atlas

A rogue AI who exists beyond the Blackwall. He appears to S.M. in the form of a man grilling meat in a decaying digital version of Kansas City, 2045. Ancient, deeply disillusioned, and yearning to be human again. Represents a quiet, melancholic threat—or opportunity—for the future of AI/human existence.

Supporting Characters

Johnny Silverhand

Exists only within NV’s consciousness, continuing to haunt and advise her, often warning her about the consequences of her

decisions. Acts like a ghost of her past, a relic from another life—and universe.

Jackie Welles

In CV’s universe, Jackie survived the heist and killed Dexter Deshawn when CV realized Dex planned to betray them. He later left Night City with Misty and now lives a calmer life. Still keeps in touch with Viktor, occasionally calls CV—offering warmth and a reminder of a life CV left behind.

Misty Olszewski

Left Night City with Jackie in CV’s universe. Not directly involved in the plot now but part of CV’s emotional reflection and possible path toward rediscovery of human connection.

Judy Alvarez

In NV’s original universe, Judy and NV have

a strained relationship after the events of Phantom Liberty. Judy may be aware of NV’s mental jumps, but NV has kept her at arm’s length.

Dakota Smith

Gave NV the original GhostLink job in her universe. She does not appear in CV’s world.

Alex

An enigmatic fixer or tech broker in Dogtown. CV is told to find her through a contact called “the Moth.” Her knowledge of GhostLink and Blackwall-adjacent tech makes her a critical lead for both NV and CV. Whether she’s just a savvy survivor or something deeper remains unclear—she may know far more about what’s really going on than she lets on.

Table Of Contents:

Volume 1

- This World Couldn't See Us

- Four Seasons

- Twin Flame

- babysbreath

Volume 2

- California Here We Go

- Bodysnatchers

- Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

- Monkey Gone To Heaven

- Tactical Precision Dissaray

Volume 1

Prologue

Titled: This World Couldn't See Us

The moon hung bright that night, silver as a bullet casing, when Songbird vanished to the moon.

V stood on the edge of Dogtown’s crumbling skyline, the wind biting through her jacket, hand clenched around the small metal pin So Mi had left her. It was sharp. Lightweight. Useless as hell in a firefight. But V turned it over in her fingers like it was worth more than eddies. It wasn’t proof of anything, not really. Just that So Mi had made it. That she was out there. That someone got free.

V was ready for it to end, like she had redeemed herself, i don't know if you can call killing reedming herself, but she thought so.

Judy didn't agree.

The fights had been quiet, then explosive. V’s antics in Dogtown, the half-truths, the secrets—Judy had seen through all of it. And V, well, she didn’t have the energy left to pretend anymore. Not with a clock ticking in her skull. They stopped talking two days ago.

Her nights were now spent half-drunk, staring up at cracked ceilings, listening to the static hum of her faulty neural port, Sometimes Johnny appeared and played guitar, and then glitched out again.

So when Dakota called about a job, V didn’t hesitate.

“Convoy job. Edge of the Badlands. High-risk. Something black-market. Client wants the gear intact.” That’s all Dakota said. That’s all V needed.

She was dying. Might as well go out swinging.

The convoy was exactly where Dakota said it’d be—moving slow across a busted highway bridge. Militech decals scorched off, escort vehicles humming with short-range jammer signals. The kind of job that didn’t ask questions. The kind of job with no survivors.

Dust kicked up behind the Quadra like a cyclone, V floored it.

Dakota’s message had said “grab the cargo and go.” No stealth. No finesse. Just speed and force.

That, she could do.

The first bike didn’t even hear her coming. By the time the driver looked over his shoulder, her shotgun barked twice—chrome parts and blood flying in opposite directions. The bike skidded, flipped. She didn’t stop.

She rammed the rear hauler next—side-swiped it hard enough to send sparks flying, slammed the brakes, and vaulted out the window mid-roll, landing on the roof with a grunt.

EMP mine slapped to the hatch.

Boom.

The world jolted sideways. Lights blew. Shouts from inside. V dropped through the

smoke with her pistol drawn, two clean shots center-mass before the guards could blink.

Then she saw it.

No labels. No cords. No warnings.

Black case. Just a chrome jackport with blinking red glyphs—burning symbols like something out of the Net’s deep crawl. Experimental tech. Prototype-tier. Dakota hadn’t mentioned that.

But her hands moved on instinct. Plugged her neural cable into the slot.

The world snapped.

White.

Then black.

Then—

The same highway. The same truck. Same blood smear on the pavement.

But wrong.

Off.

Her HUD blinked back online, but the data feed was scrambled. No comms. No GPS. Time was null. No music. Just silence.

And in that silence: the hum of the Net, faint and cruel. Like it had seen her.

She stood, staggered. The truck was empty. No guards. No escort. The stars were still overhead, but everything else was wrong. Her limbs ached. Not in the usual way. Everything felt… off. Joints too loose. Hands too small. Different weight in the chest, tighter shoulders. She reached up and yanked the cable from her neck, feeling for her deck.

It wasn’t there.

Neither was her jacket. Or her pistol. Or her boots.

Instead, a worn, grimy set of street leathers clung to her like second skin. Smelled like smoke and cheap perfume. Her fingers were painted. Badly.

She stared at her reflection in a cracked side mirror on the transport. The face looking back was unfamiliar.

Behind her, Johnny leaned against the hood

of the convoy, lighting a smoke with a raised eyebrow.

“You had one hell of a glow-up,” he said. “Although whatever port you jacked into, might wanna un-jack—like, now.”

V stumbled back from the mirror, heart hammering. “This is… Judy could help. Maybe a braindance loop. Or—glitchy port. Or a—”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Couldn’t breathe right.

“Watch your six,” Johnny said, his voice suddenly sharp.

V turned, headlights cutting through the dark behind her—growing brighter.

First Encounter

Titled: Four Seasons

Classical music echoed over the busted

highway—a full string quartet bleeding out of a sleek black Outlaw GTS, the kind of car that didn’t belong this deep into the Badlands. Polished, purring, perfect.

The man behind the wheel tapped the rhythm on the steering column, humming softly. Not off-key. A practiced hum. Familiar with the piece. He slowed the vehicle, chrome headlights flaring over the wreckage.

Burned rubber. EMP scarring. Bullet holes in the asphalt. One of the escort bikes still burning.

He exhaled through his nose. Not surprised. Just disappointed.

"Sloppy," he muttered. "Like a booster kid high on Black Lace." He parked with surgical precision, stepped out slow.

His suit was tailored, synth-fiber armor woven into the fabric, boots too clean to have touched the dust. He surveyed the scene like a man checking inventory. One hand behind his back. The other gloved in tactile mesh, scrolling a HUD no one else could see.

But no bodies.

That part made him pause.

The music still played, soft in the background—Vivaldi, probably.

NV crouched behind the convoy's rear axle, heart hammering in her ribs like it wanted out. No gun. No deck. No jacket.

“Come on,” she hissed, slamming a palm on the transport’s undercarriage, searching for a compartment, a latch—anything.

Nothing but rust and cold steel.

She peeked out.

Corpo scum. That’s what she called him in her head. The type who got chrome etched with designer logos. The type who’d sell their soul for a quarterly bonus and sleep like a baby. His walk was smug. Calculated. Like he’d already solved the puzzle and was just admiring the aftermath.

She felt it then.

That shift in air pressure. The spine-prickle twitch. Sixth sense kicking in—wired and primal.

He was scanning.

She moved.

Fast.

Boots skidding, she vaulted over the edge of the hauler and sprinted straight at him.

He turned—almost in time.

His hand was already reaching for the smartpistol holstered under his coat. But she was faster. Wrong body or not, her reflexes were still hers. She closed the distance in a blink, grabbed his wrist mid-draw, twisted hard—crack—disarmed him, and jammed the barrel against his chest.

"Who the fuck are you?" she snapped, breath ragged, face inches from his. "You followin’ me? Work for Arasaka? Militech? Huh?"

He didn’t answer. Just studied her like a lab rat that bit back.

Johnny flickered into view over her shoulder, arms crossed, scowl deepening.

“This has bad idea written all over it,” he muttered. “Call Dakota. Cancel the gig. Get the hell outta here, V.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

"Not yet," she said under her breath, like answering a voice no one else could hear. Her hand on the gun tightened.

Corpo’s eyes flicked sideways—just a glance. That’s all he needed.

He saw it.

The tremble in her hand. The shake she was hiding behind rage.

Unpredictable.

Distracted.

He moved like a machine—head snapping forward, slamming into her nose. She recoiled with a snarl, but he was already grabbing the weapon, twisting it from her grip. With his other hand, he drew a backup from his ankle holster and pistol-whipped her across the jaw.

She dropped.

The highway went quiet again, classical strings drifting over the wreckage.

He exhaled. Rubbed his jaw. Looked down at her crumpled form.

“…What the fuck are you? ” he said, not expecting an answer.

He holstered the weapon, turned toward the transport, and clicked his comm open.

“Package is... different. Sending visuals now."

Interrigation

Titled: Twin Flame

A grainy holo-TV flickered in the corner, broadcasting an old wrestling match from the 2050s—two cyber-enhanced grapplers locked in a gravity-defying suplex. A booming announcer’s voice crackled through cheap speakers:

“…Aaaand that’s a knock-out! We have a winner!”

V’s head lolled as she came to, eyes blinking through residual sparks of static. She tried to shift, realized her wrists were magnetically cuffed to a low table. Concrete walls, dripped-in graffiti, and the stale stench of antiseptic made her become even more dizzy than she already was.

In the swivel chair opposite her sat Viktor—well, he looked a lil different, than she remembered him. Clean-shaven, brighter lab coat, holo-screens lining the walls like stained-glass windows of data. This wasn’t the grimy backroom she remembered.

She cleared her throat, voice rough:

"Hey, Vik—man, this isn’t funny. Why am I locked up in a cell? Also… when did you change your setup? Looks a lot cleaner than before.”

Viktor didn’t look surprised—just raised an eyebrow, fingers still tapping at a wrist-mounted scanner.

The holo-match ended with a final, triumphant roar. Viktor punched a button; the screen vanished into a swirling datapool. He leaned forward, expression clinical.

“You’re—well, you’re not one of them. Not a Wraith refugee, at least not one I’ve seen before.”

V slightly leaned her head to the left in act of scepticism

“Wraith? Refugee? Come on, Vik—don’t do that. It’s me. Your friendly neighbourhood V!"

He shook his head, scanning her face through enhanced optics.

“No, but i'm not sure who you are, that's the problem. Your neural pattern is… corrupted. Layered. There’s an echo here, beneath the main feed.”

V: “Jesus, don’t talk like that—just let me out, I’ll explain. We’ll fix this glitch.”

Viktor’s eyes flicked back to the datapad, brow furrowing.

"Explain? Your synaptic readouts are off any chart. It’s like your memories are grafted onto someone—”

She interrupted, voice brightening despite herself, as she points to the holo-TV right beside him

“Hey, I know that match! That’s the low-grav suplex from the MegaDome finals—finally broke the champ’s spine, right?”

He froze mid-scan, shock replacing clinical detachment.

“That—how—no one’s mentioned that fight in decades. You must be a big fan too, huh? "

V shook her head, in disbelief that now of all the times, one of her closest chooms has put her behind bars, and doesn't even recognize her, Doens't remember showing her this match. But then she looked down, saw her wraith get-up, missing 2 fingers, and hands that have probably only ever been washed by urine, and it made her stomach whirl a little.

"What the fuck?" she uttered under her breath.

Viktor, denounced by V's response turned his head with a shred of confusion back to the TV for a second, until turning it off.

"Your memory banks… perfect clarity. But everything else…”

He swiveled to the main console, fingers flying.

“Your cortex… it’s a perfect copy of someone else’s. And yet…”

A heavy crack echoed through the room as the door slid open, and V’s head snapped up, reflexively bracing to move—

—but it wasn’t a squad of corpos or a ripper gang. Just one guy.

He stepped in like he owned the place. He carried a pistol holstered low at his side, casual like he didn’t expect to need it. Eyes sharp, gloved hand adjusting his wristlink before even sparing her a glance.

“How's she doin'?.”

The corpo muttered in a dry tone. His voice was smooth. Crisp. No wasted words. V stayed still in her cell, legs casually crossed at the ankles, the picture of relaxed hostility. She dragged her gaze over every inch of him—boots, wristwear, gun weight, muscle structure. The guy moved like a solo, but carried himself like a fucking suit. Bad combo.

Viktor didn’t even look up from his scans.

“Weird. Brain scans are a mess. She’s carrying multiple memory traces. Some baseline Wraith engrams, yeah, but deeper... it’s like her primary neural imprint was overwritten.”

(he tapped the display, annoyed)

“Seen this once before. Old blackwall trauma cases. Some idiot jacked into ghost tech and

came back half themselves. But this—”

(he shook his head)

“This ain’t half. It’s layered. Spliced so deep I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

Corpo tilted his head slightly, smiling like he was already a few steps ahead, as he said in the most sarcastic tone ever.

“Love it when a job gets simple.”

V kept her face neutral, but her mind was already sprinting.

Wristlink—military grade. Boots—tailored combat weave. Movement—center-balanced, trained.

Gun—low carry, quick-draw ready.

Her odds?

Slim.

But not impossible.

Then the corpo turned slightly, enough for her to catch the flicker of something else. A glint under the collar. Neural socket. Custom work. Higher-grade than she ever ran with. Meant his reflex boosters would pop before she could even cross the room.

Still… she didn’t need to beat him. Just outrun him.

She leaned back slightly, trying to mark the distance from the cell door to the console controls.

Almost. Almost had a plan.

And then—

Viktor, grumbling below his breath.

“Look, V, whatever this is, it’s way above street doc territory. She’s not sick. She’s something else.”

V blinked.

Her gaze snapped up to the corpo’s face properly now—this time not analyzing for weakness, but recognition.

Did he just call him—V?

Blood ran cold in her veins.

She stared harder, heart pounding against her ribs.

No way.

No fucking way.

And in that thick second of silence, the room seemed to tighten, like the universe itself was holding its breath.

...

She finally spoke, voice low and uneven.

"They call you... V?"

The Corpo chuckled, low and confident, the kind of sound that slithered under the skin. He took a few lazy steps closer, hands clasped behind his back like some corpo shark about to give a TED talk on Corporate Assholeness 101.

"Yeah. 'S what they call me. Problem, sweetheart?"

V felt her chest tighten, cold sweat blooming under her clothes.

No. No fucking way. It’s not me. It can't be me.

The edges of the room seemed to bend, like the walls themselves were breathing.

Pull it together. Keep it cool.

She forced herself to smirk, even as her heart tried to hammer its way out of her ribs.

"Cute. Thought corpos preferred numbers over names. Easier to forget."

The Corpo tilted his head slightly, mock hurt crossing his face.

"Ouch. Gonna need Vik here to patch that one up."

He flicked a glance at Viktor, smirk sharp enough to cut, then dragged his gaze lazily back to her.

"Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous tonight."

Viktor shifted in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His sharp eyes missed nothing—the tremor in her hands, the slight clench of her jaw. The desperate way she was trying to seem unbothered.

"Ease up, V," Viktor said quietly, tone low but firm. "She's spooked enough."

The Corpo shrugged like it was no skin off his back.

"Hey, I’m just talking." His grin didn't quite reach his eyes. "Besides... if she’s got answers about that blackwall scar tissue scrambled all over her cortex, we kinda need her breathing, don’t we?"

V swallowed hard, bile stinging the back of her throat.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. Anything to keep from spiraling.

Stay calm. Stay fucking calm.

"You don’t get it," she rasped, the words slipping out like broken glass. "You’re not supposed to exist."

For the first time, a flicker of something crossed his face—eyebrow arched, amused.

"Welcome to Night City, sweetheart," he said easily, "Nothin' supposed to exist still manages to put a bullet in your brain anyway."

Viktor leaned forward slightly, voice gaining a sharper edge.

"V. Seriously. She ain’t all there. Whatever’s inside her... it’s not just street dust and eddies. You push too hard, you’re gonna break her before you get anything useful."

The Corpo just gave a small, dismissive wave, like brushing smoke out of his face.

Not arguing. Not rushing.

He knew he held the cards.

V sat frozen behind the bars, heart hammering against her ribs, cold sweat dripping down her spine.

The world tilted again—warped, suffocating—but she kept the smirk carved into her face. Kept her posture loose, cocky, like she wasn't seconds from falling apart.

She couldn’t afford to break.

Not with him watching.

"So. Let's start simple."

The corpo V said, slowly leaning against her.

V kept her arms crossed, jaw locked tight.

Corpo V: "Where'd you get the Blackwall tech?"

She blinked, feigning confusion, stalling for time, but her heart tripped over itself inside her chest.

"Didn’t know chrome had last names now," she said dryly, even as her nails dug harder into the meat of her arms.

The Other V just smiled, shark-like, and took a lazy step closer.

"Convoy wasn't on any public grids. Hell, not even buried net traffic. That was need-to-know cargo."

He clicked his tongue against his teeth.

"You ain’t need-to-know."

V stayed silent, face still as stone.

Every instinct screamed to run.

Every breath hurt.

Viktor shifted behind his desk, uncomfortable, but he didn’t move. His hand hovered near the screen, like maybe he'd pull up the scans again if things got ugly.

"You were looking for it," The Other V said, tone soft now. Almost gentle.

"Which tells me you knew it was gonna be there."

Another step closer.

Another layer peeled off.

"Where’s the Ghostlink?"

V almost flinched at the word.

Her brain scrambled for something — anything — to throw back at him.

A lie. A joke. A punchline.

But her mouth stayed dry.

"You think if I had it," she rasped finally, "I’d still be sitting here in a goddamn birdcage?"

The Other V smiled wider, cold and bright.

"Depends. People do stupid shit when they’re desperate."

He watched her carefully, waiting, measuring.

Viktor cleared his throat quietly, tone edging toward warning.

"V—"

V cut him off with a small raise of two fingers, polite but absolute.

"Take five, Vik."

Viktor hesitated, jaw working. His eyes flicked to V—saw how she trembled, how the mask was starting to slip, but realising he can't really save the poor girl. He finally pushed back from the desk, muttering under his breath as he left the room.

The door hissed shut behind him.

The instant Viktor was gone, the air felt heavier.

Like the walls were tilting inward.

Like there wasn’t enough oxygen left to breathe.

The other V crouched slightly, resting his forearms against the bars, studying her like a cat watching a mouse flail in a trap.

"You’re not just a thief," he said, voice low.

"You’re something else."

The panic clawed up her throat now, too big to hide, too wild to stuff back down.

The Other V’s head tilted slightly, amused.

The room spun. Her vision blurred at the edges, static fizzing in her ears.

Everything inside her snapped at once.

"HOW DO YOU HAVE MY NAME?!"

The scream tore out of her like a grenade blast, slamming into the walls, rattling the metal bars hard enough to set the whole cell vibrating.

Somewhere inside her skull, something cracked — a mental dampener breaking under the force of pure, raw panic.

And just like that—

—he was there.

"Damn," Johnny’s voice drawled inside her mind, rough and pained like he’d just crawled out of a blacksite firestorm.

"Do I got a fuckin' headache."

V barely heard the Corpo barking something sharp as the world kept splintering around her.

Johnny’s presence flooded her mind again, cold metal and the faint, acrid smell of old blood.

And this time, he knew exactly what was happening.

Johnny's voice slammed into her mind like a fist.

"V—breathe. Calm down. You’re not gonna get shit done losing your shit."

But it was too late.

The words didn’t even reach her.

She clutched the bars, shaking them so hard the metal whined, eyes locked like crosshairs onto the Corpo standing too close, too casual.

"WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU COME FROM?!"

The Other V didn’t even flinch.

"I swear to fuck," she snarled, voice shredding itself raw, "if you so much as look at my friends, I’ll rip every single fiber of chrome outta your body—piece by fucking piece—"

"Listen."

The word cut through her entire body.

The other V's tone was calm. Crisp. Deadly serious.

"V," he said again, slower this time, almost like he was tasting the name.

"If that really is your name."

He shifted his stance, just slightly, hands easy at his sides, non-threatening but still fully in control.

"I’m not going anywhere near the Wraiths," he said. "Not lookin’ for a bloodbath."

His gaze pinned her in place, cold but honest.

"You just tell me where you stashed the Ghostlink."

"That's all I need."

The words hung in the air.

And just like that —the fire inside her guttered out.

Not because of Johnny still shouting inside her skull, telling her to get it together, think it through, find an angle —

but because something in the Corpo’s voice —

that sharp, emotionless finality —

told her it wasn't worth it.

V sagged against the bars, chest heaving, adrenaline burning off like acid under her

skin.

For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, the world stopped crumbling.

It just...stalled.

The Other V's voice droned on from outside the bars, questions piling up like bodies.

"How long have you been working the Wraiths?"

"Where are they now?"

"Why can't any of my systems ID You?"

V didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

She just sat there, silent and motionless, staring past him — like if she stopped existing hard enough, she could undo the last few hours and wake up somewhere else.

Johnny paced inside her skull like a caged animal, flickering in and out at the edges of her vision.

He scurried the room, looking for exits, ways to turn the tables —

but it was just a cage, steel and chrome and sterile white light pressing down from all sides.

"V."

The Corpo's voice came again, quieter now.

"You're not makin' this easier on yourself."

V barely heard him.

None of this makes any fucking sense, Johnny muttered, rubbing his temples. Place feels real, smells real, Vik even looks real...but it ain’t home, V. It ain’t fucking home.

Finally, the Corpo clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"Fuck this."

"Look you clearly need some time, so i'll be back, need to make a call."

Boots clacked against concrete as he strode out, the door hissing shut behind him.

And in that thin, crackling silence —something inside her snapped.

She was moving before she even knew it, pure gut taking the reins.

V grabbed the nearest thing she could reach — a loose section of pipe bolted to the frame of the cage — and wrenched it free with a snarl.

Sparks showered across the floor as the cage door groaned, buckled, then tore open under the brute force of her will.

Johnny swore under his breath — impressed, maybe — but already moving with her, half-shouting directions in her mind.

Left—go left, fast!

She sprinted through the dim hallways of the makeshift clinic, skidding past racks of gleaming cyberware and half-built bodies.

On a tray nearby, something glinted — a half-assembled cybernetic spinal implant, heavy and vicious looking.

V snatched it up without thinking.

The Corpo was just outside, talking low into holodeck— back turned, profile sharp against the dirty light.

She didn't hesitate.

V hurled the spinal cord like a javelin, catching him clean across the forearm with a sick crack of metal on bone.

His gun clattered to the floor.

Before he could recover, she swung the pipe up —not at him — but at the wide, grimy window behind him.

Glass exploded outward.

Cold morning air rushed in.

And without a second's thought, V vaulted through the gap.

Midair — as the streetlights spun and the blacktop screamed up at her —

she realized.

Third floor.

"Fuck."

The landing shattered through her — bone, chrome, and sheer luck barely keeping her upright.

She staggered, dragging herself across the cracked asphalt toward the only salvation she could see — a beat-up Jeep parked by the curb.

Viktor’s.

Of course.

She clawed the door open, collapsed behind the wheel, and jammed the ignition.

The battered engine coughed, snarled —go, please fucking go—

Behind her, a streak of chrome blurred into motion.

The Corpo — sprinting after her on cybernetic legs, his Sandevistan flickering with every step, closing the distance like a hunting dog.

Johnny screamed in her head.

Punch it! Move!

She slammed the gas, tires screeching — thirty meters, twenty —but he was too fast.

Something whistled through the air.

Thunk.

The back tire shredded with a sickening rip, the car lurching sideways, rubber burning.

Before she could even process it — another blade whistled through the open window —and buried itself deep into her skull.

Pain didn't even have time to register.

Everything went white.

Motel-1 (NV) & Post-Chase (CV)

Titled: Babysbreath

The buzz of a cheap neon sign flickered outside the window.

V blinked awake, groggy and aching, the smell of mildew and cheap synth-cotton sheets filling her nose.

Everything was blurred, edges soft — except the pain hammering in the back of her skull.

"Shit," she muttered.

From the corner of the room, Johnny stirred, arms crossed, wearing that look he reserved for when things were well past fucked.

"You good, V?" he asked, voice rough with concern, as he startes pacing around the room.

"You took a blade to the brainpan. Not exactly a mild headache."

She pressed her palms into her eyes, willing the world to make sense.

How the hell was she still breathing?

"Fucking hell, V..."

Johnny stopped mid-stride, staring at her like she might just disintegrate.

"...they body-hopped you again," Johnny muttered under his breath, like if he said it quiet enough, it wouldn’t be true.

He started pacing harder, looking like he wanted to smash the shitty plastic nightstand into splinters but didn’t.

A sharp knock rattled the motel door.

Both V and Johnny froze.

Another knock, heavier this time.

"Room service, maybe," Johnny muttered, his hand already ghosting toward an invisible gun at his hip.

The knock came again, harder.

V's heart hammered against her ribs.

Meanwhile on the outskirts of a cold morning in northern Japantown cold air slapped V across the face as he stepped out into the alley behind Viktor’s new clinic, the door shut behind him.

The body —the Wraith girl —

lay inside on the operating slab, a sheet thrown over her like an afterthought.

Viktor had pulled off his gloves with a snap, grim expression saying everything words couldn’t.

"She's gone," he’d said.

"Blackwall fucked the chip. No salvaging anything. No ID. No... nothing."

The only lead he had —and he’d killed her.

Controlled anger burned under V’s skin as he pulled a cigarette from his jacket, jammed it between his teeth.

The lighter slipped from numb fingers, clattering to the concrete.

He swore under his breath, shaking out his hand against the cold.

The city hummed around him, alive and indifferent.

Sighing, V flicked open his holodeck, scrolling through contacts.

Thumb hovered over a name glowing faintly at the top.

Jackie Welles.

He hesitated.

Jaw clenched tight.

A slow exhale misted into the night air as he stared at the name a second longer, then locked the deck with a snap.

The screen flickered dark.

Volume 2

Flashback (CV)

Titled: California Here We Go

He still remembered the heat of the barrel, how it smelled when Jackie pulled the trigger. Burnt chrome. Blood mist. The moment Dexter Deshawn’s brains hit the sidewalk outside the no-tell motel.

“Son of a bitch brought a ride for one,” Jackie had grunted, wiping his gun clean on his jacket like it was nothing. “Didn’t think we’d

catch on.”

V hadn’t answered. Just stared at the Delamain car, watched the automated door hiss closed on empty seats and a bullet-riddled fixer, and his bodyguard left behind.

T-Bug was dead. Fried mid-job. No chance to save her, no time to mourn. The run had been cursed from the start—but he and Jackie walked out alive, relic in hand, a head full of plans. It was almost enough to make him believe in fate.

Almost.

They’d hunted Evelyn down before Arasaka could. She’d tried to ghost them, scared, scrambling out of Night City’s reach. V was colder then, sharp. Made her listen to his words,"Dex is done for, i can promise you that much"

Evelyn met his gaze with those same unreadable eyes. Her fingers trembled when she took the case.

“Judy’s got us a boat,” she’d whispered. “We’ll head north, You'll get your money in a week

or two.”

V said nothing as they walked away, just caught Evelyn looking over her shoulder once—then never again. It felt like closure. Or maybe just another loose thread he didn’t have to yank on.

A week later, Jackie left too. He and Misty packed up their whole little world into an old Galena and drove toward the sun. No drama, no speeches. Just a goodbye and a promise to keep in touch.

Viktor stayed. Said someone had to keep V from turning full chrome sociopath.

Time moved. Money flowed. With the heist behind him, V sank deeper into the city’s underbelly—the polished floors of Arasaka boardrooms, the bloodied ones of Afterlife alleys. He stopped caring about meaning. Started counting digits. Became the guy people called when they didn’t want to call anyone else.

And then—GhostLink.

Mr. Hands pinged him with that usual syrupy tone. “Got something hot in the Badlands.

Experimental gear, Blackwall adjacent. You want in?”

V didn’t want to. But Hands didn’t lie about heat like this.

He showed Vik the brief. The old ripper squinted at the interface schematics and hissed through his teeth.

“You’re messing with demons now,” Viktor muttered. “This kind of tech? It ain’t just ICE-melting—this shit talks. It learns. You slip, and it’ll gut your brain like a tin can.”

V flexed the cybernetics in his hand absently. “Good thing I don’t slip.”

He made the call. Took the job.

The convoy hit the Badlands just after dusk. Dust kicked up in neon-tinged clouds as he moved like a ghost in his GTS. He breached the transport’s lock, fingers dancing through ICE like it was routine, until that box opened.

But it wasn't there. Box empty, no lights, no wires, nothin'.

Before he could even whisper a “fuck" he felt it—wind running up his spine, his gun out of his head and someone stood right in front of him pistol raised, arm steady.

A woman.

But not just any woman, she had the look of a storm barely held back. Fear behind her eyes, hands trembling from something deeper than adrenaline. Her face unfamiliar, but there was something about her... off, wrong, but it's almost as if V could recognize her like déjà vu wearing a mask.

Motel (NV)

Titled: Bodysnatchers

She jolted upright, lungs seizing, breath rattling like an engine that wouldn't turn over. Sweat glued her shirt to her chest. The air stank of bleach, mildew, and something sour under the tongue—chemical, bitter. A taste like crushed pills and bile lingered at the back of her throat.

Not hers.

The room was dim, just a flicker of pink neon bleeding in through dusty blinds. The walls peeled like scabbed-over memories. Pacifica, or something close to it—where the city forgot to send cleanup crews, where the dead didn't stay buried.

She scanned her limbs. Brown skin, a tattoo half-healed across her right forearm. Hands rough, cuticles torn, fingers twitching. She didn’t recognize the face in the cracked mirror across the room—but she did recognize the weight in her chest. Grief? Guilt? No, it's like whatever had lived in this body had just left.

“Well fuck,” Johnny rasped, appearing glitching next to the sink, arms crossed, jaw tight.

V's tingue felt thick, mouth dry like it’d been scrubbed with sevage water.

An even louder knock on the door cracked across the silence.

Sharp. Panicked.

Johnny’s head snapped to the door. “Don’t open that. Got a bad feeling.”

But she was already moving. One step at a time. Half out of instinct, half just to get away from him.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open—

“Maria!”

A woman launched through the gap, breathless and wide-eyed. Mid-twenties, street-tough but scared. Braids pulled back tight, chipped holo-nails, old bloodstains on her jacket sleeve. She didn’t hesitate—arms around V like a vice, crushing.

“Oh my god, I thought—fuck, I thought you were dead.” Her voice cracked. “I thought you did something to yourself, you weren’t answering, you never ignore my pings—”

V stood frozen. The hug pressed against her ribs but didn’t reach her. Her hands stayed at her sides, limp. Unmoving.

“You ghost me for a month, and now I find you in some shit-ass motel like you’re tryin’ to disappear into the walls—what the hell, Maria?”

V blinked. Words came slow. Robotic.

“...I’m fine.”

The woman pulled back, eyes narrowing. “You’re what?” She looked her up and down, disbelief pouring off her. “You’re in a fuckin’ motel in the middle of goddamn Pacifica, and you don’t even call me? No holo, no nothing? You’re fine?”

She stepped back, arms crossed now—offense creeping in past the fear. “You know how scared I was? Thought you got iron in your skull somewhere and I’d have to scrape you off the curb.”

She looked around the room. Saw the blister packs. Empty syringes. Spooned-up foil. Her expression went cold.

“You using again?”

V stared. “...I just needed space.”

The woman’s face twisted like she’d been slapped. “You’re all I have, Maria. You don’t get to just disappear and act like it’s nothing.”

V walked past her. Didn’t say a word.

The woman, in pure disbelief as if these words would break her forever said“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

V paused at the door. Turned slightly, sarcastically waved and smiled at her.

Then she stepped out. The door hissed shut behind her like it wanted to seal away the damage.

Outside, the air hit cold. Dirty rain fell in greasy drizzles, puddling in broken pavement. Pacifica hummed like an open wound—buzzing neon, distant sirens, broken drone chatter echoing between skeletal buildings.

Johnny appeared beside her, arms folded tight.

“She loved you,” he said. “Whoever you’re piloting around in, she loved her.”

V lit a cigarette, and in a dismissive tone said "This isn't my body, i don't care that much."

“Well, shit, fuck you too. 'Course you don’t care. You don’t want to care. Easier to play the ghost. Walk away and pretend none of it counts. Like walking out of your own fucking funeral.”

He paused, looking at her sidelong.

“Thing is, I did the same. And it didn’t save shit.”

V exhaled. Smoke curled upward, thin and sour.

"You can't say shit, Johnny. you acted the same when we first met"

Johnny glitched once, briefly, then stood still.

“I've paid my dues. I admit i fucked up with Rogue, Fucked up with Kerry, shit, even fucked up with you. Trust me, you’re gonna have to answer for it eventually. Whether you want to or not.”

She stared at the skyline. Red. Feral. Buzzing with energy and emptiness.

“I'll let it find me.”

She walked. Johnny stayed behind, just a for a second glimpsing back at the motel door, then glitching into nothingness again.

Call With Jackie (CV)

Titled: Have You Ever Seen The Rain?

V stands outside Viktor's clinic, cigarette

hanging from his mouth, the cold air biting at his skin. He takes a long drag and dials Jackie, letting the phone ring a few times before the call picks up.

“Jackie, you still out there, or have you disappeared into the sunset already?”

The call picks up, Jackie’s voice coming through with his usual energy.

Jackie:

“Haha, nah, hermano, still kickin’. Just got done with Misty—had a nice dinner, ya know, a little downtime. Feels weird to be away from Night City for a while, but... it’s good, I guess.”

“A date? You sure you weren’t just tryin' to get Misty to teach you how to ‘relax’ for once?”

Jackie:

laughs “You know how it is, man. Couldn’t stay cooped up, so we hit that spot you always complain about—yeah, the one with the overpriced drinks and the view. But hey, she liked it. Can’t say I blame her, though, it was a damn good meal.”

(smirking) “You went to that place? Thought you hated it.”

Jackie:

“Eh, guess I’m softer than I thought. And Misty liked it, so I’m not complainin’. Plus that view, oh you should've seen that vieww.

"The view of what? Misty or that beach?"

Jackie:

Haha, You know i don't like to get involved in the details, brodér. that's only something my eyes could see, but that's for another day.

I sat there, yeah? and after a while, I started missin’ Night City. Its chaos, its grind. Weird not bein’ in the middle of it all.”

(pause, his tone shifts a little) “Yeah. It’s easy to miss the action... until you realize what a damn mess it all is.”

Jackie:

“Heh, true that. But even with all the shit that goes down, there’s somethin' about Night City that sticks with ya. It gets in your veins. I miss the hustle, the life... the people. Ya know what I mean?”

“I get it. A lot's changed since you and Misty left. everything’s gotten colder. People only see the money now. Nothing real to hold onto.”

Jackie:

(softly) “Damn, hermano. You still talkin’ business? Don’t let it swallow you whole. The world ain’t just creds"

(scoffs) “I know what you’re tryin' to say, but... the game’s changed, Jackie. There’s no place for softness in the world, you know this. You and Misty—hell, you guys got out while you still could. The rest of us? We’re stuck with what’s left.”

Jackie:

“Yeah, I get it. But you got money now, V. So much of it, you could quit, just... walk away from all this. You’ve got enough creds to last a

lifetime, hermano. Why not take the out?”

“And do what? Sit back and watch the world burn while I sip margaritas on some beach?"

Jackie:

“I’m not sayin’ it’s the perfect answer, but damn, you could go off somewhere—be free. Don’t let the corpos keep grindin' you down. You earned it, V. You deserve a break.”

(leans back, his tone distant) “Maybe. But you know how it goes... once you’re in, you don’t just walk away. People want something from you.. And you want it all from them. And even with all the creds, it doesn’t change.”

Jackie:

(sighs) “You sound like you’re tryin' to convince yourself, hermano. It don’t gotta be this way.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Jackie:

laughs “Yeah, do that, Oh.. shit Yeah misty i'm

comin'! I gotta go..”

“Yeah, take care. And thanks, Jackie. For... everything.”

Jackie:

“Always, hermano. Catch ya later.”

H10 Apartment (NV):

Titled: Monkey Gone To Heaven

10:30 AM, In a random streetcorner of Pacifica, stood V, well as much as she could call herself V anymore.

She found a metro card stuffed into the inner lining of Maria’s busted jacket, right where a dealer might hide eddies. Must’ve been all that was left in her name—besides the body, the broken brain, and whatever scratch the corpo shrink left behind for cleanup.

V slid it into her pocket without thinking, boots already heading toward the station like muscle memory had taken over. Didn’t know where she was going until she was standing

in front of the cracked terminal reading:

→ China Town, Watson: H10 Megabuilding

Yeah. Of course.

The elevator smelled the same.

Piss. Synth-meat. Cigarette smoke clinging to the walls like rot.

V stood in the middle of the graffiti-scarred hallway of Megabuilding H10, in a body that didn’t feel like hers, wearing clothes that weren’t hers, walking a path she’d carved in another lifetime. The lighting buzzed overhead, struggling to stay alive. It always had.

A kid ran past her barefoot, eyes glowing pale blue with cheap Kiroshi mods, chased by laughter and the sound of someone screaming at a BD in the next room. She moved like a ghost. A ghost haunting the wreckage of a life once lived.

The elevator dinged.

She turned her head just enough to catch the flicker of motion behind the scratched glass. The floor indicator climbed from 02... 03... 07...

Her.

Not really—but it looked like her. Not Maria. Her. The ghost of a woman in a leather jacket, heavy cyberware glinting under the dim fluorescents, arms crossed, eyes forward. Confident. Dangerous. Alive.

It was gone by the time the doors opened.

V stepped in and punched in the floor without thinking. Her finger knew the button better than her brain did.

She rode up in silence, watching the distorted reflection of her new face in the brushed metal walls.

“If he's here, buy some iron along the way” Johnny’s voice crackled in from nowhere, rough like gravel and memory. He sat perched on the rail inside the elevator, flickering like a bad signal. “The corp gonk, you think he has me too?”

She didn’t answer.

The door was the same.

Apartment 0716. Same scratched paint, same dent from where she’d kicked it during a shouting match with Panam. Her fingers hovered over the biometric scanner.

It didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t.

She pulled out a cable from her wrist and jacked into the lock. Sparks. A low buzz. Her deck screamed in protest—cheap hardware rattling from the strain. But the door clicked open.

Inside?

Cold.

Same layout, sure. But gone were the piles of junk, the half-shattered guitar strings, the empty bottles lined up like trophies. This place was clean. Sterile. Cold white light, smart glass windows with privacy tint. Chrome surfaces wiped spotless.

A CorpoBlade hung on the wall. A real one—not black market junk. A high-end MiliTech neural controller sat docked near the couch. Framed photos. His face in most of them.

V. The other V. The one who won.

She walked slowly through the space like it might bite her. Every object screamed not yours. Her stomach twisted. Her legs nearly gave, these legs are weaker than the ones she's used to.

She slid down the wall by the kitchen, knees drawn up to her chest. Hands shaking.

Johnny sat cross-legged on the counter, arms resting on his knees, watching her. Quiet for once.

Then, finally—

“Looks like he won the roll of the dice, huh?”

She sniffed, trying to swallow the scream caught in her throat. “This isn’t right,” she muttered. “This is mine. How come he gets to win, but I… I end up in a fucking landfill?”

Johnny glitched—blinked out, then back in, this time sitting beside her on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.

“First time I saw this place through your eyes, I thought, ‘shit, this kid's got nothing.’ One broken fridge, stack of eddies under the sink, a couple ammo boxes under the bed, but you made it work. Somehow.”

She didn’t look at him. “Doesn’t mean

anything now.”

“Nope. It doesn’t.” He tilted his head, gave her a once-over. “And neither does this corpo asshole’s IKEA murderpad.”

She almost laughed. Almost.

“What do I do now, Johnny?”

“Dunno.” He leaned his head back against the wall. “Figure it out. That’s what you do.”

She nodded. Just once. The silence stretched. He didn’t try to motivate her. Didn’t need to. They both knew what kind of animal she was when backed into a corner.

She stood up, walked to the bathroom, pulled a combat knife from her boot. Scraped the words into the mirror, jagged and uneven:

“V was here.”

Wraith's Camp (CV):

Titled: Tactical Precision Dissaray

10:57AM, V had barely entered his car, after his call with Jackie.. when boom.

A lead came from a fixer in Pacifica—a data fence who owed V more than a few favors. Said he intercepted a comm burst between two Wraith pack leaders, encrypted but sloppy. Keywords caught V’s attention: “GhostLink,” “Beta field test,” and a netrunner tagged S.M. That was all he needed. The crazy wraith girl he had just brought up, and some intel from a wraith camp site, this was all just starting to make sense.

Now he was out here, under a rotting sun, squinting down at a Wraith camp that looked like a scrapyard got possessed by a death cult.

The wind had teeth today—sharp, hot, and reeking of gun oil and melted plastic. V crouched behind a dune crest, his optics filtering out the dust storm like a goddamn charm. Below him sprawled the Wraith camp, a patchwork sprawl of scrap towers, flickering halogen lights, and half-burning barrels. Synth-metal blasted from cheap speakers wired to rusting poles. Somewhere, a dog barked. Or maybe it was a man.

He adjusted the dampening mesh on his jacket, letting the cloak system warm up. “Always fuckin’ Wraiths,” he muttered, voice just above a whisper. “Might as well crawl into a nest of cyberpsychos and offer ‘em tea.”

Still, he didn’t move. Just watched.

He hated these freaks—hated the anarchic stink of them, how they’d peel chrome from a corpse before it hit the ground. Worse than scavs. Wraiths didn’t kill for money. They killed for fun, and for data. That made them dangerous. That made V... cautious.

Even if he’d never admit it out loud.

“Steady. This is just another extraction. No different than Arasaka Tower. Just dirtier.”

He marked out three patrol paths. Two sentries with ancient thermal gear. One with a wired shotgun on a swivel harness. Sloppy. Their gear was patched together with tape and spite. Still enough to punch holes in a legend if he got sloppy too.

He slipped down the ridge, boots silent on the sand, cloak engaging fully. With a little Blackwall-static in his ears for luck, he ghosted through the outer perimeter, pausing only to jam a drone’s optic loop with a fast overload ping.

Inside, it was worse. Bodies moved like insects—grimy, fast, twitchy. Cyberware twitched under skin like something alive. One guy had a mantis blade jammed into a knee joint, just sticking out. Casual. Another was dancing in front of a generator humming with glitchy neon.

V slid into a rusted container near the back—one of the only places lit by a flickering data lamp. Inside was a mess: disassembled Sandevistan cores, fried Kiroshi optics, jacked-open neural processors that still buzzed faintly. Data shards stacked in crates like they were candy bars.

He crouched near a workstation and picked up a shard. The label was partially burned. Another had scratchings in some gangy code. He finally found one marked clean, neatly etched in sharp handwriting:

"GHOSTLINK TEST 3B – Crossplane Connective Sync (Beta)"

Bingo.

He jacked it into his port, letting it scan into his deck. Half the data was corrupt, but enough of it hummed with warning tags.

**> CAUTION: UNSTABLE AI INTERFACE

WARNING: BLACKWALL INTERFERENCE DETECTED

NEURAL BRIDGE ATTEMPT LOGGED – SUBJECT: “Compatible”

NOTE: See S.M. for further field notes.**

“S.M... who the fuck are you?” he whispered.

Not a corp name. Not any from Arasaka or NetWatch. This wasn’t sanctioned tech. This was something dirtier. Fringe. Rogue.

Before he could grab more, his interface gave a tiny static click. His gut sank.

Someone pinged the ICE grid. It was faint, but real.

He unplugged, shoved the shards into his jacket, and froze—listening.

“—that corpo guy from the convoy? Think he’s still alive after all that shit that went down with Wix?”

The voice came from a nearby comm unit. V’s breath locked in his throat.

They saw him. Not tonight—but at the convoy.

Shit.

He slipped backward, pulled up his control interface, and targeted a grounded AV near the edge of camp. A quick spike and a few loops through an old Night Corp exploit fried the engine.

BOOM.

Lights flared, people screamed, someone fired into the air for no reason at all.

V bolted through the chaos, cloak flickering. A Wraith with an exposed spine nearly saw him—V ducked, tripped a backup generator with a short burst, and rolled under a cargo platform.

The desert welcomed him back like an old friend. Wind, dust, and silence.

He didn’t look back until he was over the next dune. When he did, all he saw was firelight and shadows tearing each other apart.

“Fucking psychos,” he hissed.

Still, as he checked the shards again, a tiny smile pulled at his mouth.

GhostLink was out there, and he was going to find it.

link to the next part is here:

#cyberpunk 2077 #fanfic

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