#exasperation falling over me like a sheet of rain as i rounded the corner to see Burger Cuck

[bsptourist]

bandellgalleria

created by Dunking Crumpers

[goingsllightlymad]

Blinded By Your Light - Part 3. On Changing.

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

Summary: Y/N is the definition of ordinary. Studying at a medical school as far as she can get from her rainy hometown of Birmingham, she never expected to be shipped off the Flanders when the war was at it’s peak. Much less to meet a handsome young patient with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes she had seen in her life who as fate would have it would fall into her lap.

Word Count: 3474 (again, this one was getting really long so I split it into two parts, so this bit is pretty short and the other one is much longer. It’s pretty chaotic, actually. You can really see my internal screaming shining through!)

Warnings: uhhhhhh “blasphemy” (in that reader roasts Jesus and like three different people tell God to piss off)?? Me writing about Birmingham, knowing absolutely nothing about Birmingham.

A/N: You might think you’ve already read this and “Oh look, — is back on their bullshit” but no! You haven’t! (I was a right idiot and posted chapter 4 (which wasn’t even finished yet) instead of chapter 3 (which was finished), so you probably got a punch in the face with in-contextual angst and a whole lotta plot holes, amigo. 

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When you could stand again, you stood and bought yourself a cup of coffee in the town square. Sitting in the mid-morning sunlight, smoothing down your uniform and watching the children playing football and laughing, you tried to convince yourself that this would be the end of things. In the clearer light it was easier for you to imagine that his face was already fading from your mind, becoming steadily little more than one of the faded posters on the boulangerie wall, yet another reminder of the past quickly disappearing into the morning air. By the time you'd finished your coffee it would have gone entirely.

Or so you tried so hard to believe.

Yet despite all this - despite the surprising warmth of the morning as you took a walk along the banks of the river, despite the flowers blooming beside the river that you picked and arranged in a little bouquet to lay upon your windowsill when you got back to the hospital, despite the way the sunlight looked upon the water and the way you could swear the face you saw staring up at you was anything but your own - the hospital when you returned to it seemed colder and lonelier than ever before, the empty shell that seemed all at once too small to hold you and large enough to drown you into its tall white walls and empty corridors that led nowhere at all now. He was not waiting for you at the end of those corridors. Nothing was waiting for you at the end of those corridors.

You tried to get back to work as normal, but even you could see that something had changed, and things could never be as good as they were before. Every morning was a little colder inside, even though the sun burst brighter and the flowers painted your windowsill red and pink and glorious yellow when you woke, still the days were longer and you went to sleep a little lonelier than when you woke up that morning. It was becoming increasingly clear that there was nothing to keep you here now that he was gone, and you hated it.

You hated the way you still saw him when you walked into the west ward to change the sheets of the last few patients, spending longer and longer in your chamber, waiting listlessly for orders that never came because there was no one here anymore. The war was over; you had won, so why did it all feel so tragic?

And so it was not long before you handed in your notice, taking those last four lonely weeks to wander around the grounds aimlessly, taking in the trees in bloom, the birds that wheeled overhead at dawn when every night you could not sleep for wanting to leave so badly. You'd never seen it all before, all the colours of the sky when the long nights were finally over and the endless days began again as though they never left. Four weeks was all it took, to stand by his bed more than you would like to admit, trying to conjure him back up as he whirled through your mind like the happiest thought that you would never have again. The taste of his lips as he left you, the way he laughed and the sight of him watching as you walked up the hospital aisle every morning, regular as the sun and you loved him a little more every day.

When those four weeks were over at last you packed your bags and left for good, casting one last glance over your shoulder as you resigned those last memories to peace as he cast no letters across that boundless ocean to you. Almost a month, and not a word had come your way. A smarter girl than you might have been over him by now. And as the train carried you out of the station and the nowhere town you left behind, you wondered if the view had been so sweet to him.

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Quitting medical school had been the easy part. Stepping off the train in Kent, it only took a matter of days before you had had enough of the quaint little villages, so much like the lonely town now far into your past, with their thatched roofs and old boarding schools. Soon enough you were on another train, this time further North, watching the forests of bluebells slipping past out of the train window, becoming grayer, flatter, towns where there was no sun at all as you came closer and closer to where you knew you must now go.

And late that night you were there at last, leaving the station and making your way down the familiar backstreets to the church as you took in once again the dark and dirty streets and drab buildings. The little neighbourhood you knew better than any - Small Heath, Birmingham.

It had been a shock at first - even to you, long away as you might have been, the change was brutally clear and unnerving. Outside the station the buildings were faded now, hung with washing dripping red water thick with the traces of blood onto the street, and you could see the marks of bullets on the walls and drainpipes, shots missed in fights there rarely were before. The town was a shadowy reminder that all the world had changed a little for the worse.

"Ma'am?"

You were shaken out of your dark thoughts by the sudden voice of a station steward, a young boy with deep worry-lines on his face that made you wonder what he'd seen that you could not even imagine. It wasn't good for young boys to look so old. You smiled down at his briefly, and he gestured to the heavy suitcase you were carrying.

"Sure y'got the right stop?" he sounded genuinely surprised, and even before when there was trouble in the streets you had never heard that telltale strain of concern in his voice. It struck you like a slap to the face - he was afraid for you. You felt like you were walking into hell itself.

"Yeah, quite sure. This is Small Heath, right?" you joked tensely, forcing a reassuring smile but he seemed not to register or not to find it amusing as he frowned at you calculatingly, trying to figure something out about you. You tried not to shrink under his gaze, unused to such unusual behaviour and trying to remember something about this from before. Had it really been so cold here before? You couldn't remember being so uneasy.

" 'Fraid so. Y'got anywhere to stay?" he stood beside you, facing the street, but you could see him sneak a glance at you out of the corner of his eye as he said it, as if waiting for your answer with a great deal of interest. Concern. You convinced yourself that you were not unnerved.

"Yeah, I... the church." The words slipped out before you could stop them, the hasty plan concocted on the train even as it was nearing the station. You thought perhaps you had known all along what you had to do, still it seemed unreal to say it out loud, like trying to talk about a dream and having it come out as empty words and the promise of it being greater, grander in your mind when it was yours to live alone. There was some darkness, some curious depth in those simple words that made you wonder if there were some untold fate yet hanging in the stars for you, the promise or the warning of some unseen path stretching before you as you left the train and began again somewhere new. This was only the beginning of things. "My father is the priest."

"Ah." he grunted, nodding and you wondered if it had eased his mind or burdened it. You hadn't been home in so long that you doubted he even remembered you as he pretended to. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, still just a child and working already late into the night. "Two lefts and a right down the back alley." he pointed away and you bristled, his patronising tone getting on your nerves.

"Yes, I know where the church is!" you snapped, exhausted from the journey and exasperated. You couldn't wait to get out of the cold and put down your bags in your childhood room, get some sleep and find it all brighter and friendlier than tomorrow, the Birmingham you remembered instead of the harsh city you somehow seemed to have fallen into in its place.

"Right, right. Meant no harm, just that yer" at this he scratched his head pensively, trying to find the right words to say, "just don't look like yer the sorts that's from round here, s'all." he looked you over once again, and this time you rolled your eyes and, picking up the suitcase barely filled with all that had been your life for the past years, set off down the street.

It was only late afternoon, still you had missed the sunset and found yourself now in the midst of a hazy evening gloom, blueish and thick with smoke and the smell of rain in the distance, threatening and homely and a million other things that you couldn't quite find words for. The streets around you were no warmer than you had feared, the windows shut up against the cold and barred for good measure, doors locked and padlocked. The whole tcity resplendent in its grime and fear and darkness, and you could taste the foreboding like a sore upon your tongue, soiling those chapped lips where once his kisses gave you the truth you had so long been seeking, and once took it away. You found yourself hurrying slightly as you walked down empty streets where you could have sworn there had been life, been light, before. Shivering a little against the icy cold, you could not help your mind straying back to the sunny mornings in the hospital where you had been so sure that summer would come earlier, bring lighter days and brighter hearts but here the cold wold last forever.

And, turning a sharp bend in the street, there it loomed before you - the tall brick walls of the church, single spire pointing up into the starless sky in vindication of some god turned away from this personal hell of a town. You reached around in your pockets for the keys from a lifetime before. In case you ever came back, and here you were before the tall doors, looking on at what you were beginning to fear was a very bad decision. You should not have come back here; you should have stayed away while there was still memory enough to convince you that this city was more than just this mass of shut-up shops and bullet-marks and stories behind every brick and muddy cobblestone that seemed more blood than words to tell.

With that thought still burning in your mind, you unlocked the doors and pushed them open with no small effort, shuddering at the loud groan as they jolted open. Before you the church was dark as night, a single candle at the altar the only sign that here was life at all. You thought you could remember a time when the nights were alive with candlelight, warm and welcoming as though here was some heaven sent down to you in that time when you could still be forgiven. There was no forgiveness here, only the cruel reminder that if there was a better place this was not it, and you doubted you could ever reach it at all. The war was over, and for the first time in your life you had sins enough to atone forever.

You stopped in front of the altar for a moment, looking up at Christ on his cross in the faint glow of the candlelight, shadows like ropes upon his wrists and playing upon his face, and through the half-light you could make out those disappointed eyes staring down at you, distant on his sad height. Once, when you were so much younger, you had asked your father why he looked so sad. Your father told you he was dying, that he loved the world and so he had to die for it. You hadn't understood and he had told you that sometimes when you love something you have to let it go, and let yourself be hurt by it to let you know you really love it. There are somethings you can't not love, no matter how many times they let you down. You thought perhaps you never understood that until now. You took a tea-candle from the rack beside the altar, lighting one carefully and setting it beneath the cross with a quick prayer under your breath and a last glance up at the messiah in his glorious death before your eyes.

You picked up your suitcase again and went on to the door in the back wall of the church, half-concealed behind a thick purple curtain. Taking a deep, shaky breath, you lifted a hand and knocked once, twice, upon the worn wood. A minute or so passed and you considered knocking again when, from somewhere in the backrooms behind the door, there came the sound of heavy footsteps, and promptly a low sound as of the tapping of the door, followed by the clicking of several locks. A compartment in the top of the door slid open, a small opening appearing through which you could see a flash of white hair.

"Who is it."

Your father's voice, but old and tired and with a strain that was more of guilt than of age, so changed it took you a moment to recognise the man you knew behind the door.

"(Y/N)." you murmured, biting your lip to keep from bursting out with emotion at the tired man who came suddenly into view through the window. He looked up at you then, and his eyes met yours, clouded and white and unseeing entirely.

"(Y/N)." he repeated softly, more to himself than to you, reaching up to rub his blind eyes with a trembling hand. "(Y/N)." he shook his head and smiled sadly, and for a moment you wondered if he would turn you away, for even in the blurred white of those eyes you could not miss the shadow that passed across his features, as though he wished you anywhere but here.

Then the shadow passed, and he reached out for the door again. You heard another lock break open, then one more, then the door whined as it opened out. You had not remembered there being so many locks there before. You could not remember there being any there at all. Why would you need locks in a church? You squeezed through the low doorway, bursting out into the small anteroom beyond. There, upon the old kitchen table, were laid out the remnants of a meagre dinner, one place setting and a half-filled glass of whiskey. You couldn't remember your father drinking. You tried to ignore the sound of the locks clicking back into place behind you, the way your father checked them anxiously to make sure they held. You tried not to wonder what he was keeping out.

"Didn't expect yer." he muttered, wheezing a little as he felt for his chair and sat heavily.

"Sorry. Didn't expect to be back. Just sort of happened." it wasn't entirely a lie. You had thought for some time that maybe you should go home, try to start again like you did when you were small. You had thought perhaps that here, where everything had been so easy and free, you could set things right, forget about your winter in Flanders and leave the past to rest. It was only as you were on the train, heading further and further from Kent with every passing second, that you knew that, conscious decision or not, you were on your way to Birmingham. It had seemed almost that fate had a plan laid out for you, though you did not know what it was.

"Glad yer back. Been... different without you. Wish things were better 'ere for yer." his eyes wandered around the room, then snapped back to you as his expression grew more stern and wistful.

"What'd'ya mean?" you smiled at your own accent coming back a little. The longer you stayed here the stronger it became, and it always amused you to hear it slipping through when you least expected it. The american patients at the hospital had used to like the clipped Kentish voice you had got used to using, and you had always laughed at that. If they only knew what you Brits were really like, you bet they wouldn't be quite so impressed.

"Ain't exactly how you left it, thought y'would have seen it by now." he reached for his glass and you pushed it into his hands. He grunted a thank-you and took a long, slow sip of his whiskey. Finishing the glass, he set it down and stared off into the distance with a drawn-out sigh. "It's getting worse out there. People are dying, and there ain't nothing God's got to do about it. 'S evil. 'S getting more and more evil."

You shivered involuntarily at his words, and at the late-March chill that had crept in without you noticing, tugging your thin cardigan closer around you. All of a sudden you wished you hadn't come here. The cold, the darkness, the streets with their laundry soaked through with more blood than water, there was something about it that made you want nothing more than to run away like you did all those years before.

"Church is quiet. Didn't see anyone in there tonight."

He sneered at the wall, laughing bitterly into his glass and tugging at the neck of his wrinkled robe, the figure of a saint abandoned to his God alone.

"The world daren't need a God when they got guns inside their pillowcases. There's no God out there, only hurt and more blood every'day. En't no one in church for days now, and when they are, en't no forgiveness for them too. There'll be darkness coming, judgement and just you watch, none of 'em will be spared. None of us at all."

You bit your lip hard, looking on at the man in front of you as one might look at a spitting serpent, just a little more dangerous and a lot more worrying than you remembered. But there was a moment in his anger that soothed you, because this was exactly the man you had always feared him to be, in those days when his anger would get the best of him and he would come raining down upon you like the hellish words of God turned vengeful. He was quiet, but he was and always had been a little crueller than was normal for a priest in a town of sinners, and you had spent the best part of your life wondering which of him he was entirely - the anger or the sadness that came after. And now you knew exactly, that he was the vengeance of the righteous man that is inside unholy.

"Is my room still here?"

"Course. Didn't know if you'd want it when y'came back." When you came back. He had been waiting for you, knowing you'd come back eventually. No one ever left here, and you were no exception. This grim, grey city had an unusual way of pulling you back in every time you ran away, reaching out with shadowy fingertips to snatch away whatever daydream of a life you had built before you. "Go on. I'll be a little longer."

You went to the stairs, looking back over the bannister and through the hallway doorway to see him sitting alone in the kitchen, staring off into space, his expression a murky mess of turmoil and troubled conflict. Even after so long you could still read him like a book. From a distance he looked so small, a tiny figure hunched over in gowns that were too big for him. The same gowns he used to command a room in, stately and tall. The years had changed more than just you.

"Dad."

He lifted his head in the direction of your voice, blinking as you tried to find something to say to let him know that you had not missed him, but that you loved him so much in that moment that you thought perhaps if you would leave again now you'd miss him this time around.

"It's not so bad."  

You smiled and went upstairs.

Taglist

@actorinfluence @captivatedbycillianmurphy @stressedandbandobessed7771

[manasilversbittymenagerie]

Heya! Could I adopt a grim please? And have an adoption scenario?

Today was the day you get a bitty! You’ve had your eye on a particular shop, and a particular bitty, for a while now, and today was the first free day you’d had to go check it out. And that’s where you were now standing, in front of Mana Silver’s Bitty Menagerie. There was a second of doubt, of hesitance, before you opened the door.

You stepped in side and looked around for a second, wide eyed at the huge enclosures and the bitties practically everywhere when a voice draws your attention.

“Welcome to my Menagerie, give me a second and ill be down in a sec, or ask for Pasha or Forge at the desk.” You looked to find a short women restocking a shelf in the back of the store, her back turned to you. For a second you wondered how’d she known you entered, the doors being silent and there was no bell sound to announce your presence in the store, and from this angle you could barely see her, let alone the other way around with her back to you.

But you let it go as you shuffled up to the desk, getting distracted by the bitties running around and the enclosures, two of which you noticed where covered in black sheets, blocking your view of what was inside.

“Ah, those are for future bitties we’ll have in store soon, but for now they’re empty” A smooth, soft voice said next to your ear and you whirled to face the women who was now standing next to you.

You bit back startled shout, how had she gotten there so fast? Her silver eyes practically sparkled in amusement as she gave a mysterious smile, which a faux air of innocence You had a feeling she had done that on purpose, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as she moved behind the counter. You were used to weird, this wasn’t bad, just… it threw you off is all. She nodded to you, seemingly glad she hadn’t startled or upset you too bad. “What are you in for today?” She asked, smiling. You told her that you had read about her bitties online, and had believed a grim would do well in your home.She smiled and waved her hand in an all encompassing gesture. “Feel free to look around,” She started before her mouth quirked into a grin, “Though, I have a feeling upstairs is going to be a good place to look” And she turned away to talk to a taller, thicker bitty, comic Papyrus you think they are.

You watched her talk and move around the bitties for a few more seconds before looking around the shop. You didn’t know if it was Mana Silver’s suggestion or your own feelings, but you felt yourself drawn upstairs. You climbed the stairs and looked around, ignoring the blacked out enclosures and wandered until you found yourself in front of a small corner enclosure. Inside, a small handful of Grims and Papatos where sitting. Several who notice to you looking waved or smiled at greeting, and one small baby Papatos pressed his boney face against the glass and made a silly face at you. You giggled as an older, tired looking Grim rolled his eyelights and pulled hims away from the glass and into a small bitty box house.

You sat down in a lone armchair close to them and soon enough you where covered in bitties. Most made sure to give you space, but a lot of the younger ones had no qualms in climbing on you and talking excitedly.

A while later, you looked up at the clock and found hours had passed without you knowing. In this time, a lot of bitties had gotten bored and left, their curiosity sated. Only a few stragglers remained as you gaped at the clock and you looked to your left shoulder where one particular grim had sat the whole time. He had been keeping up with the question about and your home, easily filling the space and keeping you talking without even knowing. It wasn’t hard for you to make your decision, his blunt humor and silly puns making you grin. The other bitties picked up on this pretty quickly and they dispersed, sending you encouraging grains and thumbs ups.

As you stood, you turned to look at him and asked him if he’d like to come home with you, and he gave an exasperated head shake. Your breath caught, afraid for just a second, when he spoke. “I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you, but your stuck with me” He said cheekily, moving closer to the nape of your neck. A grin lit upon your face and you said goodbye to the other small skeletons and speed walked back downstairs, excited to fill out paperwork for him. A sudden realization hit you hard and you nearly fell down the stairs when you stumbled on a step. You grabbed the railing with a loud slap, and turned to look at your new buddy, who had let out a startled screech and grabbed on to you for dear life.

You apologized immensely, and he patted your cheek, snickering a bit. You remembered why you stopped and sheepishly asked if he had any bitties he was attached to and wanted to come along, but he shook his head, amused. “Nope, don’t have a brother or any mates or anything, just little old me” and you continued downstairs, this time without nearly falling.

As you rounded the corner, you looked and found Mana watching and she quirked a brow. “You okay love?” She asked, several bitties sitting on her or clinging to her baggy clothes. You shrank and nodded, face aflamed in embarrassment. You asked to make sure no one had gotten hurt or scared and she smiled softly at you. “It’s okay, a few bitties got startled but no one was hurt.” She reassured you.

Then she noticed the bitty on your shoulder and her grin broke out into a full faced smile. “Oh lovely! I take it you found who you were looking for?” You nodded and she grabbed papers from a file holder without even looking and handed them over, then added a pamphlet along with it.

“Here’s the papers, very easy and efficient to fill out. Down here is the information about Grimdark,” She paused, before continuing “And you signing to acknowledge the possibility of a grim going Grimdark, and if something happens to cause them going Grimdark, that we are not liable or at fault for it.” It was an obviously well practiced speech, but it had sad undertones to it. You nodded, signing it without even pausing. You were well aware of the possibilities but you refused for your bitty to ever get close to going Grimdark. Mana continued.

“You said you read about them on the website but this pamphlet has all the information easy access and a number in case something happens in emergencies, call anytime if you need.” She said softly, winding down and you put the pamphlet in your bag as you finished signing and handed over the paperwork. Mana looked it over, before grinning and handing you an adopted certification. “Would you like to by a carrier or a bitty house, or clothes? We have quite a selection and anything you want that we don’t have, we can make.” She said smiling. You thought for a second, before shaking your head. You could always come back later if you changed your mind

Your bitty teleported down from your shoulder with a soft ‘pop’ and onto a desk. Mana smiled at him, and gave him a little head scratch as a taller, thin skeletal bitty moved up to him. It was Pasha, the peacekeeper bitty. He leveled the grim with a flat look, despite wearing a bandanna where his eyes would be if he had them.

“We better not be getting a call about you jumping from light fixtures, I will not be there to heal your broken arm” He said voice even. Your bitty blushed a deep blue and you found that you could see a faded crack along his forearm bone. “I was a baby bones and I could barely teleport Pasha, don’t be a mother hen.” He said, looking away as you giggled at the exchange. Pasha quirked a smile and turned away.

Mana came back with a small bag, inside was a bottle of Sugar Souls, a basic outfit and a coupon for their online shop. You grabbed it thankfully and said you goodbyes. Your Grim waved goodbye as you headed to the door. Just as you where about to open it, a hand tapped the opposite shoulder from where your bitty was sitting.

You spun to find Mana holding out an umbrella as you started, confused. It wasn’t raining nor did the forecast say it would, in fact it hadn’t rained in a few weeks. “Here, you might need this. Feel free to keep it or bring it back sometime, we have quite a few” she said, gesturing to an umbrella can next to the door. You took it, you don’t know why but you felt it was best to trust her. She waved goodbye and practically gilded away.

You where about a block away when you felt a drop of water on your head and you opened the umbrella just in time for the sky to break and start pouring abruptly. You and your bitty looked at the rain and you asked quietly how Mana Silver had known and he shrugged. “We’re used to it, she just… is like that” and you laughed, and headed home.~I hope you enjoy your Grim! Take care of him, and Id love to know what you name him!

[thebrandings]

OOOOOH YOU'RE GOOD AT WRITING ANGST! Every one of those made my heart hurt, but the "I just took you from one hell to another" destroyed me. Sooooo... what would the crushing-stage!ROs do if MC just disappeared someday and never came back?

Hello! Thank you so much, I read a lot of angst so I’m glad you think I’m good at writing it. I wrote this scenario with the idea that it was deep into the crushing stages because if the ROs didn’t have strong affection for the MC then they’d most likely be panicking about the fact that a Branding is gone and what they were going to do. 

Thank you for the ask and I hope you enjoy it!

    Lily/Ollie/Oliver (She/They/Him)        Oliver stares out towards the distance, the trees he had pointed out to the MC on the first day, standing tall and sturdy; the exact opposite of how he currently felt. The deaf-defying ruckus around him sounded soundless in his ears. He plays with the grass, the rain the day before had unknowingly caused his clothes to become damp and allowed his friend to escape. Escape from what exactly? He didn’t know.

       He falls onto his back, staring at the now cloudless sky. Were they even friends? Oh, how he had wished for so much more than that. But atlas, it seemed to be completely and wholly one-sided. His hand grips the strands of grass and he tugs on it, cruelly ripping them from the ground; just like how the MC ripped out his entire being. “I’m sorry.” He whispers low, staring at the green in his hands with regret before letting the wind howl the ripped grass away.

       He watched it breeze away, a solemn feeling settling heavy in his chest. Did they even give him any thought before disappearing? He shook his head, hateful at the tears that had started to fall. No, they must’ve given him some thought; after all, they had known each other their whole lives, helped each other through good and bad. Even just the thought sickened him. If they had given him thought, they had obviously no care for him. He wasn’t sure which one was worse and didn’t care; they had both quite definitely hurt.

       He tried to figure out what was wrong? Was he too clingy? Too needy? His mind briefly flashed to all the times where he had reassured the MC over and over again that he would stay by their side. Apparently it seemed, that he was the one who should have wanted the constant reassurance. He rubbed his chin with one hand, hating how he began to feel and stood up. 

He continued to stare out towards the distance, hoping that wherever they were, however far that they would find what they were looking for. Find what he had so desperately wanted to give them; to give them. He shut his eyes in pain, tears beginning to stream downwards, collecting in the already wet clearing. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, laying the flower he had picked up earlier on the ground. On the spot where it seemed like he and the MC were on top of the world. He knew that they didn’t die, but in his heart it surely felt like they did.

       Victoria/Tor/Vick (She/They/Him)        Tor glances up from the book they had been reading, a feeling of sudden numbness and disappointment settling in their stomach and heart. They wondered if the MC had disappeared because they were in danger but quickly shook the thought away. There were no traces of a struggle nor forced entry. The MC had simply got up and left with their own free will; seemly taking a piece of Tor with them. Tor frowns, gently placing their crime-solving book down as repetitive thoughts once again invaded their mind. But what if they didn’t? What if they were possessed?

       Tor quickly leaves their room, walking an all familiar path towards the MC’s door. They briefly hesitate outside it before taking a deep breath and walking in. Carefully, they gaze through the room, their eyes making sure everything was exactly in its place. On the day the MC had mysteriously disappeared, they had made sure to note down everything. A single piece of paper sat at about thirty-five degrees crookedly on the table, just as it had been before. A navy dark blue jacket, lazily draped against one the edges on a chair just barely touching the floor.

       They quickly finish their examination, having done so dozens of times before and already begin heading towards the MC’s bedroom. The sheets were crumpled, just like always and Tor had to resist the urge to fix it. To make it presentable for the MC when they returned. They could already imagine their embarrassment at having to explain why they had been in their room when the MC came back. They chuckle, imagining everyone laugh at Tor’s exaggerated hysteria only for the MC would return. They hesitate. placing their hand on the MC’s pillow before quickly sucking in their breath. It was a little damp; meaning someone had been in here. They run towards the window, trying to see if they could spot anyone. In the corner of their eye, they barely spot something move in the woods and instantly turn towards it. Nothing. Tor rubs their eyes, wondering if they were slowly going crazy. A wetness meets their hand and the realization slowly sinks in. It was them, who had caused the pillow to turn slightly damp. They bring their gaze back towards the bed, an unwanted thought popping up in their mind. The MC was never going to return.

       Christine/Chris/Chris (She/They/Him)        Chris forced himself to smile as the others around him laughed, although he knew his smile was noticeably duller than usual, he was grateful that no one had commented on it. He cursed himself. Tonight, his jokes were dry, his flirting self flaccid, and his usual grace in charisma gone. He placed pressure on his forehead, hoping to ease some of the stress and tension that had been lately causing him headaches. He sighed at the unaltered affect, opting to drink the offered beer in front of him. Much to the delight of the bar patrons around him, he chugged in one swoop. The bartender flashed him a concerned and reluctant look, hesitantly sliding another cup towards him. “Present from the-.” He grabbed it and raised it high in the air, interrupting whatever she was going to say.

       "Thank you!“ He shouts, already going to chug this one too but he sighs, his shoulders drooping in regret. He usually never acted like this, so why now? The MC flashed into his mind and he silently admitted the fact that they might have had something to do with it. He never felt anything like what he had felt with them. Sure, he’s felt lust and adoration but this feeling was deeper. He shook his head, refusing to admit it. It was just a silly crush, he’ll get over it. Maybe it was the fact that they had disappeared before he could ravish them, or was it because they just suddenly disappeared without a word, without a trace? He shook his head again though this time the room spun with it.

       "Woah there.” The bartender said, reaching over the bar to steady him. He turned, grinning at her with his pearly white teeth. He felt her hands on his shoulders and flexed whatever muscles he had there. He blinked his eyes, trying to understand why his mind seemed slow at the moment.

       "Like what you feel?“ He slurred, the drink not being his first one. She slightly leaned away from him, his breath reeking of alcohol. He laughed hysterically, pushing her hands away from him before he slammed his fist on the bar, startling other patrons. “Son of-!” He shouted, instinctively shutting his mouth before he earned another lecture from Vick. He slumped down in his seat, the caring bartender still watching him. He stayed like that for a moment before raising his cup in the air, a grin on his face. “Another round on me!”

       Fable (She/They/Him)        She keeps swinging her sword harshly into the training dummy before landing a forceful kick on the stomach, efficiently knocking it down. Uncaring about this fact, she immediately continues to send fist after fist towards the face, straddling the prop. Physically exhausted with bloody fists, Fable lays down on the side of it, panting hard as she tries to gain back her breath. She’s never felt this exerted, this aggressive before. The timing of the new Branding’s disappearance and arrival of her new founded anger, didn’t connect in her mind. Sure, the MC was interesting but she knew better than to have feelings for them. She bit her lip, nodding her head in agreement. She didn’t have feelings for the MC, she decided before glancing back the Branding’s household. Not like there was much choice anyway.

       Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She didn’t understand why they had disappeared, why they had just simply packed up and left. Fable knew that their circumstances weren’t ideal, it never was but it was better than she had ever experienced before. She sighed, laying her head on top of her arms, deciding to just enjoy the peace and quiet. She didn’t understand why she felt so strongly about the MC, but she did. She glanced into the words, wondering what they were doing now; if they were okay, safe and possibly thinking about her too? Wait, what? Fable frowned at her thoughts, more confused than anything. She rolled her eyes, almost exasperated at spending valuable time on this. Emotions were exhausting, she knew that but these ones gave the others a run for their money.

       She glanced up at the trees, the dark green leaves that leaned over her, offering her cover and protection. Frown still expressed on her face, Fable gets up and places the dummy back on its feet. She stares into the faceless head, unsure what she’s looking for before the MC’s face appears in the corner of her eye. She immediately turns towards them though they just as quickly begin to run away from her. “Wait! Stop, please.” She begs, chasing after them. Soon enough, she loses sight of them and collapses to her knees, already tired due to her sudden aggression from earlier. She stands still, unsure of why her immediate instinct was to chase them. She was sure if it was Chris running away from her, she wouldn’t have even given him a moment of her time. She pauses, lifting her hand up towards her face, only to come back with a drip of water. She was crying and she no idea why.

       Aila (She)        Aila smiled politely at one of the elders as everyone continued to talk about how their worse fear had been confirmed. One of the Brandings was gone and it wasn’t just any of one of them. Granted, Aila loved all of them equally but there was just something about the MC that had stirred something in her; something that Aila refused to admit. She nodded, glad that no one at the formal gathering could understand the grief plainly hidden beneath her eyes.

       "If you will excuse me.“ She said, not even waiting for a reply before slipping right outside, finally able to feel like she can breath. She cursed herself for feeling this way, for doing exactly what everyone knew she’d do. She’d grown attached, far too attached.

       She shivered at the cold wind that blew against her and wrapped her arms across her chest. Was this a sign that she shouldn’t open her heart so freely? She gasped, wanting to feel something other than this numbness that overcame her heart, it squeezed in pain as if trying to find a feeling too.

       She clutched her stomach, the stress and grief upsetting it. “MC.” She spoke, praying that they could hear her, wherever they were. “Please, come back.” She said, wishing she could understand them. Specifically, why they had left without telling her? Not even a note to explain why, but there had been nothing not even a sign of warmth in their bed. Yes, she had checked. Against all her morals, she had even tried to see if their scent had lingered. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time, not since the first war had terrorized the nations. She simply didn’t have the time although she had a copious amount of affection, which she had equally split against the Brandings. Well, until recently. Aila thought, a smile formed just thinking back to one of the newest additions before reality quickly came crashing back into her.

       "Did you really hate this place that much, darling?“ She asks rhetorically, already knowing there was no one to answer her. At least, not the one she wanted to answer her. “I wish I could have reassured you or whatever was going through your mind.” She closes her eyes, slightly tilting her head to the sky. “You’ll always have a place here, MC. And in here.” She adds laying one of her hands on her heart, just as a stray tear escaped. 

       Hayden (They)        Hayden oversaw the trainees attack their target, though their form were lacking and their strength weak. They sighed, a frown forming on their face as they thought about their transfer. Without someone to protect, Hayden had to begin training the new recruits. They shook their head in disgust, not like they did a good job protecting their charge because somehow the MC had managed to leave, undetected and without a single thing out of place. It was like they were simply never here. Hayden felt a sudden stabbing sensation in their heart and frowned, the MC had most definitely affected something. They had affected Hayden, without either of them even knowing.

       Hayden clenched their fist, hating the way that they were grateful at the reminding pain. It was the only way they were constantly reminded of the fact that the MC was real, not just made up in their head. Hayden cursed under their breath, not even paying any attention to the recruits anymore. Was it Hayden’s fault that the MC had mysteriously disappeared? Of course it was, the transfer and hidden comments behind their back only confirmed that everyone thought exactly just that. How could they have been so inattentive? Where were they? What were they doing when the MC had got up and left? Hayden winced as one of their nails imprinted in their hand from the pressure and they immediately loosened their hand.

       They thought about the MC now. Were they okay, or were they screaming in pain, calling out Hayden’s name while wishing to be rescued? Hayden snarled at the mere thought, hoping they were okay. It would kill them if the MC had been hurt, knowing that there was no one Hayden could ease their pain. Hayden’s heart clenched at their thoughts causing them to frown. The affect the MC had on them had appeared ten fold at their sudden disappearance, forcing Hayden to address it knowingly. Somehow, they had begin to think of the MC as more than just a person to protect, way more if they were being honest. It was a ridiculous thought but it was true. Hayden only wished that they had acknowledged it before the MC was gone. Maybe they could have changed their mind?

[scenitroute]

Ten Days From Raven’s Roost

Ok.  Here it is.  My first TAZ fanfiction.  I don’t even have many followers into TAZ I’m sure.  Thanks to @zrllosyn for pushing me through this one and encouraging much worse to come.  and thanks to @amysantiagone from the TAZ fic writer’s discord for beta-reading the completed draft.  You guys rock!

Title: Ten Days From Raven’s Roost

Warnings: Happy Mango, Sad Mango, Angry Mango

Summary:  Magnus Burnsides travels 10 days to Neverwinter from his home in Raven’s Roost to enter his hand made rocking chair into a carpentry arts contest, where he is expected to win the award that will officially recognize him as a master carpenter. Two days into his journey, his home is attacked by the very villain he defeated not long before. 76 people were killed, including his new wife, Julia, and her father-his mentor, Steven.

“Do you remember the last thing you said?”

“I said…’I love you Jules’.”

It was the last of the warmer months and Neverwinter was crowded.  The townspeople lined the streets with booths to pander their best merchandise, and tourists from towns away came to explore.  While the days were still long, skilled craftsmen traveled from all over to compete for gold and title, to be recognized for their craft.  The competitions pulled in many business owners and wealthy collectors looking to commission the most talented workers.

The excitement could be felt throughout the busy city, and it infected Magnus as he strolled through the marketplace, a particular bounce in his step of pride despite the burden on his back.  It was still early in the day, and Magnus was beaming with energy and grinning as he scanned the rows of shops.  He didn’t stop at any of them, and only slowed to wave a quick goodbye to a fellow competitor he’d met during his time here.  The road led out of Neverwinter into a much smaller town on the outskirts, but Magnus was going further than that.  On his back was strapped his now prize-winning chair, along with his normal pack of rations.  A ten day journey lay ahead of him, and he was eager to get home and share the news of his victory with his new wife, who was waiting there for him.

Jules would say she wasn’t surprised, but kiss him excitedly all the same.  Mr. Waxmen would clap him on the back with a bark of laughter.  Magnus….Magnus would just be happy to be home again.

Magnus had never considered that a quiet life in a small village would suit him.  For as long as he had known, he had always been on the go.  Even as he exited Neverwinter he had the urge to go back and explore what he hadn’t yet seen there.  Yet when he thought of home, of Julia, his heart felt settled, and longed to return.

His pace quickened a little as he pictured her smiling face.  Ten more days until he reached Raven’s Roost, and held Jules in his arms again.  That was better than any adventure or prize, he thought.

Two nights in a row Magnus didn’t bother looking for an inn to sleep in.  He set up a small camp for himself and laid on a mat he’d brought along.  There were a few clouds, but the moon shone bright and lit up their wispy edges from behind.  Magnus stared at the stars that were visible, awed by them.  He had a certain fondness for clear starry nights that he couldn’t quite explain.  Julia never did question it, content with watching the night sky with him.  They would talk about the expanse of stars, and she would go on about constellations and beauty when Magnus fell silent, staring in wonder at the thousands of white lights.

Magnus awoke early the third morning and set off again.  Throughout the day the clouds grew denser, and darker, and much earlier than the night before, the sky grew dark.

The closest village was miles behind him when the rain started to fall, but only moments after the first droplet hit Magnus, he saw a small cottage ahead.  A wooden awning stuck out over the front door, off center, but still providing cover for the doorway with some extra space to stay comfortably out of the sun, or, as Magnus thought now, the rain.

It took several moments after knocking for the door to open, and Magnus was greeted by a half elven man wearing stained brown pants and a light knitted shirt.

“Oh!” he said.  “Hello!”

“Hail and well met!”  Magnus smiled a little sheepishly and waved.  “I um.. I’m travelling a long way and I wondered if I could impose on you for a short time.  If it’s fine with you, I’ll just stay out here under this cover until the rain passes, and be on my way again.”

The man stepped forward a bit and looked at the sky and the rain now pouring down heavily.

“This storm will surely last through the night,” he hummed, scratching his ear as Magnus’s face fell.  Then, a little forlornly he added, “Probably floor th garden in too…”

The man stepped back to the doorway, motioning to Magnus.  “Come on in stranger,” he invited.  “We won’t have you sit on the stair the whole evening and we’ve just finished making some stew.  You’re a big fella but I’m sure there’s enough for yo-”

A muffled crash interrupted him that made both men jump, followed by a voice calling from further inside the house.

“Mattias!  Matti it’s fallen again!”

The man grimaced but led Magnus inside.

“You can leave your pack in the corner there,” he said, quickly pointing it out and heading into the adjacent room.

Magnus set the chair down first, adjusting the canvas covering it as he did, then laid his bag and rolled up mat on its seat before turning to follow his host.

Just inside the other room was a small round table, worn with scratches on its surface.  A pile of trinkets lay scattered across it and a stack of books toppled as it was pushed by a second, held by a dark skinned human woman.  She snatched one book before it fell off the table and moved to adjust the stack before looking up and seeing Magnus for the first time.

“Hello!” she said, smiling through clear exasperation.  “Please excuse the mess, this shelf just doesn’t want to stay together anymore.”

“I’m sorry love,” Mattias straightened up next to her, having picked up a couple boards that had come apart.  It was a small bookshelf that seemed to be poorly attached at the corners, causing it to come apart.  “I’ll see if I can find a new one in town.”

Magnus didn’t miss a beat.  “I can fix that for you!”

The couple laughed.  “Don’t you worry about it,” the woman said.  “Please dear sit.  What’s your name?”

“Magnus Burnsides.”

“Welcome Magnus,” the woman smiled.  The pair finished picking up the fallen items and did’t complain when Magnus helped to carry them into the other room so they could all sit at the table to eat.

Their names were Jaznah and Mattias, a young couple who had just inherited this little cottage from Jaznah’s parents.  She was pregnant, and they had plans to build another room onto the home to make space for their growing family.  However they were struggling to keep together what was already there.

“It’s a perfect home for us,” Mattias said as he finished his meal.  “There’s plenty to fix up, but we’ll manage.  It’s just old.”

“Matti is always so positive about things,” Jaznah stood from the table and collected their bowls.  “But we’ll have enough money to hire someone if we can’t finish the extra room in time.”

Mattias rolled his eyes with a smile and moved to help her as Magnus chuckled.

He stood from the table as well and went around to look over the broken shelf.  It looked like a simple fix in refastening the corners so they wouldn’t tilt when weight was placed on them.  He insisted on mending it as repayment for the meal and shelter, and they relented.

Magnus settled on the floor with some tools he’d retrieved from his pack and set to work eagerly.  Jaznah took a notebook from the stack of books and sat back at the table with a contented sigh.  Mattias finished cleaning up from their dinner before taking to watch Magnus work.

“This must be your trade,” he commented, and Magnus nodded.

“I’m actually returning home from the Continental Craftsman Showcase,” he muttered as he sanded the roughened edges of the wooden sheets.  “Back home I work in a pretty well renowned shop.”

“So you’re a pretty big deal!”  Mattias laughed.  “Something like this old shelf is hardly worth your time.”

Magnus waved a hand.  “This is the least I could do for the kindness you’ve shown me.  After this I’ll be on my way as well so-”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mattias interrupted.  “Don’t you hear that storm?  That won’t be over anytime soon.”

“I couldn’t, it’s too much trouble…”

“It’s no trouble at all,” said Jaznah with finality, looking up from her notebook which she had begun writing in.  “It’s night anyway, and there’s no inn for miles.”

Smiling appreciatively, Magnus bowed his head and thanked them both.  He carefully set new nails into the connecting corners of the shelf, then tested the other corners to make sure they didn’t also need repair.  As he went he described the work to Mattias, who began asking for advice on the building project ahead of them.  The shelf was finished quickly, and the pair moved to the more open sitting area.  There was a single bench in the room, padded with sheepskin and placed in front of a simple hearth where a fire was already going.  As they went Magnus looked back at Jaznah, who stayed at the table, bent over her notebook, focused on writing. He found himself staring with a sense of comforting familiarity.

“She likes to write stories,” Mattias explained.  “They’re really something too, I’ll never need to try and come up with something to entertain our children.”

“She’s so focused,” Magnus said, almost to himself.  He pictured Julia pouring over the stack of orders they’d received, tongue between her teeth as she sorted through the work.

He was pulled from his brief daydream by Mattias’s voice, quiet and full of emotion that Magnus easily recognized.

“She just enters her own world when she writes.  It’s truly amazing.”

A warm expression of deep admiration fell over Mattias’s features as he gazed at Jaznah, and Magnus felt exciting welling up in him again to get home.

They relaxed on the bench and talked for a while, until Jaznah joined them and Magnus pulled out the prize-winning rocking chair to show them.

“Oh my god!” she exclaimed.  “How did you get it to smell so good?  Lavender is my favorite!”

Magnus laughed, and invited her to sit in it.

“It’s a beautiful work of art,” Mattias said.  “I’d say it’s worth the journey to Raven’s Roost for new furniture if you’re making it!  Expect to see me sometime!”

“I’ll be looking forward to it!”

Late into the night they talked and laughed, before finally turning in.  They left Magnus to recline on the bench, giving him some blankets and extra padding for the night.

By the next morning, the rain had stopped.  Magnus, despite his eagerness to get home, happily stayed for breakfast before saying goodbye to Jaznah as Mattias walked him outside.  He readied his pack again, making sure his tools were secured inside, and stopped before slinging the rocking chair onto his back.

“Hey Mattias,” he called.  The man stopped with his hand on the door and looked back at Magnus.

“What’s up?”

Magnus lifted the chair up and carried it up to the house.  “I want you guys to have this.”

“What?  N-No Magnus, take this back home to your wife,” Mattias tried to push it back into Magnus’s arms as he set it down, but Magnus gently stopped him.

Smiling, he said, “Trust me, we have no shortage of decent chairs in the Hammer and Tongs.  I think this will be better suited for you and Jaznah.”

Defeated, Mattias eyed the chair, and then looked up at Magnus.  “You really want to leave this with us?”

“Consider it a gift for the baby,” Magnus suggested, shrugging.

Mattias took his hand in a firm shake, grinning widely.  “Thank you so much friend!  Jazzy will love this!”

“It’ll be a good place to read her stories to the kids,” Magnus said, and Mattias agreed.

“Please stop by again if you’re ever nearby!”  he said as Magnus walked away again.  “Bring Julia too!”

“I will!”  Magnus waved, and he set off again, homeward.

On the seventh day Magnus made a new friend.  A stray dog followed him for some time, trotting along beside him.  Delighted, Magnus stopped to play with the hound, and when he stopped to rest around midday, the dog lounged on the ground next to him.  That night Magnus found a small village, but the dog would not follow him closer to it.  With a sad sigh, Magnus gave the stray some of his rations and scratched its ears before entering the village to find an inn.

The place was small and inexplicably crowded, but he breathed a sigh of relief when the owner said there was a single room available. He didn’t linger in the common area, instead Magnus tucked himself away in his room and drifted off.  Only a few more days until he was home.

The innkeeper invited him to sit for a meal in the common area before leaving.  Magnus was eager to be on his way, but sat at the bar anyway.  The room wasn’t nearly as crowded as the night before.  At one of the two occupied tables sat 3 men who spoke loudly, but it was friendly and Magnus ignored them.

He chewed on some spiced bread and absently squished the bit of cheese on his plate as he planned for the day.  If he kept up his pace he could easily make it home before the next day was out.  Bouncing a little in his chair, he dug in his pockets for a few coins to leave.

“Did you see those folks last night?” a voice asked from the table behind him.  “Heard they were on the run.”

“What, are they outlaws?”

The third man chimed in.  “No, they said they was attacked.  Y’know that city on the columns?  Raven’s Roost.”

The coins in Magnus’s fingers fell, bouncing on the floor.

“Everything alright sir?” the innkeeper asked, watching the coins roll across the floor.  Magnus didn’t answer him.

“Raven’s Roost?”  he called to the three men, who turned to look at him.  “Is that what you said?”

One of the men glanced at his companions then back up at Magnus.  “Yes,” he said.  “A few travelers came from there talking about how their city was attacked.”

Magnus blanched and his mouth dried up.  “Attacked?” he croaked, and stumbled forward to their table.  “Do you know anything else?  Any details?”

“Not much,” the man said apologetically.  “The group seemed keen on passing through quickly.  Sounded like they weren’t the only ones.”

“Who….who attacked?”

“Some tyrant, didn’t catch the name.  Gotta be well off though since he managed explosives.”

“You from Raven’s Roost?” the third man asked taking a drink.  “Lucky soul you weren’t around.  Seems like one of the columns fell, right out from under them people’s feet.”

“Poor souls…” the first man lamented, swirling his glass on its edges on the table.

Magnus didn’t ask for any more, rushing out of the inn and forgetting his pack.  Raven’s Roost was still three days journey away, but he didn’t think about that, focusing only on getting back as fast as he could.

He didn’t stop once, he couldn’t.  Terrible possibilities burst through his mind like jolts of lightning.  Steven taught him everything Magnus knew.  He was resourceful and wise and would have made it out of the Craftsman Corridor with Julia, who was brilliant on her own.  He only had to find them.  Even as he assured himself, terror gripped at his heart every moment, and drove him to travel through the nights, until he finally arrived at the first column of the city, his home, a full day early.

It was abandoned.  A ghost town.  Every building and home was an empty shell, but he passed them all by, heading straight for the place he knew most of all.  

And it was gone.  The woodshed, The Hammer and Tongs, the broad desk where Julia stacked their orders and watched Magnus work.  Their home…

It was all gone, fallen entirely with all the other shops in Craftsmen Corner.  The bridge that had been that column’s connection with the others hung from the residential column in ruins.  A sign was hammered into the ground in front of the bridgeposts.  A hurried homage to the lost lives, and under it, a list.

A choked sob echoed through the empty air.

Magnus lowered himself to his knees.  He felt like he could melt down, and simply slip over the edge.  Instead he just stared over it, down into the fog below.  Everything he had, all he’d loved and worked for, was below that fog, dashed against the rocks.  There were no ruins for him to search.  No bodies to mourn over.  His fingers dug into the dirt and rocks, clenching as he leaned forward, head hanging over the precipice.

The Mad Governor Kalen only attacked the one column of Raven’s Roost.  The shops and of the brave men and women who turned against him.  A ragtag team of craftspeople who took back their homes and livelihood.  No rescue attempts could even be made for the 76 souls that were in Craftsmen Corridor.  Every family left, once accounted for, packed their bags and left the forsaken city, fearful of any further attack.  Raven’s Roost was a ghost town, with no one to hear or answer the anguished cries of a man who had lost everything.

Some weeks later, Magnus sat alone in a small tavern.  He had no pack, but held a drink in front of him, nearly empty.  His calloused fingers rubbed against the grain of the wooden table.  Tiny splinters brushed away as he went, and he thought of sanding it, and the smell of sawdust.

The door to the tavern opened, letting in a sliver of outside light, before closing again.  Magnus’s mind emptied again, saved from the flash of a too recent memory.  He downed the last gulp of his drink and wiped his face with the palm of his hand, eyelids drooping.

“Burnsides?” His eyes shot open.

The voice came from over him.  Magnus leaned back in his seat, shaking his head a little to wake up.  A familiar half-orc man stood there, holding his own drink and watching him with cautious smile.

Magnus grunted.  “Stanek.”  He peered back down into his glass, half-hoping Stanek would leave.  Instead he heard the chair opposite him scrape against the floor, and the man sat with him.  Stanek let out a slow sigh.

“We wondered what happened to you,” he said.  “Gunnar said he tried to find you on the road from Neverwinter, but never passed you.”

“I went off the road for a while,” Magnus glared at a spot on the table.  “Didn’t want to bother with inns.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Silence fell between them, and Stanek drank half his cup in it.  Magnus didn’t move.

“No one knew what happened,” he muttered finally, clenching his fists.  “It was days before we knew it was Kalen.  By then he was long gone.”

Stanek’s hands relaxed again, but his voice cracked as he continued.  “76 people were in Craftsmen Corridor that morning.  Shopkeepers mostly, a handful of families….76 souls taken.”

Magnus moved, slowly turning his glare at Stanek, his teeth grinding together.

“76 lives ended,” he growled out.  “He killed Julia-everyone, because of us.”

“We didn’t do this Magnus.”

“No,” Magnus agreed, brows furrowing.  “Kalen caused all of this.”

He laid his palms flat on the table and sat up just slightly so he could lean forward, still staring straight at Stanek.

“I’m going to kill him,” he said.  “I’m going to hunt him down and end Kalen.”

Stanek sat back slowly, eyes widening.  “Shit Magnus,” he glanced around, then pulled himself back to look at his friend.  “No one knows where he’s gone.”

“I will find him Stanek.”

“And if you do?”  Stanek opened his palms to the air.  “He’s still got plenty of followers, too many people are protecting him.  Magnus you led an army but that army…all those people are gone now.  You won’t be able to reach him Magnus, it’s a suicide mission!”

As he spoke Magnus hunched his shoulders more and more, and his hands curled on the table into tight fists.  At Stanek’s last word Magnus slammed both fists down with a loud grunt.  “I DON’T CARE!”

Stanek reeled back, gaping at him.  The room went quiet as the handful of other patrons eyed the pair warily.  The bartender barked an order to calm down from behind his counter.  Magnus acknowledged him with a fierce look, but sat back in his seat, keeping his balled up hands in the small spaces he’d indented into the wood.

He spoke again, a low growl that only Stanek could hear as Magnus lowered his head again to stare in his lap.

“He took everything from me.  I don’t care anymore.  I have nothing, and I don’t give a shit.”

As Magnus’s composure shifted, loosening, Stanek’s own eyes started to water.  “I’m going to find him, alone,” Magnus said.  “And I’m going to kill him.  It’s all I have.”

“You earned your happy ending Magnus.  If you use me, you can have it all back.”

“Julia wouldn’t want this.”

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: Don’t Cry, Young Lovers (3/4)

Chapter 3

Paul was no stranger to panic. From the time he realized that his mother's death was inevitable, panic's looming spectre was never more than a breath away, ghostlike, almost invisible but always ready to strike.

But for as often as he had felt the icy hand of dread clutching at his chest, he had never learned to cope. He would freeze, or say something awful that he didn't really mean, or run away altogether. In every other aspect of his life he was meticulous to a fault, but in any situation where he lost control, he became a vortex of appalling ideas and worse executions.

As he dashed down the unfamiliar streets, heedless of where he was going, Paul knew that he was in terrible trouble. Of course, a cold autumn rain had begun to fall and he had left his jacket at the hotel. Of course, he had never changed his pounds to francs and the darkening sky told him that there wouldn't be a bank open until tomorrow. Of course, he had no map of the city, no plan, and he had come to realize that his study of French wasn't going to help him unless he needed to announce that his aunt's pen was on his uncle's table.

He was completely screwed.

Everything that could help him, everything he needed, was in the hotel room that he'd fled: his clothes, his passport, even the camera that held the precious images from this trip. 

Images of John.

John, who loved him. 

Oh, Paul was completely screwed, all right.

He shook his head as if that could help him shake off all thoughts of John. He realized that his hair was dripping wet, droplets of rain scattering from the strands. His clothing was soaked, and his hands were so cold that he could scarcely feel his fingers.

Yes, running away was a brilliant idea. He thought he was running away from John, but how could he, when his whole being was consumed by him, when he could scarcely remember a time when John's approval wasn't the most important thing in his life?

Church bells began to toll for the evening mass. Each peal sang out to him. John, John, John. Paul began to laugh hysterically, clutching his chest as he continued to run.

Exhausted and half-frozen, Paul veered off his aimless course and instead followed a family into a small Catholic church. People who were smarter than he was, less panic-stricken, less phenomenally screwed, placed their umbrellas neatly in the vestibule. Paul stood in a corner and tried to wring some of the water out of his clothes. French mothers clucked sympathetically at him while their children stared and giggled. Finally a verger approached him with a blanket, which Paul gratefully draped over his head and his shaking shoulders. 

He took a seat at the very back and rested his damp head against the wall. Candles flickered all around, casting a golden glow on the old stone walls. There was a residual scent of incense in the air from a hundred years or more of worship. 

Bells and smells. 

Even here, even now, John's voice wouldn't leave him alone.

Paul listened half-heartedly to the Latin liturgy. The service was vaguely familiar, on the edge of a childhood memory, but since his mother's death he hadn't followed a faith. In fact, the last time he'd entered any church was for Julia Lennon's funeral three years ago. 

John's face at the wake afterwards, stricken and pale, was seared into Paul's memory. 

He tried and failed to pay attention to what was going on around him, tried and failed to think of something that wasn't John, that was bigger, more important than John. When he rose and tried to sing along with the congregation, he was horrified to discover that his voice didn't work. 

There was no more music in him.

With a muted cry, Paul stood up and lurched out of the church and back into the street. The blanket gave him little shelter from the pelting rain but he was long past caring. He wondered if throwing himself under a nearby bus would hurt in the seconds before it killed him, then he chastised himself for thinking of "doing that to John," then he started to cry when he realized, yet again, that John would never let him go. 

Bedraggled and weeping, his mind a chaotic tangle of dangerous thoughts, Paul wandered slowly through the shadowy, rain-slicked city. He could have been anywhere, for all he knew. He was tired. So tired. 

But he was not lost, after all. He found himself, somehow, at the front door of Sylvie's little cafe - for all the good it would do him, he realized, when he saw that the lights were turned out and the door was locked. 

He also realized that he had a companion, a pink-nosed, gray tabby cat who looked as unhappily wet as Paul himself. He leaned over and scratched the cat under the chin. "Are you lost, too?" he asked. 

The cat regarded him with its round, golden eyes, then trotted off around the corner of the building. Paul was desperately tired and hungry, hungry enough to wonder if perhaps Sylvie had placed leftover food on the trash cans in the alley. He followed the cat and found himself face to face with Sylvie as she was locking the back door.

"My God, where have you been!" she cried when she saw Paul's disheveled appearance. Immediately she turned the key in the lock and pushed Paul into the kitchen, the cat at his heels.

"John came here, looking for you," Sylvie continued as she flung several large kitchen towels at Paul. "He was frantic."

"I was, too," Paul said quietly as he tried to dry his hair. 

Sylvie pulled a chair near the oven, shoved Paul into it, and lit the burner under a kettle. "Tea. And you need to call the hotel and let John know you are all right." 

"There's no phone. It's not...that nice of a place." 

She shot Paul an exasperated glance, then her face softened when she saw the cat. "Ah, Monsieur Debussy, you are gracing us with your presence this evening." 

"He's yours?" 

"Is a cat really ever anyone's?" 

Paul shook his head, watching as Sylvie got a bit of fish out of the refrigerator and put it on a sheet of waxed paper for Debussy. The cat sniffed Sylvie's fingers then nibbled daintily at the morsels. Paul was so famished that he considered fighting for the chance to eat the fish himself, but before he could finish the thought Sylvie handed him a sandwich. 

As ravenous as Paul was, he found he couldn't bring himself to take a bite until he asked, "Is John all right?" 

Sylvie was pouring hot water into a teapot, but Paul could still see a flash of annoyance in her eyes. "He declared his love for you and you ran away. So, Sheyn eyngel, here is the answer to your question. He is as exactly as 'all right' as you are." 

Paul reflected on that statement. He was out of breath, starving, soaked to the skin, and - again, to his surprise and mortification - in tears. 

So, not all right. 

"He was out of his mind with worry, your John," Sylvie declared. "He was terrified that something happened to you. Think about how much he must love you, Paul." 

Of all the things he could have said next, "But I'm not queer," was the least helpful. He then heaped coal on the fire by adding, "I have a girlfriend." 

Sylvie shook her head. "I have a teapot, but that doesn't mean I don't also like coffee." 

"It's not the same thing!" Paul's offended tone was marred by a sudden coughing fit. 

Sylvie took the untouched sandwich and replaced it with a mug of hot tea. Paul recoiled involuntarily at the touch of her scarred hands on his unmarred ones, then he blushed furiously as fresh, embarrassed tears rolled down his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he began. 

"Let me tell you how it happened," Sylvie said, cutting him off. She pulled a chair in front of his and leaned toward him. "I was born in Prague. My name was Sarah, then. We were moved into the Jewish ghetto when I was young, but I was given permission to take piano lessons in the main part of the city. When I was nineteen, my parents sent me here, to Paris, to continue my studies. I met a young pianist named Sebastian, and we fell in love." 

Paul opened his mouth to mention that he, also, was nineteen, but managed to stop himself. 

"In the summer of 1941 we went back to Prague to see my parents. We were...taken. We were rounded up and sent to Terezín. The Germans called it Theresienstadt." 

Paul cocked his head. "I've never heard of it." 

"Most people did not. It was a 'model' camp, a place the Germans showed the Red Cross to pretend that they had taken such good care of us. They brought in the people who had most recently been free, those of us still in good health. 'Look at the schools, the baths, the square in the center of the town,' they said, but it was all a...a false thing, how do you call it?" 

"Façade?"

"Yes. I was part of that façade because I had just arrived when an 'inspection' was due to take place. They told me to play the piano as background music. I did, and I was singing in French, but what I was singing to the Red Cross was that my boyfriend wasn't Jewish and shouldn't be held here. One of the SS officers understood French."

"Did they release Sebastian?" Paul asked, already afraid of the answer. 

Sylvie turned away, her unfocused gaze facing the stove. "Later that night, the guards came for me. They took me to a cell in the back of the camp and they told me they knew what I'd done. Then they said they would let Sebastian go if I gave them something in return." She held up her left hand. "They gave me the choice - a finger on the left hand, or a finger on the right. I chose left thinking I could still play if they let my right hand alone."

Paul was queasy and knew his face must be as white as the tiles on the floor, but he forced himself to look at Sylvia as she continued.

"They took a round tool and snapped my finger off. It bled - oh, how it bled, and I tried not to scream because I knew it was worth it to keep Sebastian alive. The man who cut it off sewed up the stump and I thought, well, at least it is all over." She paused and held up her right hand. "Then he took the other finger as well."

"Why?" Paul asked, his mouth dry.

Sylvie shrugged. "Because they wanted to? Because they were showing me that there were really no choices in that place?" She put her hands at her sides. "I lost my music that night, and I thought it was the worst thing that could possibly happen to me. But I was wrong, so, so wrong." She took a deep breath. "They kept me in the cell overnight, no food or water, only checking on me once to make sure I hadn't bled to death. Then in the morning they took me through the yard. And they were lying there - my mother and father, my sister, and Sebastian. All shot through the head, their bodies left out for me to see. And on top of them, the bloody stumps of my poor fingers." 

Paul dropped the mug of tea to the floor, hot liquid splashing against his cold, damp ankles. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. He heard Sylvie get up and felt her arm go around him. 

"But I survived, darling boy," she soothed. "I survived."

"How...how do you do it?" Paul lifted his face, his eyes aching with the red-hot tears he had been shedding. "How can you stand having the piano in here, when it's a reminder of everything you lost?" 

Sylvie beckoned him into the dining room of the cafe and motioned him to sit on the piano bench. She put a piece of music in front of him, something by Rachmaninoff, but Paul shook his head. "I can't read it," he stammered, shamefaced. 

"Never mind. Just play from your heart."

Paul played a fragment of melody that had been haunting him for a while, then added chords. Every time his index fingers pressed a key, he felt a stab of sorrow run through him that only John would understand. Losing John would be like losing music, like losing the part of himself that created the music. 

"It would only be inside of me," he murmured as he ended with a soft cadence. "I'd need other people to make the music for me."

"And that's why I keep the piano," Sylvie said gently. She lifted an eyebrow at Paul and smiled. "I came back to Paris and gave myself a new name, a new life. Paris is a wonderful place to discover yourself, no?" 

Paul nodded. He stood up, his wet boots squelching on the floor, and hugged Sylvie. She patted his head, squeezed his shoulders, then playfully pushed him away. "It's stopped raining. I'll pack up some food for you to take back to the hotel." With a fond glance, she stroked the keyboard. "I think it was waiting for you. Just like John is." 

Stunned, his mind whirling, Paul watched Sylvie load up a paper sack with a dozen different pastries. She handed it to him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his temple. 

"Remember - the only thing that matters, is love." 

Wet as he was, he flung his arms around her and kissed her cheek. He stooped over to give Debussy a farewell pat, then he took off in what he hoped was the direction of the hotel. 

A few wrong turns later, Paul found himself at the front door of the hotel. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, terrified that he might be too late.  And, for the first time in years, he was praying. 

Please, don't let him be gone. I don't know what I'd do. Please.

He flung open the door and saw John lying in the bed, sound asleep, with two empty wine bottles perched precariously on Paul's upended suitcase. 

Paul dropped the bag on the windowsill and fumbled in the cupboard until he found his camera. He removed the lenscap, acutely aware of his index fingers as they moved, and focused on John's peaceful face. 

No matter what happened next, he was going to be able to keep this moment. 

The sound of the shutter wakened John. He blinked nearsightedly. "Paul?" he asked, his voice as tentative as Paul had ever heard it. 

"Yeah. It's me." Paul climbed on the bed and dug under the covers to find John's hands, John's precious, beautiful hands, and he held them tightly.

They stared dumbly at one another until Paul gathered his courage to speak.

"Johnny, we need to settle this."

***

[silvokrent]

Gears in Motion - 1

The seed of an idea is planted.

Part I: The Present

There was a jaunty bounce in his steps as Bluestreak walked down the hall. Upbeat rock music trailed from his speakers, encircling him in his own little bubble of sound. Apart from the electric guitar solo drifting from the gunner the halls were quiet.

The abnormal stillness was courtesy of the recent battle early that morning. Just as the sun crested the horizon an alert had come in from some important politician (Bluestreak couldn't remember his name) of a raid on the North Anna Power Plant in Virginia. Autobots had been dispatched, and by late noon the group had returned aboard Skyfire, thoroughly exhausted but still largely unharmed. Gears and Windcharger were both in the medbay, one for burn damage and the other for shrapnel in his upper torso. Blaster and his cassettes were also holed up there, keeping a close vigil on Ramhorn while one of the rhino's legs was being rebuilt.

With everyone else either on duty or in their quarters resting, Bluestreak found little else to do as he strolled through the halls. At least the quiet gave him the chance to catch up on a demo that Jazz had lent him.

So immersed was the gunner in his music that he was caught by surprise when he rounded a corner and found himself near one of the officer-only conference rooms. By the looks of it, a post-battle meeting had just ended, if the sliding-open doors and mass exodus of mechs were anything to go by. Optimus Prime exited first, Ironhide by his side as the two engaged each other in deep discussion. Jazz sprinted out and jogged after the two much bigger 'bots, doubling his pace to catch up as they turned down the corridor.

At a much more sedate pace emerged Ratchet, with Prowl in tow. Without noticing him they continued down the hall in the opposite direction.

At the sight of the Second-in-Command Bluestreak felt his spark do a happy little jig. It always pleased him to see his mentor return safe and sound, especially from a battle where Bluestreak himself hadn't been present. Suddenly eager to catch up, he hastily muted his speakers and trotted down the hall. Four meters away he'd neared enough to catch the tail-end of their conversation:

"…will have the post-op report on your desk tomorrow," Ratchet was saying. The medic sounded cranky, and he sure as the Pit looked it.

"Another datapad to add to the growing collection," sighed Prowl. At the odd inflection in his tone Bluestreak stilled, refraining from calling out and making his presence known. "Joy."

The medic tipped his helm to the side, enough to capture Prowl in his legendary periphery vision. "And here I thought you'd be throwing enough confetti to shame Mardi Gras."

The Praxian's spinal struts seemed to sink a little―a small gesture that few would have normally picked up on, but Bluestreak, so attuned to his mentor's mannerisms, recognized it for what it was. Exhaustion. "Enjoying one's job is one thing," Prowl explained in a voice that aimed for impassive, and fell a little short. "Unnecessary surplus work, however, is another matter entirely."

"So get someone else to do it for a change," Ratchet scoffed, in his usual blunt way. Sympathy for stupidity and the blatantly obvious was something he had yet to perfect, and probably never would. "Otherwise quit bitching about it."

A sharp look was cast on the medic, quickly morphing back into a look of immense self-control. "The only other mechs who can act as substitutes in my stead are Smokescreen, and Prime. As you are well aware, Smokescreen is still off-base in Vegas"―his tone made his opinion of his brother's choice abundantly clear―"doing 'reconnaissance' on alleged Decepticon activity. And Optimus already has his hands full dealing with the Attorney General. It would be unfair of me to impose."

Despite being able to only see the CMO's backside, Bluestreak had a shrewd suspicion that he was rolling his optics. "Then save it for when he gets back."

"Unfortunately, the paperwork needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later." 

"It's not anything new," Ratchet reasoned with a light shrug of his broad shoulders. "I mean, it's not like it's high clearance slag. You just need a signature saying that the contents have been peer-reviewed, right?"

"Among other things," the tactician muttered.

To Bluestreak's faint amusement Ratchet moved to rib the black-and-white in the side. "Look at it this way," said the medic, the nonchalance in his tone causing Prowl's doorwings to flick in undisguised annoyance. "It could be worse."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say.

"Oh yes. Because Ultimate Minibot makes everything so much better," Prowl shot right back.

That garnered a true bit of sympathy from the medic. There was the briefest clenching of hands, as if Ratchet were entertaining the thought of a pair of necks choking in his grasp. Probably red and yellow, if Bluestreak knew any better. Which he did.

"Those little glitches are playing that game again?" Ratchet asked, his voice as smooth as a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

"If my sources are accurate, then yes, tomorrow," Prowl confirmed, in an ominous undertone. "As if my schedule weren't tedious enough without having to take the time out my day to issue disciplinary actions."

A sigh eased out of the medic's vents. "At least two of the usual victims are safe in the medbay."

Leaving just Cliffjumper, Huffer, and Brawn, Bluestreak wordlessly supplied. He himself had been invited several times by the twins and Aerialbots to join in on the "fun," yet always declined. Friends or not, the sniper never felt entirely comfortable with the game, even if he privately felt that Cliffjumper deserved being taken down a peg every now and then.

They were nearing a fork in the hall, where the barracks and medbay lay in their respective directions. Still largely unnoticed by the pair, Bluestreak let himself fall back several steps, still within hearing distance without drawing attention to himself. It wasn't really eavesdropping. “Not technically, anyway,” he’d heard Sideswipe say on more than one occasion.

Medic and tactician paused to exchange parting words.

"If you catch any of the little fraggers, make sure to send them my way." The promise of unholy wrath glittered like chips of ice in the medic's optics. Ratchet drew up his chin a fraction, the threat of dire retribution not lost in his posture. "I'll make sure to sort 'em out. They'll be right as rain by the time I'm done."

"If there is anything left of them once I've caught them," Prowl vowed, expression unnaturally vexed. He gave a deep, calming breath, and the ageless tranquility Bluestreak associated with his mentor returned once more. "I will be retiring to my quarters for the evening. Should you require me for anything…"

Ratchet offered a wry smirk. "I'll know where to find you. Good night, Prowl."

The SIC dipped his head. "Good night, Ratchet."

With that said and done, the two 'bots turned and left.

His good mood feeling suddenly unsettled by what he'd overheard, the gunner backtracked in the direction of the rec room. If Prowl was tired enough to retreat to his room, then Bluestreak knew better than to disturb him.

The depressing turn his thoughts had taken was interrupted by the sounds of playful bickering and good-natured laughter. Intrigued, Bluestreak quickened his pace.

Spike, Carly, and Bumblebee were huddled in the center of the rec room. There were several rolls of colorful duct tape around the humans' arms like gaudy bangles. A dozen empty tubes of wrapping paper were strewn about the space at their feet, with another tube in the yellow minibot's hands. He was attempting to, and struggling with, wrapping the sheet over a massive brown box that easily came up to Carly's shoulders. All three of them were adorned in Scotch tape and pieces of discarded paper, and there was a vaguely handprint-shaped glitter patch on Bumblebee's aft.

"You've got to cut it first, 'Bee," Spike was saying to the scout. "If the sheet's not the right size, then it won't sit right or fold correctly."

"I've never wrapped a present before," protested Bumblebee as he tried, and failed, to redo the crease. He stuck his glossa out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. "And the scissors are too big for me to use."

"Maybe we should use a chainsaw," Carly joked, her attention half on the strips of tape she was storing on her left arm for later use. "That should be big enough. And it'll certainly cut through the paper."

"And the box, and the gifts in the box, and maybe our arms, too," Spike snorted. "Besides, we already wrapped the chainsaw. Do you have any idea how long it'll take us to rewrap it?"

The little spy lifted his head, about to reply, only to catch sight of Bluestreak lingering in the entranceway. "Hey, Blue!" he called cheerfully. Carly and Spike turned, and waved the gunner over when they spotted him. Bluestreak strode over, his optics riveted to the half-wrapped carton.

"What are you guys doing up so late? I mean, I know your curfew isn't for another hour so you don't have to drive home just yet, but it's awfully late by human standards, and I know Sparkplug doesn't like it when you're on the roads after dark." He tipped his head to the side. "What's with all the paper and tape? And why do you need a chainsaw?"

It spoke volumes of the kids' familiarity with the Autobots that they could sift through the ceaseless jabber with barely a bat of their eyes. "Dad's still at work. He's pulling a late shift, so I can stay out a bit longer," Spike answered. "And the chainsaw's not for us―it's for Dad."

"For Father's Day," Carly explained, when the sniper merely stared in bemusement. "We got him a new toolkit, too."

"And a fishing rod, since he loves going out to Bull Run Lake," Spike added. He had resumed trying to flatten the stubborn wrapping paper against the surface of the box. He was rewarded with a noise of exasperation when the paper merely sprung back up like a belligerent weed.

"And I'm helping them, since the box is so big." Giddy excitement lit up Bumblebee's optics. He looked beside himself to have been included in this obviously important human tradition.

"But if you're only wrapping a few things, then why do you need a five foot high box? Couldn't you just individually wrap them all?"

At that, the boy gave a rueful laugh. "Well, it's sort of a joke." He scratched his hair. "You see, we sort of wrapped his gifts in one box, and then put that box in another box…"

"Like nesting dolls," Carly said. "Only without the creepy faces painted on them."

"I don’t know if we can call the wrapping paper a trade-off anymore, though." For emphasis Bumblebee flailed his arms, showing off the scraps of paper that had inevitably found their way across his frame.

There was a soft thump as Bluestreak settled in to watch. "I know I’ve heard it before but could you remind me what Father's Day is again?'" Despite having lived on Earth for years he was still encountering new aspects of human culture. He supposed, he consoled himself, that it made sense he didn't remember this one. Christmas overshadowed just about every festivity, with Halloween, Fourth of July, and (oddly enough) Valentine's Day making close runner-ups. The rest of the holidays out there were either too religious in nature or just downright bizarre for most of the Autobots to concern themselves with.

At that Spike tapped his chin. "Well," he began, clearly trying to put it in a way that would make sense to a species that didn't have biological progenitors, "in most societies family is a pretty important concept. If it weren't for our parents, we wouldn't be here right now. Someone had to raise you, even if they weren't necessarily the people that helped make you. Everyone has a mom and a dad, or two moms or two dads. Or any combination of parents, really." He shrugged. "But anyway, we owe it to our parents for taking care of us as kids. Or just my dad, in this case," Spike noted. A shadow of some darker emotion briefly crossed his face.

"And since my dad is dead, Spike's letting me share his," Carly added. She gave her friend a playful swat on the shoulder, snapping Spike out of whatever fog he’d settled into.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Basically, Father's Day is for celebrating dads and doing nice stuff for them, as a way of saying thanks for everything they do for you."

The gunner gave an absent nod, his optics distant as he thought. "And it's tomorrow?"

"Yup.” Bumblebee jumped into the conversation. "That's why we're trying to get this done as fast as we can.” He regarded Spike and Carly with bright optics. “You’ll let me be there when he opens this, right? I am helping with the wrapping, so surely that means I get to watch too.”

Spike shrugged again. “He’s already got a semi-adopted daughter. I don’t see why he’d object to having a giant alien robot for a foster son.”

Bumblebee snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

“Too late,” Carly said.

With a flex of his doorwings Bluestreak hauled himself to his feet. “I just remembered I really need to go take care of something important, so I'll just leave you guys to your wrapping so you can get it done in time." He hesitated, then bent down and picked up a roll. "Can I borrow this?"

"Sure," Spike said. "I think we're almost done, anyway."

Bumblebee huffed as the wrapping paper once again defied him, getting further crinkled in the process. "Not at this rate, we're not."

"That’s the spirit, ’Bee.”

Unbeknownst to the laughing trio, Bluestreak had quit the room. As the gray mech hurried toward the command deck a single image kept popping up in his processor, of black-and-white armor and a resigned expression. Without slowing his pace he strode directly past his quarters, ignoring his own comment about the late hour.

He had a lot of work to do.

[hellsangelsheavensrejects]

The Purgatory Files: All Roads Lead to Purgatory, Chapter 2

"This is like sitting in a shooting gallery," Harry hissed. "We need to get out of the truck." He shook out his shield bracelet from his sleeve. "Listen, I know you don't know me and this probably won't make a lick of sense to you, but I can deflect the bullets long enough for us to find cover. I'm gonna open this door in a minute--" he indicated the passenger door-- "and you and I are going to climb out of here together, sticking as close to each other as possible, and make for that old barn over there. Okay?"

"I had been pretty shot-free up until you showed up. Mostly," she huffed, clearly annoyed by his display of chivalry. His other suggestion seemed to be met with a bit more concession. "Okay. Do it."

Then she did a double-take, as though his claim to be able to deflect bullets had only just registered. "Wait. How are you going to deflect the bullets?!"

One corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "Magic."

He opened the passenger side door and ducked as another bullet pinged off the metal. Being shot at is a terrifying ordeal, no matter the circumstances, but now he was able to judge more or less the direction the bullets were coming from-- assuming there was only one shooter, which was a broad assumption. Closing his eyes, he focused his power into the bracelet, extended his arm towards the door, and growled, "Riflettum!" A barrier, invisible to the naked eye but apparent by the way the raindrops glanced off its surface, sprang up a few inches past his hand, just outside the truck.

"Okay," he told Wynonna. "Pay attention, 'cause here's where it gets interesting. Keep behind me as we get out of the truck. I can only hold the shield over a limited space, mostly just in front of us, so we're going to keep that shield between us and the shooter until we get to the barn."

Technically, they could have used Wynonna's truck as limited shelter, ducking beside it like in one of those cops-and-robbers movies, but the heavy rain, which was already starting to create a rush of water over the pavement, would hamper his magic to a degree that he wasn't willing to risk it. Also, he wanted to get them out of the line of sight, and old barns could have all sorts of useful things to commandeer as weapons or traps. He could, hopefully, keep a shield up long enough for them to get to shelter and make a plan of action.

He didn't wait for her reply, but stepped out of the truck, moving forward with his shield up, and was instantly greeted by another bullet. There was a surge of heat against the barrier as the bullet bounced off and ricocheted into a nearby tree. "Keep close!" he tossed over his shoulder.

"Magic," Wynonna repeated as the rain seemingly intensified. "Sure. Why not?" She took a deep breath then laughed almost breathlessly. "Cause things were so boring before."

She followed Harry's lead, staying as near to him as she was able to given the circumstances, squinting some as she attempted to take in their surroundings. Harry found himself ducking his head to try to keep the rain out of his eyes, peering through the  silvery curtain. It was damn near a rerun of the Biblical Flood, and it made it next to impossible to see anything.

"Shit," Wynonna muttered. "I wish I could see."

"That makes two of us."

Harry backed himself up in the general direction of where he had seen the barn, keeping his shield up to cover them as they progressed. The rain wasn't helping with that either; all that water accumulating on the ground and falling over them was making the shield flicker and shimmer, spitting blue sparks. It was all he could do to keep it up. Mud slurped at his boots as his foot sank into a deep puddle, and he nearly tripped, his shield wavering and nearly blinking out as he cursed under his breath.

He squinted through the opaque sheet of the downpour, trying to spot evidence of their attackers-- movement, reflections, steam rising from hot rifle barrels, anything. The world was a silvery blur. He couldn't see a damn blessed thing.

Wynonna quickly came to press her back against Harry's. "Tell me we're getting close!" she shouted out to him.

He cast an incredulous look over his shoulder at her exclamation, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. "You're the one facing the barn! You tell me!"

A bullet bounced off the shield again, on the far left edge, nearly off it altogether, and he whipped his arm out to more thoroughly cover the area. Barely a second later, there was a thunderous crack and another bullet reached them, this time from the right side.

It hit Harry's coat, and it was like getting punched in the ribs by Thor. He cried out and nearly fell, but the spells he'd worked into the leather held true, protecting him from what should have been a serious injury. "Christ," he snarled, managing to regain his feet. "We've got at least two shooters on our asses."

He heard Wynonna exhale in a rush, probably thinking that he'd gotten hit. When he didn't collapse to the ground, she heaved a relieved sigh. "Because one just isn't enough?"

"Hey, here's a nifty idea. Let's move faster!"

He heard her muttering under her breath that if whoever was shooting at them didn't kill the guy first, she would probably end up doing it herself, paperwork be damned.

"So nice to know you've got my back," Harry mumbled, but she must not have heard it over the downpour.

Crack. Another bullet ricocheted off Harry's shield.

"How many bullets does that gun hold?!" Wynonna exclaimed. He could feel her floundering and slipping, struggling to keep herself upright in the slurpy, squishy mud.

"Too damn many." The words came out sounding far more breathless than he would have liked. His shield was flickering more and more, weakened by the water rushing all around them and his own growing fatigue. They needed to get to shelter before it winked out altogether.

They stumbled a few steps closer-- he hoped-- to the barn, back to back, struggling to stay upright in the muck and rising wind. He could be sitting by the fire back home right now with a good book, his dog at his feet and his cat curled up on the fireplace mantel, but no, he had to get himself dumped in the middle of Shitshow Central with his memory wiped and get shot at by God knew who.

His boots slid beneath him with a squelch and he nearly went down. Growling with frustration, Wynonna grabbed his duster and began dragging them both towards the barn. He spun his heels in the slippery mud and stumbled along with her, twisting his upper body back to hold up the shield. He glanced ahead quickly enough to see the barn looming ahead close by, an ominous shadow in the rain. The wind caught his coat and blew it back, and he scarcely noticed that his front, with all its very important organs essential to the continuation of human existence, was exposed.

That was how he got hit. He felt the round strike just beneath the left side of his rib cage, and he spun with the impact. His feet flew out from under him and he crashed to the ground.

Wynonna groaned and turned to look at him. He floundered for a few seconds, trying to get his feet under himself as he clutched at the injury. His legs felt like rubber; he decided he must be running on empty with the magic. The fatigue had caught up with him a bit faster than usual, but then, who knew what had happened to him in the recent past? He was probably lucky he could do magic at all right then, considering the state he had been in when he'd woken in the middle of the road less than an hour ago. "It's okay," he assured Wynonna. "Coat's shielded. I..." He glanced down at his hand and saw the rain washing away the blood.

"Oh, crap," he said.

Wynonna's exasperated expression darkened to sudden unease that was quickly heading into a slow but steady panic. "Shit!" She grabbed him by an arm and the collar of his coat and began hauling him the rest of the way. He grimaced and clenched his jaw at the fiery stab of pain that accompanied the sudden movement and tried to help her by pushing along as much weight as he could, but the way he was floundering he probably just made it harder for her. The door to the old, weather worn barn was just steps away. All they had to do was get inside. They wouldn't be completely out of the proverbial woods yet. But...at least they'd be out of the goddamn rain.

"SHIT!" She repeated the word under her breath as she kicked the barn door open and dragged him inside. "Come on. You're okay."

Harry bit back a groan and cursed as Wynonna pulled him into the barn. The wound burned molten-hot beneath his ribs. "Ngh. This is really not my day."

Struggling to sit up enough to shrug awkwardly out of his coat, he pulled his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans, lifting it so he could look at the bullet wound. It gushed blood in a pulsing stream that ran down his abdomen and soaked the denim, and he fell back to the floor and cursed again. His arms felt like rubber, and his hands shook as he started unbuttoning his shirt. He needed to pack the wound before it bled out-- and then, hopefully, find a way to take down the assholes coming after them.

The sound of gunfire had momentarily ceased, which probably meant the bad guys were coming for a little one-on-one.

Wynonna stared at the way he was bleeding for a moment before she smacked his hands away to, more effectively, simply tear his shirt. Within seconds she had the fabric pressed against his stomach. "Really making it so I have to fill out paperwork," she muttered. Harry's blood had caked her hands in a slick wash of red.

He pressed a hand against the wadded cloth and packed it down as much as he could, wincing at the molten pain that spiked through him as he did so. "Wynonna," he gasped, holding it in place. "They're coming. Now might be a good time... to put that fancy gun of yours... to use."

With his left hand, he felt around in the folds of his coat until he found his remaining weapon-- his blasting rod. His own revolver had fallen out of his hand outside when he'd been hit. He wasn't sure how much mojo he had left right now, but he sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight.

"Could you just shut the hell up?! Quit talking and--" For a minute, it looked like she was about to smack his stubbornly wandering hand all over again, but instead she helped him wrap it around the blasting rod.

Wynonna didn't jump when the old barn door thumped open. Whoever this woman was, she had one hell of an adamantium backbone.

The sound of rain and thunder returned to the forefront of the world as the man stepped inside. He smiled at the sight before him. "Well looky here. It's my lucky day. The bitch Heir and..." He chuckled darkly. "A new toy. Holliday get tired of you already? A record if ever there was one."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Heir? Heir to what?

He didn't have much time to contemplate that particular puzzle, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give this goon the time to put more bullet holes in the two of them.

Usually, he'd come up with some sort of snappy repertoire in response to the guy's taunts, but he wasn't exactly feeling up to it right then, so instead, he lifted his right hand from where he'd been applying pressure to the wound and discharged one of his kinetic rings right at the man.

The energy hit him like a wrecking ball, and he flew backwards, hit the ground, and continued sliding for several feet until he came to a rest in the churning mud. It would probably break a few ribs, but after getting a bullet lodged beneath his own ribs, he figured it was fair deuce.

"I'm nobody's toy," he growled.

Wynonna's eyes went big. "Holy shitballs," she muttered under her breath as she looked back at Harry.

Before she could launch into the usual eight-hundred-questions routine that always seemed to follow a display of magic like that, the former flying gunman was dragging himself to his knees, groaning. Within moments the grime-covered man was standing once more, and began making his way back to the entrance of the barn, his face twisted with fury.

Wynonna pointed her gun at him and cocked it. An eerie, pulsing hum resounded as a trail of flaming sigils burned to life along the barrel of the gun, lighting to a molten orange at its tip, as if it had been dipped in fire. The man's eyes glowed blood red in a pair of suddenly scalded sockets, and a fiery sigil appeared on the right side of his forhead, a series of three intersecting strokes, two horizontal slashing through near the top and bottom of a vertical. The unmistakable scent of Hellfire filled the air.

"Looks like playtime is over," Wynonna said, then pulled the trigger.

The bullet lodged into his forehead, and around him, like a mouth opening, a flaming pit took shape. The man was dragged down into the pit, struggling and screaming, until he disappeared and the gaping, molten mouth closed again as if it had never been there.

And then there was only the sound of their breathing and the heavy rain. The smell of sulfur lingered in the air.

Harry  stared as the man was dragged into the fiery portal that opened up beneath his feet. "Holy shitballs," he echoed Wynonna, and looked at her. "What the hell was that?"

She laughed, a little breathlessly, "Revenant." There was a pause before she shoved her hand over his wound. "Sent back to Hell where he belongs."

"A Revenant." He grimaced and leaned his head back as Wynonna pressed on his wound again. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he wondered how much blood he'd lost. The expenditure in magic probably wasn't helping him either. "As in someone who returns. From the dead?" He looked at her and remembered the molten pit that opened up when she had fired her weapon. "From Hell."

"That's what Daddy always called them," Wynonna informed him as she stared down at her hand. Which was covered in blood. His blood. Hell's bells, that was a lot of blood.

Another laugh escaped her. "Yes. Hell. It's a...family thing. Look, I really don't want to get into the specifics with you right now--" She pressed down a little harder with her hand while fishing her phone out of the inside of her jacket with the other. "--instead of working on keeping you alive."

"Guy called you an heir," he mumbled. "No, the Heir."

"Also a family thing." She fell silent, apparently less than willing to elaborate.

"Okay." If she wanted to be mysterious and cryptic, it was her prerogative. He knew a thing or two about mysterious and cryptic himself. He frowned at her as he noticed the cell phone in her hand. "That's not gonna work."

Wynonna rolled her eyes. "It's fine. It was inside. Didn't get wet at all--Stop squirming--" Her finger mashed the speed dial for Dolls.

It started to ring and she gave Harry a bordering on smug look, as if to say Ha! It worked! He heard a deep male voice answer, and Wynonna started to rattle off what had happened. About three seconds into the spiel, her phone crackled and winked out completely. "Shit!"

"Like I said," Harry mumbled, wincing. "Kind of... a side effect... of the magic. Electronics and I... don't get along too well."

"Yeah the torrential rain couldn't have anything to do with it either. That didn't help."

And they had another problem-- there was at least one other gunman out there, and he seemed to have learned from the mistake of his partner. Harry supposed he could have turned tail and rabbited when his buddy caught the Infernal Express downward, but he wasn't banking on it. And he was all tapped out. He could barely even lift his hand, let alone channel his magic.

"Listen, Wynonna. Work on keeping yourself alive," he grated through clenched teeth. "We're not out of the woods yet."

The warning had barely left Harry's lips when the back door of the barn screeched as it opened. "Eaa-rrp." Wynonna's surname slipped from the Revenant's lips like it was a song. "Give up now and I promise I won't hurt you too much."

These guys just didn't know when to quit, did they?

“Dude,” Harry said, “you either got mad cajones, or you're just... really, really dense. Did you... miss the part where she has... a magic Hell gun?” Grinding his teeth and pressing back with one elbow, he levered himself into a slightly more upright position, tightening his grip on his blasting rod. He reached deep inside himself, digging for the iron core of will that was always present, building up what remained of his energy reserves. If for some reason Wynonna's revolver didn't do the trick, he would follow up with an inferno of his own.

Wynonna looked at him and huffed, her eyes flashing with a look that clearly said I'm going to throttle this idiot when she saw him trying to sit up. If this bullet didn't kill him, this fiesty, gun-toting dame might just finish the job.

"STOP. MOVING," the aforementioned fiesty, gun-toting dame barked, her voice an exasperated command. She shifted so she could force him to lay back down, one forearm against his chest with the other arm extended out toward the Revenant that thought he had a chance.

Then she turned back to the Revenant with an almost distracted air and aimed the revolver. The gunmetal gray of the barrel once again ignited with that sulfurous orange glow, mirrored in the sigil that appeared on the left side of the Revenant's forehead.

"Not my style." She squeezed the trigger, and the Revenant caught its way down in a rush of sulfur, flames, and screaming.