#dove plays dredge

[dollfat]

she matches my boat :)

[aerodaltonimperial]

Smut prompt: “Clothes on or clothes off?” Christian and Jack cuz it's nicer than what I was gonna send you and you should be very grateful!

(💚✝️ had to find a FUCKING EMOJI FOR THIS, do not read this, it's fucked up, ITS FUCKED UP y'all just trying to push me into that 50k trauma exploration fic, dead dove warning on this, jesus)

He'd known this was coming; known it was on the table, known it would be offered. Knew that, deep down, even though all his better judgment was screaming at him to turn away, to say no, to leave... even with all of that pounding against his ears, he knew he'd end up here, at Christian's door. Because he can be more. Jack knows he can be more, believes he can be more, and it's just that the others don't see it.

He needs a way to make them see it.

There's a rerun on TV when Christian opens the door, widens the space to give Jack access. Jack slips in, and he can't concentrate enough to make out what show it is. All he sees are flashing police lights and bodies moving across the screen.

"Good," Christian says with a note of approval, high.

"What is this?" Jack asks.

When Christian's fingers find the front of his shirt, tugging Jack forward the last few steps, a shiver runs down Jack’s spine. "Step one. But you already knew that, or else you wouldn't be here."

Jack nods, but his throat has closed up a little. "Okay."

"You know you can get the championship," Christian says, absently, as his fingers play with one of Jack’s buttons. "You know that you've got it within you to reach it. You just have to dig. Find that anger, that fire. Find the parts of you that are mean, are wild, are terrible, and let them take over."

"That sounds easier than it is," Jack murmurs.

Christian's hand palms Jack’s cheek. He frowns; he does that a lot, sometimes when he's looking at Jack, and Jack wonders which parts of him that Christian finds the most lacking. Wonders how to set fire to all the parts of him that don't deserve this.

"I want to win," Jack whispers. "I want the belt. I want everyone to know I won it, that it's mine."

"Good." But Christian is still frowning. Why is he frowning? Maybe he knows; maybe he's already realized that he's wrong, that Jack will never be good enough for it. So Jack lifts his hands, sets them over Christian's grip on the sides of his face.

Then he leans forward. He has to go all the way, because Christian doesn't meet him, but once Jack has pressed their mouths together, the man at least kisses him back. Slow. Unbothered, almost. Christian knows how to move things, how to change things. Christian knows how to claw into the dark recesses and twist, dredging up all the worst traits. The traits Jack needs to win. To be better.

After a few moments, Jack pulls back, just enough to separate them. "Clothes on or off?"

Christian doesn't answer for long enough that Jack’s heart has skipped up into his throat. "Off."

Jack inhales, deep. Then he lets his hands fall from Christian's to the front of his shirt, working the buttons out one at a time: down, down, down.

[wealmostaneckbeard]

Signalis: Obsolescence

At the heart of the Eusan Nation is the oceanic world of Vineta. On this planet there is the coastal city of Gasthofsmund. Outside the city limits is the National Museum. Something, as horrible as it is inexplicable, has happened to Gasthofsmund. You, the player, are going to try and figure out what that was. First you must choose a Replika to play as:

Obsolete Replika lines: Individuals Nickname: Original Purpose: Special Equipment/Abilities: Reasons for Production Cessation:

Taub (TB): Dove: Counter-Intelligence/Therapy: prototype bioresonance modules that allowed the user to remotely Interrogate, Punish, or Regenerate a targeted individuals neurological system: could not get along with others of it's own line. It would prioritize patient welfare over the concerns of the Nation. It was replaced by the Kolibri line.

Geier (GR): Morticia: Salvaging/Biohazard Clean-up: anti-toxin modules that enable the user to become immune to lethal substances through direct exposure although the process is painful: Replaced by new models of remote controlled salvaging vehicles. Although social towards some, it would also fill it's living quarters with biohazards to keep out unwanted visitors.

Flamingo (FMGO): Lanky: Entertainment/Athletics: Extremely long limbed and graceful, able to move through confined spaces and leap across large gaps: It had a narcissistic personality. It would take excessive risks during performances. It also required a lot of maintenance.

Metzgervogel (MZGL): Improv: Orbital infrastructure maintenance/Anti-Partisan: Easy-to-repair body armor and trained in combat/engineering: Originally developed to fulfill the same functions as the lost Elster line. The recovery of the dead LSTR unit and the restart of it's production caused the MZGL to become redundant.

The Museum

The tutorial segment and hub area is the Gasthofsmund National Museum. Which is fitting since it contains a classroom used for teaching Gestalt children. It is also filled with surprisingly useful items and material. Unfortunately, most of it is locked up and can only be accessed with employee ID cards. And the employees, mostly Gestalts with a few modern Replikas, haven't shown up to work for a few days now. As an obsolete Replika on display, you've regularly communicated with staff and know they were excited by a relic dredged up from the toxic ocean depths. Fortunately, the few areas that are accessible to you contain clues to the employee's locations as well as information about the world. The Replikas you did not pick at the start become NPCs whom you can help and may help you (or potentially betray you). Outside of the museum is a station for a self-driving bus which you can use to access other stations within the city. There's also a scenic hiking trail.

The City and it's Inhabitants

Gasthofsmund is a proper city with a trio of residential blocs (for upper, middle, and lower class citizens), a government office, engineering facility, and a well used harbor. The city rests on a sunken labyrinth, allegedly a ruined stronghold during wartime. There have always been rumors that the city is infested with an anti-nationalist cult founded on the prophecies written in the journals of dead soldiers. But several thorough investigations (by a Kolibri and a few others) have only revealed low-complexity insurgent activity.

Currently, the harbor and upper class residential bloc are thoroughly infested. Biomass oozes from structure exteriors and are fed upon by sea birds which causes them to act unpredictably. Corrupted Replikas try to conceal the growths from sunlight with tarps tied to scrap metal scaffolds. Automated security systems protect the upper class residential bloc while ignoring the masses of pulsating flesh that used to be the owners. The Harbor was home to a colony of obnoxious sea lions, that same colony has undergone a series of mutations that made them more effective hunters.

The engineering facility and the other two residential blocs are contested territory. The corrupted Replikas here move in packs while hunting for survivors and material. Any Gestalts you encounter are immobilized for one reason or another, some of them you can rescue. There are abandoned supplies, blast marks, and other signs of violence scattered though the zones, reflecting the desperate conflict between the survivors and corrupted replikas.

The government office was designed to protect the mayor, bureaucrats, and select civilians from riots and other disasters. The last mayor was a gestalt woman named Greta Han and she became a rotting meat-tree in her home. The survivors within the office are safe thanks to trip wire traps, barricades and improvised weapons which keep out the corrupted. The leaders of the group is a Gestalt safety inspector named Martin Zhow and an ADLER Replika (serial number 2342). The others are an exhausted STAR, a frustrated scientist, a pair of EULAs who are trying their best to keep an orphaned gestalt child happy, and a scared engineer (who mentions they were raised by a pack of ARARs). There's also a mixed-breed dog on a little bed that you can pet, to restore some mental health. All of them are starting to run out of certain supplies which they are willing to trade for. The Gestalts will accept ration packs as currency while Replikas will barter for equal value items. Although historically important, authorities with the Eusan Nation never considered sending a Falke unit to supervise Gasthofsmund.

The Madness

While accomplishing different objectives is relatively simple, there are a pair of complicating factors: The Interface and Persona Degradation.

The scientist survivor explains that the relic dredged up from the polluted ocean is an interface through which an extra-dimensional intelligence can manipulate reality within a certain proximity. Obviously this has resulted in the reconfiguration of the local organics into new forms and the corruption of the Replikas. But It is doing other things as well.

At best, those things are inconvenient. Examples being the self-driving bus will go to the wrong destination or the formation of unnatural weather patterns (fog, heavy rain). But the intelligence can also cause time dilations. Thus you may encounter terrified trigger-happy soldiers from ancient wars, impenetrable domes of slowed time containing people frozen in place, and unhelpful observers from the future.

What the intelligence on the other side of The Interface is trying to accomplish is unknown. Some characters will speculate on it's goals but each theory will have some flaws.

The Replika that you are playing as is experiencing persona degradation due to stress and contamination. As a result your Replika will experience lapses in memory. Objects will randomly appear or disappear from your inventory and have to be re-located. NPC's you talk to will mention conversations that your Replika will not remember. If Dove is an NPC, you can convince her to regenerate your mind, which prevents the memory lapses, at the cost of her own sanity. However, the more your replika's persona degrades, the more you get to experience it's gestalt memories.

The Endings: The Interface or The Escape

You can escape Gasthofsmund by road or by boat.

There is a town to the north named Mahkra which has a military training camp and an airport. Survivors speculate it might be unaffected by the current crisis, someplace they could escape to.

If you attempt to walk along the road to Mahkra, you will be attacked by flocks of crazed sea birds, blinded, and then bleed to death, falling to the ground alongside other eyeless corpses. To avoid this ending you need to travel in a vehicle.

Normally you would be able to ride the bus to the town but Mayor Han shut the route down for security reasons. You can reprogram the buses, but first you'll have to extract the RFID chip from the Mayor's mutated remains in her upper class residence and plug it into a computer terminal at the government office. Some of the survivors, led by Adler, will turn on you for bringing the contaminated chip into their sanctuary, you'll have to deal with them. Afterwards you and whichever survivors are still alive can ride the bus safely through the murder-bird flocks. The bus will reach a barricade and then get hit by a rocket fired by the military, killing everyone inside. To avoid this ending, you have to search the hiking trail around the National Museum and recover a military radio from a dying scout which you can use to call off the rocket strike. Afterwards your replika and everyone with them will be taken into custody and kept under close observation for the remainder of their lives.

There is a boat in the harbor that you could use to escape the city by water. It's called the Misericordia and it needs work before it can become seaworthy. First you have to incinerate the flesh growths keeping it anchored. Then you have to find replacement parts at the engineering facility. And then you have to refuel it, this last step is noisy and will attract the corrupted replikas, the mutated sea lions, and the insane birds. If you manage to survive all that and weigh anchor then you + any surviving NPCs have the freedom to set sail in any direction, a freedom your Replika has never known. This might be the best ending.

Now about the Interface. It is located within a secret room in a chapel in the upper class residential bloc.

It looks like a small obsidian slab with crimson pulsating mold growing out of the edges. Touching it will cause you to be consumed by rot slowly and join the intelligence(s) on the other side. This is one of the simpler possible endings for your replika.

After it's immediate discovery, a group of scientists was called to Gasthofsmund to study The Interface. It was still dormant, just like it had been on the bottom of the ocean. The people researching it drafted up a simple two step plan: First, build a containment device based on known principles of bioresonance. Second, activate the Interface while it's in containment and try to establish a line of communication with whoever is on the other side. Unfortunately some other residents of the city had other ideas and caused the second stage to happen before the first was ready.

The half-finished containment device can be found in the engineering facility. By scavenging for parts across the city and in the museum, you can complete the device. You then have to haul it on your back through an unnaturally occurring typhoon to get to the chapel. You will receive assistance from a survivor NPC (that you befriended earlier) while being attacked by a few random enemies. Inside the chapel are 3 mysterious cultists, two of them are armed with guns, while the third uses their bioresonant abilities against you. They will try to kill you and your ally. If you manage to kill them and find The Interface, you can place it in containment. This will disconnect it from the biomass neural network and waves of enemies will attack you every few minutes in retaliation. Your ally then proposes taking the loaded device on to a raft with an outboard motor, going as far out to sea as possible, and then dumping it over the side. You then fight your way to the docks where a raft is tied up to a pier. The two of you board the raft and ride out into a storm tossed sea, never to be seen again. That is the last of the possible endings.

Depending on other unmentioned factors, there might be an epilogue where your replika wakes up in a bright clean factory. They are informed by an AEON executive that due to the heroic actions of the replika you played as during the Gasthofsmund Incident, their line has been reconsidered, their obsolete status rescinded, and production restarted.

[inmaki]

HI ZU DONT BE SORRY <3 Even if you took like 30 yrs to respond I wouldn’t mind >:]

I read your most recent smau and I was shaking so hard from laughing . Why are they like that . Why is Megumi always so much more normal than Gojo. Are we sure Gojo raised Megumi or was it the other way around 😭 Inumaki . I can’t believe I’m in love with that man 💔💔 Cause like I know he would absolutely say that :/ “My mewing streak” 💔💔💔 He needs to be put down /j … him and Gojo 💔💔💔

But to answer your question!! I have played quite a few other games. Some of my favourites have been Hollow Knight, Hades, Subnautica, Dredge, Sunless Sea, and House Flipper!! There’s a few more, but those are the ones I liked the most :> I also play Minecraft but only socially. I cannot for the life of me play it alone 😭 What games do you like, Zu? :D

-🕊️

i hope u meant that bc it rly has been 30 years lamaoaMSJNSKD HI DOVE <3 help im glad u liked the latest post ur such a sweetheart 😔❤️ YES GOJO NEEDS TO BE PuT DOWN I AGREE. omg u have game taste?? MY FRIENDS BAVE TOld mE SM ABOUT HOLLOW KNIGHT ESPECIALLY it looks so fun!!?! i have a shitty macbook so i cant actually play pc games even tho ive always wanted to <\3

ido love nintendo games i am a pokemon mystery dungeon pro kshdjdndn ANDD ive played like every mobile game atp,, i love identity v,, and mihoyo and supercell games!!!!!! the brawl stars addiction never stops SAVE ME..

[sylvaridreams]

New 📌-post

Dama, 29, he/him. I've been playing GW2 off and on since mid 2014 (end of LWS1.) I came back December 2022 after finally getting a PC that could handle games again. My main blog is @damazcuz and that's where I'll follow and interact from (so if you see a tiger in your notes. Hi.)

If you ever happen to see me running around feel free to say hi. (NA Server, UN damazcuz.6892) Below is a look at some of my characters!

Main

--Alba Moonseeker, he/him. 13. Commander and bearer of the world's burdens. #alba

Regularly used/Of great plot importance

--Avuncular Bourbon, (Bourbon, real name unknown) he/him. 34. Ex-bandit, ex-aetherblade. (Short stint.) He's joined a few bad groups and bowed out when things got too hot. Raised by dredge in the Shiverpeaks after being abandoned at birth in a mine. Currently working for the commander (sorry about trying to kill you way back in the day! Twice...) #bourbon

--Auruim, he/him. 10-11. Initially a close friend and companion of Alba's, he was quick to volunteer for the Pact to journey into Maguuma, where his Wyld Hunt was to be fulfilled. Corrupted by Mordremoth upon entering the jungle, he rose to become one of his commanders and champions. Years after Mordremoth's defeat, he would be recovered from the jungle by a group of asura researchers; six months later, he would be reintroduced to Alba in Rata Sum, from behind the walls of a cell. Recovered? Sure. Rehabilitated? Maybe. Socialized? No. Polite? Lol. Also currently working for the commander, like it or not. Incredibly traumatized and angry about both sides of the war that he experienced, and feels like he doesn't and never will belong anywhere. With nowhere else to point his hurt, he blames Alba. #auruim

--Aeris Windkin, she/her, occasionally they/them. 12. An early friend of Alba's, she dreamed of a Crystal elder dragon, and believed it to be Kralkatorrik. After great examination of her dream, she stepped out into the world with the idea that her Wyld Hunt would be to slay Kralk. She joined the Priory and dove into studying the brand, trying to find weaknesses to exploit to take down the dragon. She joined the forces at Thunderhead Keep, believing that she would play a hand in ending the war. Upon seeing Aurene for the first time, she was overwhelmed by emotion and thought that this had to be the dragon of which she dreamt before she awoke. But she was slightly wrong again, and realizing this, journeyed into the Crystal Desert for a time. At the end of her long search, she came to understand that Vlast had been her wyld hunt all along, but in the years she'd spent hunting Kralkatorrik, she had never emerged as Vlast's champion, and had missed his death. After months of mourning, she rejoined Alba's entourage and tags along after him on his travels, almost always a few steps behind. #aeris windkin

--Many more but this post needs serious updating :')

Toyhouse link (WIP) with a couple of fleshed out character bios here!

[mephestopheles]

I love playing dnd so much. I love our party even more. We're currently running through Hoard of the Dragon queen, and I may have mentioned my character before I want to introduce everyone. I'm playing a half-orc barbarian. She's the youngest in the party, precocious, very smart, not that wise. She went to college in Waterdeep to take over her dad's accounting business, got conned into a get rich quick mercantile scheme and lost all her parents money. She now has panic attacks and when she freaks out she fights whoever is closest or the most threatening. She's wonderful, I love her so much.

Wayne is playing a dwarf cleric of the forge and, well his rolls were abysmal, so intelligence became his dumpstat. He plays it to well, I mean he does such ridiculous things, and will repeat his stories "forgetting" that he told the party several times why his beer steins are named after women in his life. He aged his dwarf up to be much older than usual, so the party calls him gramps. This last session he was dredging the river for scrap metal and jumped off the side of the boat in full plate mail for some reason. The ranger managed to keep him from drowning right away and Nomi (my barbarian) got him back aboard the ship.

"What have we learned?"

"absolutely nothing..."

"metal sinks"

"yes it does, I'm dredging for some"

"you're wearing metal. Metal armor, head to toe"

"I am"

"you will sink"

"Reorx will protect me!"

Mel is playing a halfling rogue, that is currently dating my character Nomi. The height difference is hilarious, the fact that the halfing is the older of the two just makes it better. She's definitely the most cutthroat of the group -- our first session she tried to bully health potions from the mayor of the town we came into save --, and she will prank folks for sport. We're also working on the mechanics that her character can stand on my characters back for ranged attacks.

Homer's character is the ranger, human with the drakewarden subclass, so he's got a pet. He's generally quiet but he's putting his spells to good use, really good tricks with both the mould earth cantrip and the shape water one. The shape water came in handy to keep gramps alive when he dove into the river.

We added a new player this week and the first session went really well. Mechanically I know they're playing a warlock, but he's playing the class close to his chest, he says he's a mage and he's studied for many years and he has a spell book. Pay no attention to the jewel he wears that he can disappear into that's just wizardy magic stuff.

We have a somewhat recurring character a paladin played by Mel's brother when he's home. A decent kind of dude, managed to keep us alive during one particularly terrible fight. Let's just say the rogue now remembers the value of looking for traps before looting.

We're still trying to come up with a name for the party, we're not nearly as chaotic as our other group in the limbo campaign, so we are still trying to figure out something that works for us that doesn't feel slapped on.

[sroloc--elbisivni]

17, 30, 39, 46, and 49?

17: What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

my kingdom for someone else to write the au after season 2 rise where Splinter gets a retromutagen and Hamato Miwa, perfectly ordinary japanese teenager if you ignore her family's enormous secret legacy, decides to go find out who the fuck this guy impersonating her uncle is, without telling her family she's doing this.

30. Have you ever written something that was out of your comfort zone? If so, what was it, and how did it affect your approach to writing fic thereafter?

so when i wrote you run on gasoline it was the first explicit fic i'd ever written and i wanted to publish it anonymously because i was embarrassed that it was dark TF build-a-baby porn and then I couldn't figure out how to add it to a collection that it was written for so I took it off anonymous. and just having be visibly A Thing I Had Written was...i am cringe and i am free. jumping feetfirst in with dead dove erotica just made it so much easier to do whatever the hell i wanted next.

39. Is any aspect of your writing process inspired by other writers or people? If so, who?

i don't consider my writing to have 'a process' that i break down into component parts, but also like. dropping into an online messenger chat to bounce ideas back and forth with other people has been how i think almost all of my fics have been born since i started talking to @secretlystephaniebrown on skype in. fuck. 2015? 2016? steph when were we on skype. so i guess if i accept that i have a writing process the answer is 'all of it'.

46. Do you prefer writing on your phone or on a computer (or something else)? Do you think where you write affects the way you write?

LAPTOP KEYBOARD MY BELOVED. the day i have enough spare money is the day i am, like a sucker, going to buy one of those fancy portable digital typewriters just so i can have a Real Keyboard under my fingers anywhere, it makes my life so much easier and the words go so much faster. i'll definitely write on my phone if i'm especially consumed by an idea while out and about, because i prefer writing it down to waiting and potentially forgetting, but i don't think that where i write changes anything unless it's like--i don't like writing mushroomverse without internet access because i sometimes need to stop and do research every few sentences. part of why river dredging fic is taking so long is because the articles i need to read live on my computer and i don't like writing when i can't consult them for power.

oh, sometimes if i can't get a fic to flow on the doc that holds all of it i'll switch over to Notes app (even on laptop) to just write the next scene, because sometimes a blank page flows better than adding on to what i had before. and sometimes if i can't get a new scene to flow in notes when i've written the whole thing in snippets i'll swap them all over to a doc to read and get back in gear with.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

trying to get the first fic for bunnyguard wrapped up for the 22nd :3

Usagi made it back to Tadaya Noodles and Tea in time for the quiet part of the afternoon shift, before the dinner rush, when the shop was empty aside from a couple of old men playing mahjong. And Jotaro, at an empty table near the back, coloring on receipt paper. 

He looked up when the bell rang and his face lit up immediately. “Daddy!”

At almost four, he was getting much too fast on his feet. Usagi was barely kneeling to catch his son by the time Jotaro came barreling into his arms. 

[weepingcreationkitty-blog]

Memas Preserves Lyrics: "have you ever felt the sunlight, in the moonlights trace

a creeping shadow through the window, turned to a loving smiling face?

so ordinary extra-ordinary oh so revolutionary

Feel the chlorophyll, cold blood, warm flood, beating heart that holds you still!

a continuous line of life pumping rhythm from the first to the last

the silence in between, all around, each within encompassing the all, truly a light within between each skin

so simple was the sin it's in the thought, 'perhaps we are separate from it all?'

that's the thought that has led us in the fall

so we fall like rolling seasons we melt back into the trees, electric seeds in dirt it grows the only answer we should see

a cyclic trace in waves cascade in time we're erased or were we raised in perfect place?

Weeping willows lean and sway through countless seasons as they pass

Forever we dance and play on energy currents tilting hourglasses

a perfect space for all love! now sets the dove, power trees and electric canopies

Now if you please let's get back up off our knees and vibe, to an ornate clockwork composition, this universe such divine exposition

Dredging through jumbled memories to create a life story worth telling

It's that we're all worth love thats what we're selling

Messages in a bottle in

A continuous line of life pumping rhythm from the first to the last

Weeping willows lean and sway through countless seasons as they pass"

The song I've worked on today, it's weird in that the words themselves are soft and kind but the delivery is mostly screams except for the choruses.. I'm not entirely sure why I did the song this way, especially because the instrumental is essentially pop or soft rock, it just felt like it needed to be done that way o:

[bluebudgie]

10 YEARS OF GW2 – A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

Hello peeps! As a little countdown to GW2's launch anniversary on August 28 I decided to dig up some old memories and take a small look at my personal journey through the game. Each day I'll make a post about another year.

DAY 4: 2015

Oh boy, 2015. A lot happened that year. The whole 2015/2016 era is incredibly nostalgic for me, so let's dive right in.

Coming back from my year long hiatus, I felt like having a new start. You know when you play an RPG that you don't touch for months and you think "might as well start over". I sat down and made another ranger.

And so my little walnut Iekko (it's an i not an L inside joke) was created. He became my new main and continues to be the main to this day! My girlfriend decided to play through the story with me on her Sylvari mesmer Maëliss (also known as Shroomie), and so this dream-team commander duo was born. We've played every* story release together on these two since. *except for long live the lich which i somehow didn't play until last year. and then i didn't even play it on the main.

We went through the entirety of the personal story all the way to the end for the very first time... that included Arah, which back then still was a group instance. We really, really tried to beat it on our own.

Didn't go so well. We ended up partying up with some strangers (our LFG looked kinda like "noobs looking for party to finish story") and finally defeated Zhaitan. We dove right into LS2 afterwards which was incredible to play through on a Sylvari commander team, and anticipated the teased expansion (and according to my screenshot folder fought tequatl A LOT in the meantime).

That year's April Fool's day brought us the airplane mode:

I remember people were mad about it. I thought it was funny. Both the airplane mode, and the fact that it made people mad. Also I had come back to Lion's Arch being in shambles and I had no idea why. Just kept falling through all the holes in the bridges constantly.

Also, in memory of 2013: The return of the cliff.

Unfortunately I don't have a screenshot to go with it, but my main's nickname Bobbie also had its roots that year. Did some pvp for the first time (terribly stressing. I am not a fan of pvp game modes. But I really wanted that dredge dungeon armour and somehow doing dungeons or doing wvw sounded even more terrifying to me. Don't understand that in retrospect but fine.) and at some point in Temple of the Silent Storm one person of the enemy team dies. I'm not even sure anymore if I was responsible for their death at all, I just happened to fall down the same hole in the same time (I generally 100% don't know what the hell I am doing in pvp), and next thing I see in say chat is "Lowbob hunter". Found it so funny that at first Lowbob became a nickname, which then evolved into just Bob and then to go better with Shroomie eventually became Bobbie some years later. Sometimes I wish I could find this random pvp person trying to insult me so I can properly thank them for giving my main a nickname that has lasted for years.

Later that year it happened... the Heart of Thorns beta. I mentioned this before, but can you imagine how excited I, someone who somehow thought it was a sensible thing to play a core tank heal ranger, was to find out about the druid specialization? Good times.

Somehow this is one of the few screenshots I have from the beta and I believe it's because I must have been really enthralled by the lamps around Jaka Itzel. HoT graphics and lighting (fortunately I had a new PC at that point) seemed out of this world in comparison to many core places. Otherwise I remember the beta for playing it on my girlfriend's old pc with effectively non-exaggerated 3 fps and comically stuttering sound. It truly was an experience.

Fastforward to halloween! We had a little dance party with one of the devs:

And you know what also happened on halloween in 2015? (takes a deep breath)

If you've been following me for longer than a hot minute you know this is Heart of Thorns stan account number one. I don't think I need to say much about the general experience I've had with this expansion, you all know how I feel about it. On that note, remember when gliding was limited to HoT maps only for the first months?

In any case, the player base quickly learned we'd have to adapt our playstyle to enemies that set the bar a little higher than core enemies.

Doing those Verdant Brink events for the first time after entering the map certainly was a bonding experience of the special kind.

Guess the map:

This is the first screenshot I found that has chak in it. I don't remember the context for this. The way this is "framed" (if you want to call it that) makes me think I saw these little critters run by, slammed the screenshot button and went "the hell is this". Don't have any proof though. Just an assumption. I'll spare you more Tangled Depths talk, it'll happen sooner or later on this blog anyway if you want it or not.

Other than its beautiful maps (and great atmosphere. and amazing music. and-) HoT introduced two more things that would occupy me a lot throughout the end of 2015 and especially 2016 as well:

More about Tarir south gate adventures and my first legendary journey to follow in 2016! :D

Permanent additions to the character roster that year:

It was a very Sylvari year.

Links to all posts: 2012 // 2013 // 2014 // 2015 // 2016 // 2017 // 2018 // 2019 & 2020 // 2021 // 2022    

[ourmadmusings]

Pointed Lesson (Pt.6)

Words: 1.5k

Type: Violent lmao

Summary: Time for a little action on your part, don’t you think? 

Warnings: Violence, fighting, gun-use. No mentions of body type, but spoilers for The Batman 2022

PART ONE

Violence is never the answer, but it can raise a few very good points. 

---

It’s all over the news, playing on the screen in the opulent apartment on the upper East-side. You’d agreed to the terms, don’t leave, don’t let anyone in, and don’t turn the lights on - not too much different than how you’d lived before, you’d laughed up at him. He stared. 

The mood was unlighten-able. Noted. 

He was…mad, you could tell. You’re sure he feels like he’s been taken for a fool. The dredges of guilt eat at your cuticles. Maybe frustrated, you reason. But you can’t help shouldering the blame a little, no pun intended, it was your fault he was stuck here with you. The Riddler had caught wind of your little hide-away just like you’d thought and, less than three hours after your little rendezvous, the police confirmed, an old pipeline had to have eroded right under your floorboards - boom. 

Your apartment, your scraps, all of your cat food was gone. No harm, you reason, there are plenty of other abandoned buildings in Gotham. 

But, your Bat had grabbed your wrist and whisked you away, underground terminals were dark and musty as he whipped you through. Your bike was most likely bugged, it got tossed into the river, helmet too for good measure. Yeah, typical. 

You’re trying to take it all on the chin, - on the shoulder, more like it - but your suit, your mask, your bike, your cat? Gone. In less than three hours. You were back where you were almost five months ago. Homeless, penniless, and suitless. And cat-less, to add salt. 

The Riddler made an appearance after this one to take proper credit, a live-stream was played on-repeat on channel four - he’d found an old picture of you and exposed your vigilante business with the Batman. He’d shown a shaky recording of your head tucked into the Bat’s chest in the dark side-by-side, it was taken just after you’d torn your mask off. You were seething. He’d threatened that, yes, perhaps you’d escaped him this time, but he’s got fingers-in-pies, he’d track you down, limp little dove, you. You’re not sure if your interpretation of the note was right, but at least it wasn’t all wrong, per se. Your records were gone, too, weren’t they? The player you’d hauled up and fixed yourself. It’s sour in your gut, but you can’t pout. 

You do, however, stew. You sit in your little angry puddle and pitch a silent fit, mostly because Batty hasn’t really been around at all. He won’t stop by and you can’t leave. Again, painfully typical. You reason that he’s just trying to keep you out of harm's way, but you were involved in this already, and you really could take care of yourself. 

You get the keen feeling that your recent injury has cemented an idea that you need saving in the man’s head. He did see you as some feeble, flightless bird. 

You pulled jeans on and laced heavy boots, a sweatshirt and a jacket followed. You were no one’s pity project, and if he hadn’t gathered that by now, that’s his fucking fault. You had shit to do. Gloves are on your hands and you’re out the only window above ground-level left open.

It starts underground, as most things do here. You’re on top of the building adjacent to the Iceberg Lounge, you know that loon had taken a few scum-bags out that hung around some sort of inner-club, the one Batman sent that woman into, so you sit and you wait. Until - there he is, your little bird-man, Penguin is making his rare appearance out back. He’s got another woman in his grip, she’s thrashing and screaming, hair a mess on her head. Her short skirt has ridden up her thighs and the top leaves little to the imagination - she’s an employee. He’s yelling at her about respect, about his authority, about how he knows what he’s fucking doing, you dumb bitch! It’s a sharp slap across her face that sends her tumbling, and he looms over her, “and you’d do well -” You strip your jacket and move in.

“Fancy seeing you here, numb-nuts!” You’ve scaled down the small building and strode across the busy street, car horns a fanfare as you approach him. He sneers over his shoulder at you, a normal look for him these days. “Care for a quick chat?” Unclench your jaw a little.

The woman is tossed aside, told she’d be dealt with later and shoved in a door in a flash. He’s kind enough to wave off one of his goons this time, laughing about handling a little-thing-like-you. “Of course, sweetheart, what brings you back here?” He remembers you, bad start. You forgot, no mask means everyone knows you here. 

“You’ve been talkin’ to that vengeance guy, haven’t’ya, honey?” It’s dripping in fake smiles. “I always knew you’d find ‘yer way into the bed of someone like that.” Don’t let it get under your skin. You’re here for information, for leads. For-

It gets under your skin - your fist connects with his jaw before you can think, you’re out of practice in terms of gathering intel, apparently. He had it coming, you reason. He lets out a squawk and jerks his back to you with hands on his face, you grab him by the jacket lapels and back him against the wet steel beam overhead, “what the fuck do you have to do with this fucking psychopath?” You sound deep, ragged. Familiar to your Batty, just then. “He’s not on your payroll, is he?” 

His eyes are wide in his head, “Wh-what? No, I don’t do the big shows, honey, you know that.” He sneers down at you, “why? Scared, dovey?” Eyebrows cock.

The nickname buzzes in your head, fueling you. You drop his collar and swing a heavy boot under his feet, as his body slips, propping his top half against the beam, you move over him, straddling him and lay a single fist in the middle of his face and grab his collar again, giving it a hardy shake and slapping him up into place.

Suddenly, the information meant nothing to you. “Give me my fucking money, Oswald.” Your teeth are tight in your head and he smiles around a bloody nose, “or what, sweetheart? What are you gonna do about it?” 

Your vision tinges red with rage, “or I’ll fucking kill you,” you reel back a fist and you see him cringe, waiting for a hit that never comes. Someone has you by the wrist, stopping you mid-swing. You twist your shoulder painfully, trying to wretch it before swinging your weight around using his tension as leverage, a heel connects with the head of a faceless body. Your hand is free, your back to Oswald as your non-dominant elbow makes a clean hit to the back of the now-crouched body. You hear a door open and a gun cock, not according to plan. 

The man is larger than you, but you’re quicker than him, Oswald forgotten as you pull the bigger man from the ground and twist his arm, pinning it behind him and pinning him in front of you, “shoot the bitch, moron!” He’s yelling from the safety of the metal door as it clunks shut, and locks steadily behind him, leaving you with two very large men and one limp shoulder - fuck. 

You push the body into the smaller man, taking the distraction to twist around the two, you’re against the wall as you lean your top half into it and kick with both legs, sending the two tumbling in a mess of limbs. Oswald didn’t hire based on intelligence, it seems. 

The gun is sent clattering inches from a fist, you try to kick it before the two can regain footing - a hand shoots out and grabs your ankle and you stumble, falling face-first into the pavement. You pull arms under yourself and try to army-crawl towards the gun. A body lands on top of you, grabbing at your hips and dragging you back, a hand connects to your skull, your skull to the pavement. You don’t take time to adjust, throwing a hand haphazardly in front of you, pushing the small gun, you hear it skitter across the pavement. 

You feel the gush of blood from your nose as your body is wretched backwards, still. One of them grabs you by the hood and tries to haul you upwards. You hear the choked sound leave as you shoot both hands up, you unceremoniously slide out of the large sweatshirt and grab it, forcing your whole weight forward and taking the two arms around the man’s head, you twirl around him and quickly knot it into place, you take a second to kick his knees from behind, leaving him execution style with hands around his own skull, tied up in a bow. You land a good kick to the back of his neck and he’s down for the count as soon as his head meets the cobblestone. 

One left. You look towards where you’d shoved the gun in time to see the larger man bending to grab it, you don’t think as you wretch a boot off your foot and hurl it at his hands - you didn’t have your suit, your tools, you were at a steadily-declining advantage here. It, thank god, connects perfectly, a shot rings out into the air as his other hand grabs his fist. The gun, and your fucking shoe, go in another direction. 

Getting up, you’re running towards him, taking his sudden shock in stride as you put weight into your back foot and heave a hefty swing at his chest. He reels back and you kick with your shoe’d-foot. You don’t wait once he’s crouched over in pain, taking his skull and forcing his head into your knee. He’s further into the ground and you quickly swing your weight into another pointed stomp, his head cracks on the pavement and you don’t stop, you run past and grab your boot, the gun, and you disappear up the street.

Not according to plan. Your sock is soaked. Motherfuckers.

a/n: no cats were harmed in the making of this fic.

[dollfat]

was hesitant to use atrophy since it sounded like fish would never spawn there again but its perfect for finding aberrations of already rare fish. somehow missed using my eyeglass this entire game and those alters that give you unique fishing tools, good to know for next game i guess.

[mailboxmerchant]

PANIC

yall ever wonder it would be like to go into an idv match while dating dear ol gravekeeper? me 2, here you go!

character: andrew kreiss (grave keeper)

fandom: identity V

warnings: none? in game violence typa stuff! (and maybe some more rougher violence(?))

Tired and drowsy, you dredged your way back into the main hall of the accursed manor you had trapped yourself in. Match after match, hunter after hunter, injury after injury. You were exhausted, your only motivation to keep trying being your albino sweetheart.

"Y/N....you don't have to keep doing this to yourself, we can t-take a break if you want..." Andrew whispered as he reached down to pat your shoulder affectionately.

"I know, I know...But I can't give up yet." You sighed as you rested your hand over his, your hand shaking ever so slightly as you did. "Y/N, you-you're shaking...?" Andrew looked down at you in harsh concern, grasping your hand tighter as you leaned back to press the back of your head into his stomach.

Letting out another heavy sigh, you forced a weak smile as reassurance to Andrew. The both of you knew well that you were both reaching your limits, but neither were willing to stop until you gave in.

An expression of fear struck your face as you saw your hunter. "A-ahh....Wu Chang, huh?" You tightened your shoulder muscles, your grip on Andrew's hand growing harsh as you prepared to be downed in the first minute of the match. As your vision began to fade, indicating you'd be left in a random location somewhere in the hospital, you felt a cold pair of soft lips leave a kiss on your forehead, the chilly skin telling you it was Andrew.

Your heart was still and calm, and cautiously so, you began to sneak about rubble and rubbage to reach the nearest cipher. "Please don't let it be us first.....Please, god, please." you whispered as you began to tap away at the keys of the machine. When a more feminine voice screamed out, you guiltily let out a breath of relief, now knowing that Andrew would be okay for the time being.

About thirty seconds passed as you began to hear a quiet crumbling noise beneath the ground.

'Andrew!' you silently cheered as you prepared to help him out of the dirt. And as if on cue, a pale hand emerged from the ground. It was funny, similar to the dead raising, but you knew better than to make such jokes to Andrew.

Grasping his stiff, frigid skinned hand, you pulled your beloved out of the moist dirt. "Th-thank you.." Giving him a shy smile as a sign of "you're welcome", you both got back to decoding your half done machine. But of course, as your luck would have it, steadily your heart beat grew hard against your bony frame. "Andrew, go, dig!" At your command, Andrew gave a nod before grabbing your wrist and pulling you under his dirt tunnel with him.

As you felt your heartbeat hit harder and harder against your chest, your breaths became short and shaky. "A-Andrew..I can't..." But before you could get your words out, the two of you were yanked from the dirt and thrown to solid ground to continue by foot.

But the weak lungs that carried you weren't fully recovered yet, and eventually you got bashed on the shoulder as you were crossing a ledge, sending you reeling to the ground. "Sh-shit, I can't...stand..." Angry and wounded, you did your best to futily crawl across the ground to follow Andrew's dirt path he left in his wake.

A shining green light that emitted from Wu Chang's umbrella forced you to close your eyes for a few moments, the brightness just being too much for you after having been smacked down on a jagged concrete wall.

When you could see again though, you instantly wished you could go blind. Andrew was sprawled out on the floor, his shovel thrown far from him as he did his best to crawl to you. His face was harshly bruised, seemingly as though he had landed right on it after taking whatever injury he had sustained. "Y/N, h-help....me-" When you were readying up to heal him, he released a pained noise. As you looked up, a deep feeling of rage and panic bloomed in your core. Wu Chang stood smugly above your dear Grave Keeper, his umbrella piercing shallowly in the lower area of his back. His whimpers of pain were enough to push you to at least limp over to shock the hunter with a spare glove of Luca's you'd found in a chest. But Wu Chang sunk his pointed umbrella further into Andrew's spine as a warning.

Andrew's cries were sending you into a flurry of emotional panic now, your heartbeat now echoing painfully in your head as you cried out for him. It felt like all the colors and people you saw in front of you were melding together, your mind aching for some kind of relief as your eyes focused on the bright red that began to trickle into your vision. “y/n...y/n....”

“Y/N! Y/N!” Andrew’s voice was directly in your ear, your head now flush against the cool dirt. He was gently shaking you, just enough to snap you out of you illusive daze. “Wh-what the...A-Andrew!” You clung to him  like that breath was the last you’d ever take, squeezing the life out of him in the process. “Hmbph! y/n, i-it’s okay..” his voice brought you back down to Earth, his soft tone ringing like quiet music to your mind. His hands were placed at your shoulders as he kneeled in front of you. You were both sitting on the top floor of the run-down hospital, both exhausted, out of breath, and wounded to some varying degrees. 

Slowly, you eased your grip on the tall man’s shoulders, but as you let go, his hand met the side of your cheek, which you instinctively leaned into. Taking it as a sign that you’d be okay to go on, Andrew stood and offered a hand down to you. 

“You really scared me, y/n. You got launched off that window sill, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to get to you before you got g-grabbed...” You shushed his worried thoughts aloud with a finger to his lips. “I’m okay now. This can...be our last match for the night. I can’t handle another one of Wu Chang’s visions, and I think I’ve run you thin of energy...” You smiled sheepishly as Andrew’s cheeks grew redder as you kept your finger near his soft-skinned lips. 

You quickly pulled Andrew close, diving for underneath the creaky bed frame behind the tattered curtain. Your heartbeats thumped powerfully in sync as Wu Chang grew near again, his low chuckle indicating he was not happy you both escaped from his terror. You now held a finger to yours and Andrew’s lips, the both of you stifling your breaths to shallow, quiet ones. The noise of the gates being accessible breached the playing field, and Wu Chang quickly changed directions to go to the south bound gate entrance. 

Once you could no longer hear the thump of your heartbeat, you  made a quick audible note to yourself and Andrew.

“Detention.” You spoke in sync.  

While gaining an extra boost of stamina was rewarding, the stakes were now much higher with an even more dangerous hunter. 

Taking slow, even steps, you and Andrew made it down to the first floor of the dirtied hospital. 

“It’ll be okay, we just have to-” Cut off by a loud clattering, Andrew silenced himself and dove with you into a barely lit room, a hand over each of your mouths. 

“y/n? Andrew? It’s just me, guys.” Luca’s voice rang out from the hallway, his silhouette signaling that it was safe to come out. “The gates open, lovebirds, let’s go before he comes back.” 

Andrew led both you and Luca, taking role as the leader (pretty surprising to see!). Luca paid no mind to the fact you were holding hands, only giving you a smug look as per usual. When you finally reached the gate, you were all surprised to see Wu Chang was no where to be found. Either he was planning something, or he really though you’d all appear at the south bound gate. Regardless, now was the perfect time to make a break for it. 

“What are you waiting for, let’s go!” Luca called as he booked it for the exit. You turned to Andrew, giving him a confirming nod before pulling the both of you from your hiding spot and dashing for the gate. And just as you tumbled through, Wu Chang’s umbrella appeared directly above you both. Luckily enough, you both made it in time, Andrew taking the chance to tunnel underground with you to ensure a safe escape. 

word count:1440

[aiyexayen]

So uh that essay about how Wei Ying takes after Yu Ziyuan? I am LISTENING

There were two things that really made me start to think about this, one was this tweet which says, "You know what we don't talk about? Wei Wuxian getting his cry-laughing from Madam Yu" and this incredible ChengXian video which sets their relationship to the tune of When Doves Cry and wrecks me every time I watch it (I just watched it now when I went to get the link and I'm whimpering).

As to the first matter:

seems fairly conclusive.

The second matter:

maybe I'm just like my father, too bold maybe you're just like my mother-- she's never satisfied

Was there this much meta thought put into one line of lyrics in a video set to When Doves Cry? Hard to say. There is now, though! Because dang, what a line. Essay under the cut.

There's a (valid) tendency to pull out the ways Jiang Cheng is more like his mother, and the ways Wei Wuxian is more like Jiang Fengmian, especially where their relationship is concerned.

Jiang Cheng wants proof of care through passion, through a willingness to fight. He will provoke and poke at things better left lying, with no shame and no regard to who else is around, dredge up old hurts and old grudges and old matters even if they're long buried or long forgiven, so long as he thinks it will get him the reaction he's looking for.

He wants Wei Wuxian to fix things by rising to the bait, rising to the challenge, giving him pushback when he says blatant lies, showing him that his shige still thinks he's worth it.

This is terribly unhealthy, of course, don't do this at home kids, but it's one of my core Jiang Cheng Truths.

Jiang Cheng shows that he cares in turn by being willing to fight, by pouring his emotion out even if those often end up as negative expressions. He's messy and unrestrained when he feels things, not all of which is from his mother--a lot of that is just Jiang Cheng--however, you can see the way he tries to rein in his emotions when he's embarrassed about caring or is trying to pretend that he doesn't care. Whether it's pretending to shrug off Wei Wuxian and walk away when they have a problem, or trying to rein in his temper at Lan Wangji on Dafan Mountain. Because from his mother, he's internalised the message that to engage in the fight is proof of care, so the opposite is also true.

And oh, when he hurts, he seeks to hurt back. That's very Yu Ziyuan of him.

Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, frequently defaults to calming and placating with Jiang Cheng. Not as much as Jiang Yanli does--but more on her, momentarily. We see Wei Wuxian complain at Jiang Cheng to not get riled up, tell him he's being stubborn and just to accept the peace offering, etc. The difference is that, at first, with Jiang Cheng, a lot of that is just general pouty childishness and Wei Ying-ing, general sibling shit.

Plus, he was still willing to fight/express himself fully. They fought a lot. He always ran after Jiang Cheng, always roped him into expressing himself, always let Jiang Cheng fight it out. He understood, at least intuitively, and he didn't back down. The benefits of having grown up together, and of being an older one/middle sibling in the dynamic.

But when things really started to break down between him and Jiang Cheng, when the conflict was much bigger, much more grown up, much more real, Wei Wuxian started modeling his behaviour even more on Jiang Fengmian in regards to Jiang Cheng, possibly seeing more of Yu-furen in Jiang Cheng and responding the way that felt natural.

(Also, a lot of his own guilt and depression/apathy/intent to die and assorted other issues came into play at roughly the same time.)

Thus, we see Wei Wuxian start to turn down Jiang Cheng more often, and back off. He shrugs it off or rejects it when Jiang Cheng reaches out, and he stops reaching out himself. He tries to placate Jiang Cheng, tries to defuse him, tries to send him away. Some of this is because he cares and is trying to show he cares by taking himself out of the situation; some because he's trying to maintain his lies; some because he just doesn't have the energy to deal with this anymore.

After Wei Wuxian is resurrected, by which point he's done what he perceives as the worst things to Jiang Cheng, this intensifies. Jiang Cheng provokes him beyond reason, lashes out, starts fights, sneers, and Wei Wuxian almost rises to the bait but he stops himself. He lets Jiang Cheng be angry and he shrinks himself down, he backs away, he disengages. A decent portion of this is Wei Wuxian himself, and his faulty perspective on the situation and on Jiang Cheng's anger and complexity of emotion and intent. Some of it is lingering relationship modeling off of Jiang-shushu and Yu-furen's relationship. Either way, he's definitely "being the Jiang Fengmian" in the situation.

Additionally, Wei Wuxian tries quite actively to model himself off of Jiang-shushu's good qualities, which is understandable given that this was his primary benevolent adult figure and liked him quite a lot. We see it in the way Wei Wuxian teaches, the way he instructs with archery, the fact he prioritises archery to begin with, the way he expresses kindness the way it was expressed to him, through encouragement or noticing people who are down and out. Things that Wei Wuxian, at least, attributes to Jiang Fengmian's character (I'm trying so hard not to make this a Jiang Fengmian salt post) even if a lot of that is just his own outlook on life at the end of the day.

But all of these kids were around both of these parental figures/people of authority. This is most clear in Jiang Yanli. We see the way she's become a mediator figure between her parents when they're upset with each other and understands them both.

She takes all the kind intent and patience and willingness to placate and calm from her father, and adds in the knowledge and understanding needed to actually use it interpersonally. She's more open with communication, can identify the heart of an issue, and effectively diffuse a lot of tension. She has middling success with this with regards to her parents, but a lot more success with her brothers. It helps her see eye to eye with Wei Wuxian, and share that spark of playfulness between them too. It helps her understand why Jiang Cheng says things the way he does, and what he means.

We also see Jiang Yanli reveal herself to be the steely, fiery daughter of Zi Zhizhu when someone attacks what is hers. She is just as much her mother's child.

So, too, Jiang Cheng is his father's son. I think this is true much more when he grows up and inherits the sect and has held it for some time in the wake of tragedy. We see evidence that he's become a well-regarded leader, and for all we see cool, flashing, calculating glares and bitten-back sneers, we see worried disciples fussing over his health. We see a mild manner that was learned, and an authority that has accrued with time, and a self-assuredness when dealing with his peers that seems more modeled off what we see of Jiang Fengmian than of Yu Ziyuan.

Jiang Cheng is a match for Zidian, through and through, but he is also steady and determined and bold, good at making and keeping allies, or else how could he have achieved the impossible in rebuilding his sect? He learned to take some of his mother, some of his father, find something left over of himself out of the wreckage of his life, and meld it all together.

That brings us to Wei Wuxian. I had, at the time of first seeing that tweet, showed it to a friend who said:

Are we gonna talk about how Wei Ying gets his cry-laugh from her? Are we gonna talk about how he learned that intense glare from her, too? Or his tendency to act swiftly and decisively even when it might not be the actual best course of action? Or his violent protectiveness of his siblings?

Inspired. And yes, we are.

Yu-furen was a figure of absolute strength in Wei Wuxian's life. Uncompromising, unyielding, impressive as hell. She had the capacity to inspire deep loyalty and was fiercely protective over things that were hers. Her son, her daughter, her family's reputation, her sect, her home, her disciple. (Yes, even Wei Wuxian was hers, too, she made quite the point about that.)

Wei Wuxian is very easygoing. But when he decides something is his, whether that's a duty or a person or whatever, it's his to protect, it's his to do anything for, even cause a scene, even start a war, even lose allies or his own life. It's one surefire way to get him to fight no matter what headspace he's in.

You can see Jiang Cheng realise/remember this in real time in the Ancestral Hall, when he can't get a rise out of Wei Wuxian by talking about himself and his family, and that stings, but he's desperate to get a rise out of him somehow, and immediately he sets in on Lan Wangji. And it fucking works. That's what gets Wei Wuxian to almost fight him. If he'd posed a real threat, and if a whole bunch of other complicated psychological shit wasn't part of the mix for everyone involved, there would absolutely have been a fight.

Wei Wuxian latched onto the Wens, yes, and they were his, too, but they weren't the only ones. Lotus Pier was his, as was Jiang Cheng. Yunmeng Shuangjie was not just a pipe dream, and Wei Wuxian's loyalty was not simply easy to sway. Yunmeng Jiang's strength, their reputation, their future, and Jiang Cheng's along with it were always on his mind.

He lied, and fought, and even left and took himself out of the picture to that end. For Jiang Cheng, and for his ability to carry on. In so many ways, Wei Wuxian absolutely took so much of his perspectives on that from Yu Ziyuan, for better or worse.

Uncompromising, unyielding, even when turned on himself. Never satisfied, always pushing for more, for answers, for solutions, for the right path, even in his own frequently easygoing and curious ways. Unhesitating, across the board. Even if it meant his own life, or his core.

There is nothing wrong with hesitating. Hesitating, worrying, being uncertain, trying to think first, trying to find the right path, and then being able to find it, or choose it anyway, is such an act of courage. That's a quality Jiang Cheng has in droves. He hesitated, when he saw the Wen soldiers coming for Wei Wuxian. And then he chose to sacrifice himself. For Wei Wuxian, there was no hesitation whatsoever. No forethought. No choice, really. Just go. I think that's very Yu Ziyuan of him.

I had to go digging to find that message my friend sent me, and I'll conclude with my response:

If we're going to talk about how Wei Wuxian is like Yu-furen, then we'll have to talk about how Yu-furen knew that. Or at least, the only parts that she ever had cause to see in him while she still lived. How he was hers even if he wasn't her son. How Fengmian's lazy favouritism was intolerable in this way, too, in the way it sowed discord where there didn't need to be any, and was a barrier between her and the things that should have been more fully hers. How the farewell at Lotus Pier was more of a betrayal than she intended. How she thought she and Wei Ying met over more even ground at that moment, because she knew he loved Jiang Cheng as much as she did, in the way she did. How she expected more from him than for him to give parts himself up in such a horrifying way. How she underestimated the actual damage that had been done. And if she'd survived to see it, she just might have been truly horrified.

[keelywolfe]

Drabble: High Praise (BAON)

Summary:  Stretch learns that when you're getting down in the dirt, it makes it that much easier to have a filthy mind.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Domestic Fluff

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

"you know, babe, i'm always happy to help out."

"I know and I appreciate your willingness."

"it's no trouble at all."

"As you've said, several times now."

"but. are you sure i'm the best volunteer for this?"

"Stretch," Edge said, and the calm patience in his voice held the slightest fragment of exasperation. "I am perfectly confident in your weeding skills. If you want to help me—"

"i do! i mean, if you want me to."

"—then you are perfectly welcome to help and of course I want you to. Love, it would be a sad day, indeed, if I didn't want you around. I always want you close."

From where he was sitting in the middle of the garden, Stretch couldn't help grinning, even though Edge was sadly out of reach. "oh, yeah, butter that toast, baby."

Edge only arched a browbone at him. “I can either bake or weed, I can’t do both.”

The pile already heaped next to him of forbidden greens that had met their demise stated clearly which direction he was heading in.

“guess getting baked on weed doesn’t count,” Stretch murmured and was summarily ignored.

Eh, that was fine, and Stretch took a moment to mentally buckle down before he dove into his own row of growing veggies. Honestly, the garden wasn’t too weedy, anyway. Edge kept up on it pretty well, hell, Stretch was half-convinced only the bravest of weeds would dare invade this sacred territory. Probably should give them a better burial than a paper lawn clipping bag. Maybe he could get Edge to go for a ceremonial bonfire, complete with a solemn moment of silence for the fallen before they roasted marshmallows.

When he looked at Edge again, he was already halfway down his own row and Stretch gave himself a mental shake and got to work. Weeding went faster when he was focused on it and that was sort of the point. If he helped, that would free Edge up for funner things and if he wanted to play with his honey, then he needed to speed things up. Even if he was a little dubious about the difference between an interloper and a plant that belonged.

It got easier as he went along and soon enough, he’d finished with the section with its label that declared the tiny green fronds as heirloom carrots.

"there!" Stretch sat back on his heels and wiped off his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. "finished the whole row!"

Edge was working on a second row of his own and did not look up as he said, "Good boy."

It was so obvious that he said it absently, not even teasing or putting any real weight on the words. That only made it all the more embarrassing the way those words made a warm pulse start in Stretch’s soul that coyly wound its way straight down to his crotch.

But fuck, the way he said it! Edge always seemed a little dissatisfied with his own voice. It wasn't like his or Papyrus's, that was true, and Edge usually claimed he had a bad singing voice but that was entirely untrue. His pitch was fine, his voice was only unique. Like Leonard Cohen, velvet dragged across concrete and to hear him say that in his beautiful, raspy voice? Hit Stretch in all sorts of lovely, wrong ways.

The heat in Stretch’s pelvis followed a tingling path up his spine to his skull, his mouth filling with soft magic like it was expecting to soon be replaced with the taste of something delicious. Stretch swallowed it away and shoved it to the back burner, 'cause much as he wanted to pounce his honey, they were both sweaty and filthy, neither of which was nearly as much as a turnoff as the fact they were in their front yard with a wide variety of neighbors lurking around, all of them with cell phones at the ready to capture any skeleton shenanigans to liven up the community message board.

Stretch wasn’t gonna give them the satisfaction. Besides, it was Papyrus’s turn to give them some gossip fodder.

Belatedly, he realized Edge stopped weeding and was looking at him suspiciously with narrowed sockets. He dredged up an innocently sunny smile before any of the clockworks in Edge's mind put two and two together and got a sum of dirty, dirty pervert.

His addition might’ve been a little off, but Edge was clearly still working on his calculations as he asked, “Problem?”

“nope!” Stretch shook his head and shuffled quickly over to the next row to hastily start searching for any weedy intruders that dared invade Edge’s prized cucumbers. “not a thing, getting back to work right now, yep, yep, yep.”

That was sort of the working definition of protesting too much, but Edge kindly let it go and went back to his own weeding. With his back to Stretch, there was no way he could see Stretch pausing long enough to take a long, appreciative look at the way the back of Edge’s shirt was riding up, exposing a few precious inches of the gorgeously intricate line of his spine.

Difficult as it was, Stretch tore his gaze back to the plants literally at hand. Time enough later for a math lesson and Stretch was betting by the end of it, he could add up to be a very good boy, indeed.

-finis

[theinkmage]

Hope

Tw : self-harm mentions, attempted suicide, bleeding

I lie. Still. Not telling the truth.

The blood pours, but I deny pain. It trickles down, below my navel, runs the width and length of my right arm. The crimson red pools on the ground, the white hot tarmac, like spilled ketchup.

The plan failed.

Part of me is swamped with guilt, the feeling long gone from the sketches of my very existence. I haven't felt it for eons, the stab of a knife in my gut, twisting until it hits its mark. Bullseye.

The other part swims and drowns in regret. Regret and guilt are closely intertwined, but different. You can regret, but not feel guilt. You can also be guilty, but spared from regret.

I didn't mean to take lives. I didn't want to. But as one of the Darker Beings, they expected you to. Why resist something expected of you? Something so many of your kind are already doing with no qualms?

My guilt stems from my betrayal of my friends. But life isn't fair, we don't get to choose what or who we want to be. We can only accept what we are given and move on.

The expression on his countenance is still etched firmly in the dredges of my mind. Her shock too. So many of them. Not the friends. So the right word should be 'much'. Much shock, much hostility, much aggression. Of course, I didn't expect them to understand. They were born Lighter Beings. It was always Good versus Evil, and the latter would always be defeated no matter what. Who ever watched a movie where Evil triumphed? That would take the fun out of it and probably insert terror and unsatisfaction in its place.

This world has been stigmatised too much to be changed. And too few of us want it. Who would want change, in a world where ninety-nine percent of the odds are against you and you've already gotten used to it? Not to mention hope for it. That would be foolish.

Extremely foolish.

The Chief had wanted blood on our hands tonight, as a test. I know, I do admit, blowing up a building full of innocent children was too cruel. I wasn't given a choice. We all weren't. Maybe the Chief had a choice, maybe he didn't. Maybe he thought he was supposed to always do this. I can hear the clamouring at the back of my mind, screaming and yelling, "Ridiculous!"

Who are you to speak, if you are not one of us?

Whether blood did get on our hands tonight was a totally separate matter. What actually mattered was the defeat, which could be counted as a relief. The ones who had come with me had done their job well. Thrown the bombs well. Aimed, deft, precise accuracy. Almost deadly. Sharp like a sword. A flash of lightning and a peal of thunder.

Their encouragements still rang in my ears. I threw. I had thrown. Launched the black object like a curled up bat into the air, through the glass windows into the facility. It took only thirty seconds to detonate once released.

I heard the babies crying and shots from below. Honestly, I couldn't find it in my heart to blame them. I only watched, unwilling to betray my own kind, as those posted on the mission together with me attacked. I stayed up in the air, hovering, like a dark guardian angel.

He was below, battling fiercely while the others rushed in to get the babies. A slight twinge had tugged at my heartstrings, something so foreign to me I had almost forgotten it. It was a memory, something stronger, a fragment of the past always slipping past my fingertips like sand in an hourglass. Back when we were kids, back before the segregation, back before everything else that divided and conquered.

He had been my first true love, and still is. I had willed my resolve not to crumble there and then. The aches remained and flared, the smoke from their flames rising and intertwining into a monster in front of me. Porous, unreal. A living epitome of me.

My soul had risen into the air, cut itself out of my real physique, and watched silently as I dove down, slicing a spiral out of thin vapour. It took only seconds before my body collided with his, knocking his hands off my allies. The word tasted bitter in my mouth now, apart from the metallic sting of blood and the salty wash of tears and rainwater. I had watched the astonished, stung look on his dirt-streaked face, then fought against the longing in my heart. This was a good chance to win, to cut it all off once and for all. Human emotion was a tricky thing, not to be toyed with.

I haven't toyed with it for a while.

Even so, the years spent in numbness and coldness were for naught. I had felt the sprigs of flowers blooming inside my bosoms, threatening to unfurl their petals and burst in a radiant splash of colours. But before they could, I bit down hard on my tongue, tightened the iron fist, and rammed into him with all my might and force of my wings, sending him crashing into the glass behind.

The hurt and agony was something I would never forget, even as I lie, almost dying, on the pavement.

They had gotten the children out, fortunately. My allies had gotten away before the bombs had exploded in a fury of volcanic ash and red-hot lava. My wings had gotten burned, their black edges charred even further until the feathers singed and littered the ground. They had once been white, soft vanilla cream, until the segregation. And now they remained inky, jet-black.

The grit tasted hard between my molars and I spat it out, along with a mouthful of fresh red blood. Now I could feel it, the raw pain and anguish. A remembrance of human emotion. I clung to it in my last breaths, reluctant to let go of something I once had that made me human, something that defined me as virtuous and morally upright. Had defined me.  

Now, no more.

I might have killed him. Murder. Assassination.

A lump formed in my throat and bobbed quietly. Why wasn't I dead yet? When would the descent to Hell begin? Angels, or Demons, come and take me away. I want to leave without any struggle. I have played my part in this horrific world, branded myself as Evil, now ruined by my own doing.

This was what I deserved.

The world around me blurred, coalesced into water and sharpness. The mist came, and left, and everything was crystal-clear again. Too clear. Each breath was harder now, the intake much more difficult. It was coming, I could feel it. Death arriving on my doorstep, ready to take me away to where I belonged. I would make its job quicker and more efficient.

The knife blade felt cool in my hands. I remember feeling it thousands of times before, the edge cutting into my soft skin, the blade ripping through, drawing just a tinge of blood, not enough to kill me. And then whenever I began to feel human emotions again, I would rip it through again, patch it up, and continue. Until I became a living breathing block of ice, unfeeling. With no feeling came no pain. That was what I had come to realise over time.

But this time, I wouldn't just be drawing a tinge of blood. My eyes took in the world above me – the shattered glass, the wails of babies, the shouts and yells ricocheting all above. Large wings flapping, white against the night sky. I hoped he was fine, I hoped they were all fine. But what could hope do if he wasn't, if they weren't?

My cold fingers shifted up to the handle. It would just take one plunge into the already bloody area. No pain, and I would just go like that. How ironic, that I had always longed for human emotion, but when I am given the chance to take it back, I don't want to. I want the feelings to spare me before I die.

I shut my eyes, expecting to feel fear encasing me in its shell. Instead, I don't. I feel an otherworldly peace shrouding me in its silent holy veil, draping me in its cloak, caressing the tears and blood from my face. Even Peace took pity on me, this ruined, broken thing longing to leave the surfaces of Earth. I positioned the knife, its shiny blade facing downwards, raised it high above my abdomen.

Then with a determinedness, I brought it rushing down. The air swept above bare skin, bringing with it a tint of frost and chilliness. Flashes, memories, pictures raced before the blackness in front of my closed eyes. Brightness soared in my mind, spreading wings and taking flight as I braced myself for the ensuing farewell.

It never came.

I blinked. The eyelids lifted. A blurred image knelt in front of me. Was this Hell yet? The Demon, Satan, coming to kill me himself? The rain fell harder, disorienting. The edges of wings lay below me, fluttering helplessly as I struggled to discern between living and dying.

That was when I could feel them. Warm fingers, holding mine around the handle. The blade was poking my skin, drawing just a tinge of blood. Even without seeing, I knew who it was and I struggled to remove my fingers from his grasp, desperately wanting to sink the blade into me even more. Anything to get away from cold, hard reality. No one would miss me.

The fingers refused to let go, retained their hold around mine and tightened. The drops of water above hardened their fall. I shut my eyes again, and felt the hands shuddering. Both of ours. Not because of the cold. We were both crying, me and him, while around us, the world lay torn, shredded into pieces.

A white flash of something, like a piece of cloud ripped from a clear blue summer sky of the past. Through the drenching cold rain, I thought it was his wings, burning with a light and righteous glory of their own. But no, they were a normal shaking white, encased with streaks of blood amongst the dripping feathers. Warm energy flowed from his hands to mine, and I turned slightly to look at my outspread wings. I forced my unseeing eyes to take in their shining surfaces, white slowly pooling in from the edges.

The tears came, now free-flowing like the rain, down my wet bloodied cheeks. He was hoping in me. It had been hope all along, that fuelled him to stop him from killing myself; hope that allowed me to hesitate in the last few seconds of throwing the bomb, praying for a chance to redeem myself; hope that gave me those last few moments of hesitation before plunging the knife in, wanting someone to come and untangle me from this ruined world as an alternative ending.

It was hope that almost killed us, but also brought us back to life, even stronger than before. It was hope that nurtured love, and love that nurtured hope. The two caught in an endless cycle.

"Hope, now!"

The thunder was loud, deafening, a splitting crackle of electricity above and the rain its tears, pitter-pattering down. Yet I could hear him over the crash, his voice ragged and hoarse and desperate. And hope I did. Our fingers intertwined tighter, palms pressed together, the handle of the knife between us.

An amalgamation of emotions came crashing onto my shores, flooding the gates of my memory.

First was Happiness, like a bite into the sweetest chocolate cake, fresh out of the oven, baked by my mother.

Second came Pride, like clinching a trophy in a competition.

Third was Anger, its red-hot flames washing over me, devouring all my senses in its explosions.

Then came Disappointment, with the disappeared notion of believing something good was about to happen only to have it snatched away from you, right under your nose.

Guilt, with its sting in the gut, sharp and raw, tearing into your conscience like a monster burrowing underground.

Sadness, with its poignancy and something broken deep inside, breaking the dam of tears.

Then Disgust, mud on clean carpets and all over pretty white shirts and dresses.

Regret, replaying the same scene ten different times in your head, each playing out differently, but having apologies as one thing in common.

Hope, its wings spreading to embrace you, cushioning your fall, believing that you can fly.

The hands clenched tighter and sparks flew. The glow around me lightened considerably, a halo around two figures crouching under a lightning-split sky.

Last came Love, a burst of cherry blossoms and rose petals fluttering all around you, the sweet fragrance of honey and clean washed clothes.

His lips came down on mine, gently, almost as if unable to believe that it was happening. Hope could make anything happen. The brushing of a feather, light as breath, the rainwater and blood and tears mingling into one dark bitter taste, overcome by the sweet pleasantness of touch and intimacy. Using up the last of my energy, I returned the kiss, lips pressed against each other, hard and firm and safe, yet soft and dream-like and humane at the same time.

To love and to be loved were things I had yearned for for as long as I could remember.

Now, I could feel my body burning, my wings heating up and flaring out with a brilliance never felt before. The white swirling faster and faster behind my eyes was now dotted with numerous black spots, tightening into a circle of white and black.

I hoped for Change, and the change it would in turn bring into the world, like a rippling effect of pebbles on still water.

The circle spun faster, dancing on the edge of my vision, white-washed waves painted with black. Would Good and Evil truly coexist together?

A flash, darkness, then light. Freshness of petrichor in the air, and then once more, the airy feel of new spring raindrops against skin. I opened my eyes, noticing the wings first. Black and white. Both his and mine. Together, two colours on the same pair of wings, a mixture of colours filled in in startlingly intricate tones and patterns.

Hope had brought us together. But more than that, it meant that this destroyed world had a chance of being healed after all.

[deanofwhumpuniversity]

Chambers Authority: Becoming

This is the first of this verse I’ve posted here, and it’s pretty gross. A real Dead Dove, Do Not Eat. Nearly 4k words of...whatever the hell this is.

CW: Self-mutilation, amputation, cannibalism, medical whump, intubation, choking, acid, guns, blood, gore, human sacrifice, murder, death, immortal whumpee of a sort. 

It started last October, on a night so quiet and comfortably cool I should have known it wouldn’t last. I was sitting in the passenger seat, finishing a granola bar when the radio chirped to life with a no-nonsense message from dispatch. “Ambulance requested at 1002 Pike St.”

We didn’t have to speak; my partner was already putting the truck in gear while I picked up the CB. “Team Sierra Hotel responding, we’re on the north side. Details?”

There was an uncharacteristic pause before the dispatcher came back. “It was...a strange call. We’ve also reached out to PD.”

A spike of anxiety shot through me. It’s never pleasant, rushing to some horrible scene, mentally preparing while physically you just can’t do anything until you get there. All that adrenaline with nowhere to go might just be the worst part of the job. Aside from, y’know, everything else. But this was a new kind of harrowing: situation in progress, bracing for nothing and everything. My brain dredged up every sort of first response procedure I knew, like I was cramming for EMT exams all over again. It was overwhelming and useless, and I shook my head to clear my thoughts, when the radio clicked back to life one final time. “They just said that someone’s going to die.”

Our siren was blaring outside and the road was flying past, and I hoped I had misunderstood; but Roman shot a concerned look at the radio and then at me, and I knew he’d heard it too.

“Come back, dispatch? I did not copy.” The radio only played a low whine, almost more the whirr of magnetic tape than any of the familiar fuzzy sounds the CB usually made. After a few more moments I gave up, switching the machine to police frequency. “This is SH 176 emergency medical, who’s responding to the call on Pike?” My only answer was that same low mechanical rasp. No voices came back over the radio, to me or anyone else. The constant chatter characteristic of the police band was simply...gone.

The silence stretched as I stared at the dashboard radio, microphone sitting useless in my hand. 

WHAM! I startled back to awareness as Roman thumped the side of his fist into the radio, trying to jostle it to life. I shot him a look as I hung up the mic and took a deep breath to settle my nerves; he kept his eyes on the road and we began to slow. I realized we were on Pike Street, our destination coming up on the left. The area was all nondescript commercial buildings, small warehouses with vague signs that gave no indication what sort of business they did.

We came to a stop on the wrong side of the street, lights and sirens granting us permission to ignore the rules of the road. It seemed we’d gotten here first. There were no other emergency vehicles, no police, no one coordinating the scene. “What do we even take in?” It was part genuine question, part musing aloud. With no hint of what we’d find inside, I had no idea what our potential patient -- or patients -- might need.

Roman didn’t answer, staring out into the night with a look of consternation furrowing his brow. He leaned forward and flicked a switch, killing our siren but leaving the lights flashing. The silence was so sudden I could feel a ghostly echo of the blare bouncing off my eardrums. I popped my ears and craned in my seat, but I didn’t see any lights but ours bouncing off the glass storefronts; there were no distant wails of sirens coming to join us.

My partner opened his door and hopped out. “I guess it’s on us.” Of course it was fine for us to respond first; that was the job and we didn’t need the police here to get to work. But something in the stillness, thrown into ghoulish contrast by the flashing red and blue, seemed...different from our usual calls.

“What if this isn’t the place?” What if I had heard the dispatcher wrong? If we somehow both had? I knew it wasn’t likely, but the look Roman gave me showed he had doubts too. He leaned back into the cab and switched through the frequencies on the radio. Dispatch, police, back again. Then to a random band. All silent. There wasn’t even a momentary shock of static as the frequencies changed. He shrugged, grabbed a trauma kit, and started off toward the building, leaving his door hanging open. 

I pulled my own first responder kit from behind my seat and followed after him, telling myself it was purely professionalism that hastened my step -- the ability to do my job without need for direction -- and not an expanding discomfort at the thought of being alone in that garishly lighted stillness.

I surveyed the building for side doors and open windows as we approached, inwardly cringing at the idea of breaking the glass front door only to discover we were, in fact, in the wrong place. But Roman gripped the handle and the door swung open soundlessly, as though it were perfectly natural and the place was open for business at whatever ungodly hour of the morning. This seemed to give him pause, and he stood holding the door open for just a moment before continuing on into an unlit lobby.

We looked around for a moment, at the magazine-laden tables and a desk with its darkened computer; a hallway led further into the building, with lights on toward the end, our only obvious choice to proceed. Heading that way I began to hear a voice, muffled by distance but clear enough, and I realized it was the first speech I’d heard for many minutes. I was almost comforted by the normalcy of hearing other people before I began to process what the voice was saying.

“No! No. You’re crazy! This is crazy, why are you doing this?”

Roman and I picked up our pace, hustling toward the sound. We rounded a corner and came to a set of propped-open double doors. The room beyond was large and cluttered with equipment, but my trained eye was drawn immediately to the carnage at its center.

A young man -- maybe a teen, but it was hard to tell -- sat strapped to something like a modified dentist’s chair. His face and shirt were spattered with blood; I couldn’t immediately tell if it was his, or if it was all coming from the slab of gore being held to his mouth. A darker, silver-haired man stood before him, offering up a piece of bleeding meat with his right hand. The man’s left arm was...gone. His dress shirt had been tied off above the elbow, a rubber tourniquet knotted over the bloody sleeve. A table beside them was strewn with irregular chunks of flesh, unrecognizable except for a hand.

The man’s voice was quiet, almost pleading, despite his clear control over the scene. “There isn’t time for squeamishness, Mads.” His head was cocked and brows were knit with worry, as though he was pressing some much-needed medication on the boy and not some raw remnant of his own mutilated body. “We have to hurry! Just do as you’re meant to and everything will be alright.”

The boy in the chair let out a muffled grunt, struggling in his restraints but unwilling to open his mouth to cry out. He tossed back and forth against a leather strap across his chest, cycling his knees up and down in the mere inch of give that the ankle cuffs afforded him. As we watched, frozen, one of the straps gave way and he kicked out, barely glancing the man but knocking the table and its grotesque bounty to the floor.

The man let out a frustrated growl and stepped back. A black-robed figure I hadn’t noticed before rushed forward and grabbed the boy’s leg, wrestling it back into place.

Suddenly I was shoved hard to the side, barely catching myself against the wall of the hallway before I struck my head. I turned to see Roman, ducking to the other side of the hall and taking a position in the sliver of protected space behind the mostly-open door. As I regained my senses I took in more of the room, seeing now that some dozen black clad people ringed the space, standing nearly unmoving in the shadows. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my partner signalling at me; I turned to look as he pointed his thumb back the way we’d come, then held his hand up to his mouth like a phone. I nodded, yes, the radio, then turned back to the grisly scene playing out in the room. What could I do for this kid? We needed the police. 

The older man, though, clearly required medical attention; his sleeve was soaking through over the stump of his arm, the cloth saturated enough now to begin dripping freely. A morbidly hilarious image ran through my mind -- of me simply walking in and offering the aggressor first aid. Would he leave the kid be and let me staunch the wound? Somehow I doubted it.

The figure at the boy’s feet gave up on the broken restraint, sitting back on their heels and simply holding the kid’s leg in place. The man had righted the table and was gathering up the wet meat that had fallen to the floor. He sighed heavily, and his voice took on a disappointed tone. “Alright, Maddox, have it your way. Just...remember, it didn’t have to be like this.”

He strode away, to the poorly-lit edge of the room, and the boy -- Maddox, it seemed -- took the opportunity to shout in earnest, alternating “Help!” and “Stop, please!” and “Let me go!” as he rocked forward and back against a leather strap buckled across his chest. The shadowed figures held their silent vigil, unmoved by his outbursts.

When the man stepped back into the light, he held a jumble of supplies bundled in the crook of his remaining arm.  He dumped them onto the table, letting them slop into the bloody mess, and I heard a metal clank among the soft, wet noises. 

Maddox stopped mid-shout, leaning back and raising his hands as far as the restraints would let him, in a half-warding, half-placating gesture. “Let’s just talk about this, ok? Just...just don’t--” 

The silver-haired man selected an implement from the pile, and stepped well into the boy’s space, looming over him. He pushed what I could see was a speculum toward Maddox’s mouth, and the stump of his left arm moved -- as though he was trying to hold his victim steady and he’d forgotten his new amputee status. He fixed his gaze on one of the robed figures and nodded, and they rushed forward, grabbing the boy’s head and pulling it sharply back. They grasped his chin, and Maddox’s eyes screwed shut with effort as he clenched his jaw. With two people scrabbling at his mouth, he couldn’t resist long.

He gave one last sobbing cry -- “Don’t, please don’t do this! Dad! --” before the speculum wedged into his mouth, holding his tongue down and distorting his cries. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched the man reach for a spool of plastic tubing.

Movement to my right alerted me to Roman’s return, and I hissed as loudly as I dared, “Did you get anyone on the radio? Are the cops here?” When I got no response I dragged my eyes away from the horrifying display. Across the hall, behind the other door, was a man I’d never seen before White shirt and jeans, with an obvious underarm holster. He was braced against the wall, holding a handgun in ready position, his attention firmly on the boy in the chair. Plain-clothes cop. Oh thank God.

The officer didn’t acknowledge me before he ducked into the room, keeping to the wall and quickly disappearing from my view around the corner. A loud, sickeningly wet choking caught my attention, but the man had positioned himself up on the chair, kneeling over the seated boy and blocking his face from view. All I could see were Maddox’s fingers flexing and digging into the armrests, and his legs tossing side to side as far as they could, movements no longer controlled but instinctive, animal struggles to survive.

The man stepped back down onto the floor and grabbed a chunk of flesh from the table, then stuffed it into a funnel I could see had been crudely jammed into the top of the thick tubing. It shouldn’t have fit -- couldn’t possibly have fit -- but I heard a thick sloshing, and saw as a white froth started to stream from the boy’s mouth around the intruding tube. The foam quickly began to turn pink, and thick rivulets of blood ran from the corners of his mouth to meet under his upturned chin.

“Oh holy Jesus!” Roman’s voice came from right beside me and I spun toward him; I grabbed his shoulders to steady myself as my stomach reeled. He took hold of my upper arms, clearly seeing I needed the help. “The cops are here!” He began to pull me away from the doorway and back down the hall. 

“I know!” I whispered back, but he cocked his head in confusion. Before I could tell him about the officer, a shot rang out from the room. We both ducked reflexively, and my partner started pulling me back to the lobby. He’d already brought the gurney -- somehow I hadn’t heard him dragging in the heavy equipment, and I caught myself feeling bad I’d been too distracted to come and help him. When he shot me a concerned look, I realized I had let out a maddened giggle at the ridiculous thought.

Outside on the street, lights and sirens blared. The chaos of uniformed figures bustling to and fro beyond the glass doors lent a morbid sort of normalcy to this horrific night. But none of them rushed in to back up their comrade; more shots rang out from the back and I saw the gathered police ducking behind the vehicles pulled up out front. But my fear and confusion took a backseat to instinct as Roman began to pull the gurney further into the building, and I took position behind it, matching his hurried but careful pace.

A new scene of carnage greeted us in the back room. Several of the robed figures lay in spreading pools of blood, unmoving; but the one-armed man and the plain-clothes officer were nowhere to be seen. Maddox, still strapped to the chair, seemed to be fully seizing, lurching purposelessly in his restraints, the unsupported tube in his mouth hanging down and dragging his head forward. 

We parked the gurney and Roman set about undoing the straps, while I assessed how best to safely remove the tubing from the boy’s throat. I gripped his chin and turned his head up, and I met his eyes -- terrified, suffering...and aware. Despite his body’s violent convulsions, he held my gaze. A gurgling whimper left his lips. I pulled as gently as I could on the tube, and felt none of the sort of rough resistance I expected; instead it felt as though it was dragging through thick mud. Liquid gore began to absolutely pour out of the boy’s mouth, and I was struck by a noxious, almost chemical smell.

“Oh fuck, Roman, I don’t -- ! Acid. I think it’s acid.”

“Just keep moving, Elke. We have to keep trying.” He was in full EMT mode, voice full of urgency but detached. I tried to push my panic down and let training take over. Roman had freed the boy’s limbs and was bundling up his legs. I pushed my arm under his shoulder and supported his head, preparing to move him to the gurney. “One, two, three, lift!”

We lay him down and his whines became a tortured keening; the boy squeezed his eyes shut and tears streamed down the sides of his face. I could feel the tube jerking in my hand as his body shuddered with sobs, but I couldn’t make much sense of the bottom of his face through all the blood. After a few more wracking coughs he seemed to run out of air, and drew in a long, rattling breath that started harsh and quickly became grotesquely wet, as though he was aspirating his own liquified throat. His eyes shot open and he shrieked; he began to claw at his chest and neck, arching up off the gurney in agony.

“Leave the tube, maybe we can get him some oxygen!” Roman was pulling the gurney now, heading back to the ambulance as though there were some miraculous treatment there, as though if we somehow got the kid to the hospital we’d be able to put his ravaged organs back together. 

A wave of dizziness flowed over me from head to toes as I could feel myself giving up; but the boy was still looking at me, eyes bright and clear and desperate. So I just kept moving.

We burst out the front door and beelined for the back of the ambulance. The police outside went from barking at each other, to shouting questions at us -- but the few who came close enough to see the patient backed off quickly. Once the gurney was secure in the cabin, Roman hopped behind the wheel and flipped the siren back on. I pulled one of the rear doors closed; as I grabbed the other a hand shot out of the dark and held it open. I jumped back in surprise, and the plain-clothes cop from inside hoisted himself up into the ambulance. 

“Hey! I’m sorry, but, you can’t --” He pulled the door shut behind him and slid onto the bench opposite me. I didn’t have time to argue. Maddox didn’t have time. “We’re clear!” I called to my partner, and he pulled out onto the thankfully empty nighttime streets.

I went for an oxygen bag and began peeling it from it’s sterile package, when I realized the officer was speaking. “Provoneaux got away, but not all is lost, yeah? There’s still time.” He wasn’t speaking to me; his eyes were fixed on Maddox’s. He stood up, hunched from the low clearance, and reached toward the boy’s face. Before I could register what he was doing, he took hold of the tracheal tube, and yanked.

Thick blood sprayed across the roof of the ambulance, spattering hot and sticky on my face and painting the man’s rumpled white shirt. Muffled whimpers became an agonized howl as what was left of the boy’s mouth was freed. The cop set his large hand against the Maddox’s gore-streaked chin, forcing his mouth shut and covering his nose. I grabbed the man’s wrist and tried to push him away, but he was slick with blood and freakishly strong. “Roman!” I cried out in a panic, unsure if I wanted him to stop and help, or just drive faster.

Instead, he yanked the wheel to the side, tossing us about and jostling the gurney. I felt the man’s grip falter, before he climbed fully over Maddox’s prone body, and pressed his whole weight down over the dying boy’s face. I shoved at him, punched his shoulder to no effect, then my eye lighted on an oxygen tank hooked to the wall. Pulling it down quickly, I put my whole weight into my swing, bashing it into the side of the man’s head. He tumbled to the floor, bringing up his arms to block any further blows.

“You don’t understand!” He was speaking to me for the first time, and I found myself hesitating. I held the oxygen tank ready for another swing, but I didn’t have an easy shot with Maddox between us. The man looked up at me over his raised arms. “If the sacrifice dies, the ritual will complete.”

“If...WHAT?” That was probably the last thing I’d expected to hear, and I simply could not imagine what I was supposed to say to that.

“He has to die some other way.” The man was panting with exertion, but his voice was strangely calm. “Do you really think you can save him? Do you?”

I looked down at the kid, whose eyes flicked back and forth between me and the officer, wide with fear and pain. His chest was hitching with short, failing breaths; what I could see of his face seemed to hold a pleading expression. A treasonous thought ran through my mind, that all I could do for him now was ease his suffering, but I would not give it voice. I would not tell him I was giving up on him. 

I tossed the oxygen tank onto the man, and saw his eyes widen before he covered his head and ducked flat to the floor. I heard it connect, heard his grunt of pain, but I turned my attention to the manual oxygen bag I’d been opening. Tossing the packaging aside, I leaned over the boy and pressed the bag to his face. I tried in vain to force air into his destroyed body, but I could tell now he was making short, sharp exhales, not taking in any breaths. Helplessly clutching the apparatus, I reached my other hand up and brushed the boy’s dark, wavy hair from his forehead. “It’s ok, Maddox,” I lied. “Shh, it’ll be ok.” His shoulders settled back, and his gasps began to gentle. He held my gaze, and I watched as his eyes went still and dark. 

I stood at his side for a moment, an eternity, choking down the sobs that wanted to claw up from my chest. The ambulance bounced over a rough patch of road and I slumped back on the bench, suddenly feeling weak and small as the adrenaline seemed to drain from me. I turned to the man now sitting on the floor opposite me; he looked as spent as I felt.

“Elke?” Roman called from the front. I could see his eyes in the rear-view mirror, probably trying to puzzle out just what on earth was happening back here.

“Roman, stop.” My voice was barely more than a whisper. I almost couldn’t hear it myself over that useless, pointless siren. “Stop it! Turn it off!” The shout hitched in my throat, but we coasted to a stop and I heard my partner open his door and climb out.

“You’re not a cop.” That one shout was all I’d had, my voice quiet again. I kept my gaze on the boy’s body, not wanting to look at the man, the would-be murderer. “Who are you?”

“I’m...Will.” He paused, the way that addicts do when they don’t want to tell the EMTs who they are or what they took. 

“Sure. Will.”

“I’m with the Chambers Authority.” He laughed dryly. “Not that that...means anything. I’m the one who called you, but I was too late. No one is more sorry about that than me, I assure you.”

It was my turn to laugh. There was no humor in it. 

The back doors swung open and Roman surveyed the scene with concern. “What did you do?” he asked, his tone strangely light.

“This psycho, I -- I tried to stop him, but -- !” I couldn’t sustain my anger for more than a few words. “I don’t think there’s anything that would have mattered.”

“No,” Roman replied, “what did you do?” How did you do it?”

I followed his gaze to the body of the young man on the stretcher. His chest was still, and he was deathly silent. But his hands were flexing, and his eyes began to blink. And then he sat up.