#god changing god over and over again until the scars are indistinguishable- the past and present blurring altogether

[daisies-on-a-cup]

jesus and thomas moment where hannibal sticks his fingers reverently into will's stomach and head wounds and will encourages him to do so

[maverickcalf]

3, any ship you want!

I woke up in a very trans mood, so we are gonna get some Trans Ethan along with a soulmate au. Some Jack x Ethan, Ethan x Julia But end game Benthan.

TW Internalized Transphobia and Self Harm. Like a good amount of self harm. Please send angst/whump dialogue prompts

3. “Your arm looks…weird.”

Ethan Hunt had always wished for a world without soul marks. Well maybe not always, maybe since he could vocalize that he was his parents’ son and not their daughter. From then on every day he had before he turned 18 was both a blessing and a curse.

Sure, he couldn't transition beyond his parents correcting folks and dressing differently. But at least there wouldn't be a mark burning into his arm, a promise there was someone out there for...was it even for him. Or for a past shadow that never existed?

When he woke up on his 18th birthday with the soul mark on his left forearm. Must mean his soulmate has theirs on their right arm. That's normally what happened, it was like a puzzle piece in that regard. What Ethan hated most about his soul mark was it was actually lovely. A tall plant growing out of a top hat, the trunks intertwining with each other a heart craved into each one. A white butterfly resting on the top.

Ethan had seen so many soul marks that just had people’s names and a heart but this... this was designed by someone in the heavens. And Ethan hated it. That the universe did this for him and didn’t even have the courtesy to give him the body he knew he should be in?

Still his parents were pleased, giving him compliments, saying how beautiful the butterfly was, and they took many pictures of it and then he was off to college, where he was alone, and the hate began to boil.

He was never sure why he decide to first take a knife to it. All he knew is his match would be better off without dealing with all his complexities, without knowing him.

But he went too far, his friend noticed. Sarah noticed after a month, and convinced him that if he really hated it that much he should just cover it and not do something so awful. Really Ethan was just thankful she didn’t report him, he could get suspended for something that drastic, maybe even sent away. Sure he still had to wash it and see it then, but it got better.

Then Ethan met Jack. Now Jack’s soul mark were several electrical wires intertwined to make a heart, his was on his right arm. But Jack was different, he didn’t seem to care about soul marks.

“The way I see it, is a soul mark just shows us who we are most compatible with. Five plus Five may equal ten, but there are many ways to equal ten. The marks are just the most balanced number.”

And it made sense to Ethan, and for the first time in years he felt at peace, he didn’t have to force himself into any box or think about be with someone who expected him to be a certain way. He could just enjoy life. And Life did include Jack, for a time. He even stopped hiding his mark for a few years, he didn’t care that their marks didn’t match. They worked well together, and that’s what mattered.

After he lost everyone, Ethan did relapsed. Thankfully not for long, but it scared him. He covered it up again. He had a few dates and loves after that, but nothing too serious until Julia.

Her mark was a standard heart but instead of in the center had a blood red ruby in the center and the heart was silver not anything in a red tone. Julia was very different than Jack. True, she didn’t care that they didn’t match. The only thing that worried her was the scars the littered his arm. But she loved to study the symbolism of the marks and wished she could have seen it when it was not covered in marks of his self-hatred.

One call to his Uncle later and he acquired his old photos of his mark. He decide to not show Julia any photos where you could see his face or his body, he wasn’t on T or had any sort of surgery, and those parts hurt to see as well.

“I love the butterfly. That’s a male checkered white.”

“Huh? Is it?” Ethan shrugged, “Must mean my match is a guy.”

“Hmm, maybe. But that butterfly is more local to your neck of the woods. I think it is meant to represent you.”

He knew Julia had meant to reassure him, but that made him angry again. Why would his mark label him as male and yet he was born the way he was. It made him hide it again.

Losing Julia to his job was the final straw. He was going to get rid of this thing. Love was pointless, especially for him, having a soul mate was a risk, for him and...whoever matched him. He wasn’t going to take that risk.

When he was done trying to burn it off, it was barely recognizable. Just a vague shape of colors, but the butterfly still was noticeable. But burning it off more in prison wasn’t really a choice. So he just avoided looking at it, hid it again, but now with the reason that no one wanted to see his burn marks, the guards all found it awful to look at it, they gave him a large armband and basically forced him to wear it. Fine by him.

But in all the chaos of the mission after being broken out of jail, he had forgotten to hide not only his marks but his burns. And when he enter the room without it all conversion stopped, all three of their eyes were fixed on his left forearm. Shit.

Benji of course was the first to speak up, “Your arm looks…weird.” Ethan swallowed, he didn’t expect Benji to say it like that, and it hurt more than he thought it would. Benji had always looked up to him but now he could see what sort of man he really was. God, the pained look in his eyes, Ethan couldn’t handle it; he looked away and quickly rolled down his sleeve despite the heat.

“It’s nothing.” He said flatly, trying to indicate through his tone he didn’t want to continue this conversation. 

“Nothing, sure.” Brandt frowned, “Like we are supposed to believe that.”

“Just like we are supposed to you are just an analyst.” Ethan said back sharply. “Who are you Brandt, really?” ---

Despite everything, they made it through. The whole team. But he should've known there would be some changes. They saw, they saw what he did to himself, but none of them spoke to him directly. But they did keep a close eye on him. Good. He didn’t try to do anything again, after all his team was counting on him, knowing they were watching did stop him.

It wasn’t until he was alone with Benji in Vienna did he hear anyone ask about it.

“Ethan, your arm-?” Ethan turned to look at a very nervous Benji, all his confidence from early had seemed to vanish. Still Ethan said nothing, waiting for Benji to say more. “Is that where your mark- was?”

Ethan let out a laugh that was much more bitter in tone than he intended, “It’s still there somewhat, despite everything.”

“Can I see it?” Ethan blinked, he wasn’t expecting that. Still he took off his jacket and rolled up his left sleeve for Benji. He tried to remain relaxed as Benji’s traced his fingers along the outline of the mark, despite the burns making a lot of it indistinguishable. What was something was when Benji rubbed his thumb over where the hearts were on the trunks of the tree, they had been gone for years; How did Benji-?

“Benji?” Ethan asked softly, his heart was racing. Was this really happening?

“I would ask if you miss it but-” Benji bit his lip, “It’s pretty evident you hate it.”

“I just thought...” Ethan swallowed, “I thought my match would be better off, safer without me in their life” Ethan looked into Benji’s eyes, “But...turns out, he is staying...? Right?”

Benji felt his cheeks burn, “How did you know?”

Ethan shrugged, “Just following a hunch.” His face broke out into a smile. After all these years, his friend had been his match the whole time. There were still some hurtles but.. but.. Ethan’s smile faded. There was one major hurtle. Ethan pulled his arm back, rubbing his forearm “B-benji. There is something you... you should know, about me.”

“I know you don’t believe in soulmates, but-” Benji said, Ethan could tell he was trying to hold himself together.

“I am trans. I am a trans man.” Ethan said before he could talk himself out of it. Benji’s eyes widened. “I was always afraid, that, my match would expect someone else. Not Ethan but-”

“I am not expecting anything.” Benji cut him off, “I wouldn’t want you to force yourself into a relationship with me! It’s just a mark on an arm, not legally binding.”

“Do you want to...be in a relationship with me? Even after learning I am trans and how...” He let out a soft chuckle, “How much I hated myself?”

“...Yes. I do.” Benji smiled softly. Ethan smiled back.

There would be time to talk later but for now all they needed was each other. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, Ethan’s thumb gently rubbing the white butterfly on Benji’s arm. His parents were right, it was beautiful.

[arianakristine]

A to Z

I decided to create a little challenge for myself to help my muse and my time constraints, so here is the first part in a drabble collection using an A-Z format with a random word generator.

They are not connected, some are AU, some are very AU, and I hope you enjoy!

Part 1: A to M

*

*

A

Alive

               She never knew what a beautiful word it was before: alive. Alive. Alive. It was like a breath of cold air in a snowstorm, stingingly clean and relieving, shaking her to her core.  

               She pushes past Whale to see for herself, and those cobalt eyes meet hers from across the room.

               She wonders how the word makes her struggle for air, but also makes her need it less.

               He is alive.

               Cracked ribs and sunken eyes, but alive. Scratchy voice and weak grip, but alive.

               “Savior,” he accuses, but playfully.

               She squeezes, and thinks she’ll accept the title for once.

B

Blame

               She shouldn’t blame him.

               Of course she shouldn’t; he didn’t ask for this, no more than she.

               She dreams of dark and damp, leaves and dirt and rot climbing her throat until the pain is real and fresh and she is screaming the last of her fear into her pillow.  

               A worn bit of leather bites into her wrist, and she catches storm-filled eyes across the room in a corner too dark to make out any detail, wonders why she is buried with him.

               She can only blame him for the feeling of being just as gone as he is.

C

Confession

               The first confession is in a low breath, almost soundless.

               She didn’t mean for him to hear it; his eyes are closed and his breaths had been even for several minutes.

               Still, its echo weighs heavily on his tongue, demanding its own declaration to hers. But the penance for hearing it is his silence, he knows, and so he does not shift as she nestles against him, sleeps on.

               He knows she finds love a scary thing, and cannot claim not to be frightened of its depths himself.

               But now that he knows, he can wait, tend, let it grow.

D

Doctor

               He never cared much for doctors. Healers or medics, they were called, back in the old world. He never had the means to hire one back then, and they were humans, anyhow. He wouldn’t have trusted them.

               Here, he just had Whale for scale; he was not one to instill much faith in the profession.

               But when the blond steps out from the operating room, hands clean and smug smile tugged across his face before a sharp nod of a yes, he could kiss him.

               Emma is fragile like he’s never seen, but her eyes are bright.

His mind changes.

E

Estate

               The estate is sprawling, majestic, cold.

               Emma isn’t used to the narrow halls, the winding staircases, the rooms made of stone. It feels hollow, unnatural. The shadows get too thick at night.

               She first sees him on the grounds, far from the echoes of the manor, an illusory image in the fog. He is a ghost to mock and mimic the gothic terrors she grew up with.

               She knows him all at once, as if she always had and always will.

               Their lips first meet where the trees meet the air, and she feels at home for the first time.              

F

Fuel

               It doesn’t take much to ignite.

               The thing between them had always had a spark, waiting for its tinder. They had each desperately hung on to a piece, until he didn’t care anymore to keep his grip.

               Lust, that she was used to. In those cases, the fuel burned out quickly and she could move on.

               She didn’t expect the stores to only grow within her, until the flames were indistinguishable from her own fire.

               She didn’t expect to want it to consume her.

               Instead, it warmed and cast its light like a beacon, until it augmented rather than destroyed.

G

Graze

               Her fingers graze his arm, just touch enough from the callous of her fingertips to catch his attention.

               He looks up, finding the crest in the ocean of her eyes and the worry buried inside them, and doesn’t need the whispered words that utter from her parted lips.

               He captures her wrist loosely, finds the storm that lies behind the concern.

               “Just a scratch,” he barely jokes, a piece of trivia from half a memory.

               The starburst of color under his covered chest bellies that, but he stumbles forward, persists.

               If it means her safety, it is a mere scrape.

H

Hypnotize

               The blood is vividly red as it spiderwebs outwards and across pale skin, hypnotizing.

               She traces the path with her eyes and then her hands, calling upwards to the wound that never quite heals. The heart that pulsates and beats out more of the viscous pain stutters but does not falter, cannot quite meet the looming darkness it wishes to retreat to.

               This game has been played before, will be played again, splayed to define the past in mere trickles of horror.

               It’s all she can do to hold the pieces together, to right them so they may fight again.

I

Ignorance

               Sometimes, he wishes for ignorance.

               Prays to a foreign god that he could be wiped clean of the memory once again, to remove the ache in his brain and heart and soul.

               He wonders if she wishes that, too. There is an effortlessness to ignorance, one they haven’t had since curses broke.

               But in the early morning, the strands of gold fall across his skin and they drink in each other’s warmth, feeling that truth acutely but managing to heal each other from it through touch.  

He supposes the price is worth the reward, finds that love trumps the pain.

J

Jump

               She is at the edge, crumbling stone and crashing waves waiting for her with just a step.

               He is at her back, and her fingers have flung back to catch his shirtfront in her grip.

               She could jump. It wouldn’t be an effort. She could let go, and the past would be behind her.

               She can’t loosen her hold, though, and instead falls back into him, waiting for him to catch her. He disappears into the mist just as quickly as she leaps into him, and she wakes gasping and drenched in her bed.

               She knows then it was love.

K

Kid

               “Kid.”

               They are grinning at each other, mother and son, and the term of endearment slips from her as easily as any. They seem mirror images, matching eyes and grins, and his heart never felt so full.

               It’s just a start, and he can only watch from the shadows of the in-between, but it is at least a start.

               Maybe once the pieces fall back into place, when the curse is done and the evil defeated, he can find his own corner in which to fit with them.

               But the beginnings of this beautiful relationship can only bring him peace.

L

License

               The license lives in a manila envelope on a plain, unassuming shelf, tucked in between other important files and miscellany. It gathers dust, and is only yanked free on occasions it is called for, but there is no other indication of the piece of paper anywhere else.

               Bodies fit together as one on a faded couch and loose, empty left hands hang from the backs of armrests. A house is filled with children’s voices and laughter, loneliness a distant memory.

               The paper is forgotten, sits stale, even as the passion and the adoration never does.

               Only they know it exists.

M

Map

               He likes to map her out.

               His hands and mouth will trace routes made over and over, finding new trails to discover, places of interest to linger on. Scars become stories, ones to press into some guidebook he builds in his mind.

               She knows the difference from his touch and his patience, the seduction versus the exploration even when the two might meet from time to time.

               He knows before her any time her body changes through the years, but she feels the worship of it before she can be self-conscious.

               She hopes her maps make him feel the same.

[carbuncle101]

The embodiment of passion Chapter #1

In the end all he could mutter is a simple “oh”, after getting stabbed in the back and chest. His expression had been purely uttered in surprise and relief. Despite the two girls not  knowing that last part, he hopes it stays that way forever. He couldn’t place this burden upon her, not after all the things he had done, even if none has been really his fault.

He gets ripped violently away from his thoughts, as the pain abruptly intensifies once Yang and Blake tore the blades from his body and blood began to gush freely from his wounds. He immediately knows what he must do, he had been hoping this fight would end with his death since the beginning, there was no other possible outcome for him, this one considering his options is the best for him. 

Adam Taurus slowly and struggling to not collapse face down into the dirt, walks until he reaches the edge of the cliff, a raging river roars below the place where Yang had tossed Wilt moments before he got stabbed. He falls to his knees unable to take another step and looks up into the sky barely able to focus his fading sight. He regrets all his sins. 

Betraying the Belladonna family, the White Fang, murdering Sienna, cutting Yang’s arm, the attack on Beacon, and how much he had harmed Blake which he will never forgive himself for. He loves her so much, but that damn witch had used him as a weapon against his will and made him hurt her in the worst possible ways. He hates himself for being so weak and not being able to break free.

Not wanting to waste any more time nor to risk it by Blake and Yang having a change of heart and come running to tend his wounds, he allows himself to fall forward and into the river that looks like a bottomless abyss in which he deserves to fall and be swallowed for all eternity. 

As he falls, he ends up looking upwards for a moment and his unfocused eye could make the shape of his precious Blake getting farther and more indistinguishable, a sudden hit on his back against the rocks blasts the little air he could get into his lungs, one of them is badly punctured and filling fast with blood. 

And then he meets the cruelly cold raging waters, immediately the currents pull him all over the place, sometimes smacking him hard against large rocks or pieces of wood that cut his frigid skin. 

He could feel his body wanting to fight this and make it to the surface to survive, but he resists knowing it’s the pull of that witch, to make him go to her side once more. To make him into a weapon once more and use him to eliminate all those that dared to oppose her. 

Not wanting to suffer that same fate he breathes in letting water fill his current minimal lung capacity, but gods it burns his insides so bad, he barely can resist the urge to scream. He just wishes that his agony ends quickly but knows he doesn’t deserve even that. 

However it seems that life might  grant him that wissh, the last thing he sees is a large shadow making his way towards him and the only thing he can think of is a Grimm coming to have him for lunch.

Adam doesn’t realize that someone takes him out of the waters and fights the current to take him into the shore. 

That someone is a man that stands over seven feet tall, with mismatched eyes due to heterochromia, the top of his iris is green while the bottom is blue, the right side of his hair is black and the left side white. He has wolf ears atop his head that are a contrast to his hair being the contrary color on that side, despite that he isn’t a faunus, he possesses other characteristics that no faunus would have. Two wolf tails that followed the pattern of his hair, and long sharp with claws instead of normal nails. But what is more bizarre about him is his teeth. Two rows of them each row contains a double set of fangs, sixteen in total. His face and arms contain several scars of different sizes.

Carefully he carries Adam into the shore and sets him down, Wilt is nearby, impaled on the sandy shore. He had spotted the sword going down river and stopped his journey to retrieve it, he waited for a while to see what else the water would carry, when he spotted Adam. Deducing that Adam is the owner of such a rare sword seeing the color of his clothing and a quick inspecting of Blush, he could see that the rifle served as a sheath for the sword. A sword possessing such reddish colored metal isn’t a common sight.

A quick assessment of the body in front of him gave him a list of several of the issues that would prove a challenge. He knew that his heart wasn't beating without checking for a pulse, his acute hearing detected no sound, nor the sound that lungs made when the inhaled and exhaled air, what’s more the man’s chest looked somewhat inflated… he had purposely breathed in water…. 

This makes him wonder why he wanted to die so badly. He looks down at Adam, who doesn’t look to be older than 25-26, of course it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he had a rough life, the huge SDC branding over his left eye is a testament to that. He knows who the faunus in front of him is, the famed terrorist called Adam Taurus, the faunus had a reputation that had been heard through Remnant. 

A moral dilemma presents itself, either try to save the life of the one that seemed to want to die, one that had caused so many deaths and misery or simply let him pass on and bury him somewhere where he wouldn’t be disturbed. The more he looked at Adam’s face, the more he was leaning to not let him to die, he wasn’t sure why, but something told him that to let him die would be simply wrong. And he trusted his instincts.

He tackles the most important matter at hand taking the other’s jacket off using the zipper at the front, pulling it down it reveals very pale skin underneath that’s freezing to the touch and several scars but most importantly the two stab wounds that had slowed down bleeding due to the cold water. 

With a sharp claw he reaches the side of his chest that contains the lung that had been punctured and slides it between the man’s ribs with the precision of a surgeon, not soon after a gush of blood and water gets expelled, the pressure contained in the lung easing away. 

Focussing next on the other lung filled with water and giving CPR to  Adam. It takes him a couple of minutes and attempts, but he manages to bring him back to life. Thought slowly and weak, but the beating of his heart is there and that’s what matters.

Second matter to address is the proper care and dressing of the wounds, to not allow infection to develop and allow them to recover. He digs through his medical supplies looking for bandages, disinfectant and some thread and a needle. He also starts a fire and begins to boil some water as he accommodates Adam to lie on his side, to apply pressure on both his chest and back to control the bleeding. 

Once the water is boiling intensely, he lets it cool down a bit before he begins cleaning the wounds, careful to not cause the bleeding to go out of control. After that he applies a disinfectant that is used for deep injuries before he begins sewing the wounds, this earned him a moan of pain from Adam, but he doesn’t wake up. 

He continues to work as fast and carefully as he can, he is no doctor, but he has plenty of knowledge on how to treat injuries, many times having to be his own doctor. When he is done with the last stitch, he applies another ointment over the stitched injuries.

Satisfied with his work, he strips Adam of his remaining clothes and quickly covers him with a blanket over his more sensitive parts, the man wasn’t conscious or anything but nonetheless he deserves to keep some dignity. 

He keeps looking for wounds and broken bones, his left leg had been twisted luckily no broken bones there, he treats the cuts that he finds on his legs finding more old scars there. Going back to Adam’s torso he sees the many whip marks that adorn his back not unlike his own back, a crisscross of mismatched etched lines. He shakes his head to not let his thoughts wander into more dark places he doesn’t want to be right now and focus back into his work. 

He feels Adam’s chest again finding broken ribs, but there is nothing he could do there, at least none of them is puncturing any of organs, that would have been a pretty difficult situation. 

And that’s when a barely perceptive detail manages to catch his eye, the work had been done with such care and precision that any normal person would have passed it as something completely normal. What gave it more away is that from that area from his body no blood was coming from the deep cuts and now that he looked more carefully and paying more attention to detail, he could see it. The part where his right shoulder joint connected to his arm, just a bit below it, the skin is a slightly different color and that’s when he knows that Adam’s right arm is not a normal arm. 

Leaving the arm alone he checks once more that every wound had been properly taken care off, before he wraps Adam in some blankets to keep him warm, gently he allows his tails to rest over him providing more warmth as he places Adam’s torn clothing near the fire to dry, he grabs Blush (a rifle) and Wilt (a Chokuto) to inspect the weapons better for any damage. He takes the chance to rest for a bit, he needs a break before hitting the road again and making sure that Adam gets stable enough to start making his way back home. 

His thoughts in the meantime take him to think of the torture and the agony the man besides him had gone through. His actions and ways make more sense knowing that he had seen the evidence embedded in his body and made his thoughts wander to his own terrible past experiences and the course of his life, his past, his present and the future. He can finally understand why he felt this urge to save the life of the terrorist… looking at him felt like he had been looking at a mirror, making something stir deep inside him.

///// Author notes:

Rwby characters belongs to

Rooster Teeth.

. The story can also be read on fanfiction.net

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13529742/1/The-embodiment-of-passion

*****SPOILERS BELOW FROM THE SHOW*****

My favorite character in RWBY was Adam Taurus, I am not a fan of how his character development ended. Everyone has their opinion and I respect that. Here is my opinion, from a competent leader and mentor figure, he was suddenly turned into an abusive/ obsessive/jealous ex boyfriend and an and incompetent leader. I feel that his potential was wasted tremendously, he could had been used in several ways:

1. He could have had more fights with team rwby, specially Yang and Blake serving as some kind of experience booster for them and then forward in the show they manage to defeat him killing him, being captured or he could have had a redemption like Illia got. If he got a redemption he could later make up for all the crimes he committed turned his life around for good helping others or die as a hero fighting the other bad guys.

2. Explain how he got his brand on his eye and also have some interactions with Weiss and or Winter.

3. I would have loved to see him and Sienna fight for the leadership of the White Fang not simply her getting stabbed and dying.

Before saying it’s not possible to have been handled differently, remember in Volume 3 Ep 7, when his lieutenant offered to pursue Blake on Adam’s behalf, Adam said to him to forget Blake. Also remember in Volume 2 Episode 10 Blake calls Adam her mentor not a lover. All that changed after Monty died and in Volume 3 when Adam begins calling her love. And don’t forget his character short was published in Volume 6.  

Leaving that aside I would like to know what do you think about this first chapter, I have several ideas and might do multiple AU since there are too many for just one

[kindofwriter]

Gruesome sci-fi extract

God knows where

Literally

The child awoke to startling light silhouetting the array of torture equipment that loomed over The Bed. He didn't struggle; he was long past that stage. The first year had been a blur of rage-fuelled, animalistic struggle which had got him nowhere. That's what tended to happen when you were a nine-year-old being restrained by a horde of scientists. People who dressed like scientists. People who he was starting to doubt were scientists.

It had been a while since his last time in The Bed, but the usual feeling of nausea was brought back with stunning force. His organs churned in his torso while a sharp pain assaulted the front of his head. The ability to breath evaded him, he was panting despite keeping perfectly still, but he knew he'd never be allowed anything so merciful as unconsciousness. When his abdomen had been cut open it had been right in front of his eyes, and when he'd fainted from the shock he'd been, ironically, shocked awake again.

He'd never seen another child, but he'd heard their screams.

Somewhere across the room a door opened with a soft swish. The child strained against the strap on his forehead to see who had entered, but it was futile; he only had a view of the ceiling. He was forced to listen as a trolley was dragged over to the bed, its loose wheel squealing with each rotation.

A hand came into view, adjusting the rusted mirror above until it was in his eyeshot. The child caught sight of his own face, pale and frozen in a picture of terror. He started to cry, still and silent. That was the same face that beamed from his kindergarten photographs. The same face that had smirked from behind a Batman on Halloween. The same face he had envisioned going to college, getting married, having a family, but that now never would.

“Hello again.”

The child’s heart clenched before the face even came into view; near enough stopped when it did. The face was covered completely, a mask over the mouth, goggles over the eyes, a cap over the hair, but it was the face of the child’s nightmares. He didn't know if it was a different scientist each time, they were indistinguishable, but he didn't care. He hated every single person in the establishment. Every single person in the world.

“I've got some good news for you,” the voice continued.

It was rare to be spoken to, so the child was forced to hang on the scientist’s every word.

“We’re going to send you home.”

Home. The child’s heart began to hammer and he found himself squirming not with fear, but with uncontainable excitement. He was about to ask when? How? Why? When the voice added, “Not so fast now, settle down. There's one thing we have to do first.”

He didn't care. This man could do whatever he wanted to him, so long as he got to go home afterwards. To see his mamma and papà. To eat food that wasn't served in a plastic tub. To learn from something other than a small chalkboard pushed under his door. Anything that happen from this moment on didn't matter; he was going home.

“Hold still.”

A chill ran down the child’s spine as a needle approached his eye then jabbed into his iris, injecting a cool liquid that blurred his vision, but he took a deep, slow breath. He'd had plenty of needles, his arms were a constellation of needle scars. He could handle one more if it meant he could go home.

The motion was repeated in the other eye without the child even flinching.

For a moment silence rung around the lab and the child thought it was over, he was free, he'd endured the last test. Then a pare of large tweezers, rounded at the ends, were brought into his line of sight. In all his time strapped to The Bed the child had never seen such a benign device.

“Hold still,” the scientist murmured again, as if the child had any other choice.

Then he drove the tweezers into the child’s eye and ripped it from its socket.

-

AN: this was suppose to be the prologue for a WIP but I changed the plot and it’s no longer needed, so you guys can have it! Thanks for reading!

[kingsofchaos]

When they've got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it? They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don't think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn't his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn't his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can't help themselves from asking. Was it worth it?

There's never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there's no escaping the fact that the Fake's all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate's years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they'll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city's biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren't. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they've poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they've already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.

The Fake's die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren't meant to go out at all.   The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew's trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake's wind up in a firefight they aren't winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn't enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey'd fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they'd live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn't even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn't that confirm what everyone's always thought, doesn't that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey's cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.

In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey's answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he's bored. As though even now he's got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.   Oh baby, who says it's over?

It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they've certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn't come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they've been so far. How most don't make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn't be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they'd experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It's not that they're bored of this life they've built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there's no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn't quite thrill them like it used to.

If you'd asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they'd have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they'll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it's harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they've still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake's used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn't quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn't seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they'd all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They're all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren't serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it's not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn't do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone's going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone's corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they've been following all these years. The boss they'd die for. The boss they will die for.

They don't talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake's might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay's spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin's taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don't wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It's all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that's left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they've got left to do is die.

Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?

The Fake's die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey'd never recover from the loss. Any who didn't just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It's not a stretch to assume Ramsey's survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who'd made their lives living hell for years.

There's paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn't been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It's fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake's were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.

The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn't much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who'd been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn't be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn't toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It's almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it's the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city's most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.

If the Fake's had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn't make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they'd built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.

Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn't armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There's a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they're getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.