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wisteriashouse · 4 years

Text

falling (ii).

pairing: rengoku kyoujurou x reader

genre: dark

word count: 6184

remarks: this was so un-fluffy and its probably what i’ve struggled most with writing to date skdfgd as usual, please like, comment or reblog if you like it <3

ii. into your trap

One mistake is all it would take for everything to come crashing down.

That’s what had happened to the man before you, the man whose blood you’d spent hours scrubbing out of the carpet until every bit of crimson had been washed away. Because of a single moment of greed, he’d stolen a coat off a customer who’d ended up as the demon’s next meal - and that very coat had been a dead giveaway to the demon slayer investigating the disappearance of his relative. You wouldn’t be like that, you remind yourself, a tray in your hands as you make your way down the corridors of the brothel. You would never let a moment of emotion cloud your judgement and cause you to slip up. You can’t afford to.

It's all just for survival. That’s the reason why you’re the only one still alive today.

The rest before you have all been devoured.

Shifting your tray to one hand, you take a deep, slow exhale and smile, curving the corners of your mouth up at just the right angle. The mask you’ve perfected over years of deception falls seamlessly into place. You raise your hand to the door.

“Rengoku-san?” You knock, raising your voice to a bright and energetic timbre. “Are you still asleep? May I come in?”

Rengoku Kyoujurou. The man with burning conviction in his eyes. The demon slayer here to destroy the only life you know. The person who you have to kill with your own hands.

The demon you serve isn’t a fool, in fact, far from that - it is more than aware of the power and skill a person would have to possess to earn the title of a Pillar, and it knows that it has no chance of winning in a direct confrontation with him. That’s why the task has been relegated to you. Demon slayers might know breathing techniques that allow their physical prowess to surpass even demons, but that’s the very flaw with their training - that they’ve been taught to battle demons, and only demons.

You, on the other hand, are very much human, with the ability to slip between the gaps in their guard, the chink in their armour - the kindest ones have always the easiest to fool, after all.

Which is why you’re taken by surprise when there’s no answer from within. Wary at the lack of response, you rap your knuckles against the door once again, more urgent this time. Worry gnaws at your insides - what if he’s somehow already discovered the truth of this place, and has decided to flee before you can accomplish your task? The thought of the consequences you’d have to bear turns your stomach, and your knocking turns slightly more urgent. “Rengoku-san? Rengoku-san, are you inside?”

“Is there something you need from me?”

You whirl around in surprise at the voice, heart leaping into your mouth. Behind you, Kyoujurou stands in the hallway, bathed in the early morning light streaming in through the open windows. When your eyes meet his, he smiles at you in greeting, lips curving up naturally in a radiant grin. “It’s a beautiful morning today, so I went for a walk to watch the sunrise!”

“That sounds lovely.” You tell him with a smile of your own, relief seeping into your bones - he’s none the wiser than he was when he first stepped into the brothel, and you intend to keep it that way until you slit his throat. Holding up the tray in your hands, you’re quick to observe the way his eyes fall first on the plate of roasted sweet potatoes cubes - so you were right about the scent you picked up on him when he saved you from falling yesterday. “I was about to bring breakfast up to your room, but I didn’t think you would be awake this early. I’ll get up earlier next time so you can eat before you start your day. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know!”

“There’s no need to force yourself to wake up early for my sake!” Kyoujurou laughs, stepping over to slide open the door to his room for you. “Please, come in!”

The bedding has already been kept away in the oshiire, his few belongings neatly arranged on the low table in the corner of the room. When Kyoujurou moves to clear them so that you can put the tray down, you catch a glimpse of several sheets of paper with scribbles all over them, a stray black feather peeping out from under the corner of the tatami.

Your eyes narrow at the sight. The kasugai crow might turn out to be a problem, almost as bad as having unintended witnesses, but you have plenty of ways to ensure its message never gets back to the demon slayer corps, just as you had done with the previous one.

For now, the crow is the least of your worries - it’s nothing compared to the danger the man before you poses.

Completely oblivious to the thoughts running through your mind, Kyoujurou gestures at the table with a hand. “Feel free to put it down here!”

Your smile is painted back onto your face the very instant he glances at you, as easily as a brush dancing across paper. “Please excuse how simple it is. The potatoes aren’t cut very well, so they might not be evenly cooked.” You say, dropping your voice to a more shy, apologetic tone, just like how the entertainers from last night had tuned their instruments. “It was a little difficult to use a knife, so forgive me for that.”

Your words seem to jolt Kyoujurou into remembering the events from yesterday, and his eyes instantly dart down to inspect your hands as you set the tray down before him. They’re bandaged lightly with white gauze, something that you’d gotten up early to do this morning, and yet even with them on, making the potatoes convincingly uneven had still taken you multiple attempts. “Don’t worry about the potatoes. I’m sure they’ll taste wonderful, if your cooking last night was anything to go by! Do your hands still hurt?” Kyoujurou’s gaze is soft and filled with concern as he looks up at you, and you glance away with an appropriate degree of shyness in response.

“The scalding was a little more severe than I expected, but that was my fault. You don’t have to worry about it!” You reassure him, and as expected, he only gets more concerned when you try to brush off his kindness. “It’s just a minor inconvenience, and the worst that’ll happen is Masako-san’s nagging.” You sigh wistfully, the words murmured softly under your breath. “Ahh… I wish we had more hands in the kitchen here. It would be a lot easier to handle the cooking.”

From the way Kyoujurou’s eyes glance up at you, he’s heard every word you said.

You’ve set your trap.

“Well, I suppose that’s just how it is! It’s totally alright, though, I’ll just make do with what I have!” You smile energetically at the man sitting before you, although from the troubled expression on his face, there’s still more that he wants to say. “What I am sorry about is that you might have to wait for a while to have the meal I promised to make for you. I want to be in a good condition when I cook for you, so that you eat only my best!”

He seems taken aback by your enthusiasm for a moment, before his smile widens. “Take all the time you need!” Kyoujurou says kindly. “I’m sure that I can wait.”

From the way he beams at you, you’re confident that he knows nothing of your true intentions - relieved with how you’ve been doing so far, a silent sigh of relief leaves your mouth. Rising to your feet, you give him a small wave. “Well then, I’ll be going first. You can just leave the dishes here, I’ll come back for them later-”

“Have you eaten?” Kyoujurou asks.

The sudden question takes you by surprise. Preparing the sweet potatoes had taken longer than you’d thought it would, so you had quite forgotten about your own food in your rush to bring Kyoujurou’s food to his room. “Well, no, but I’m sure I can find something in the kitchen-”

“If you are available, then please eat with me!” He gestures opposite him at the table. You clutch the tray tightly in your hands while your mind races. Offering to let you sit with him at the table, to share his meal with you, does he perhaps suspect that you’ve tampered with his food?

Cold sweat prickles at the nape of your neck, but you fight to keep your voice light. “Oh? Did I make too much food for you to finish, Rengoku-san?”

Rengoku Kyoujurou, the man who holds your very life in his hands, only smiles warmly in response to your question.

“Food always tastes better when shared!” He explains to you jovially. There is no sign of any hidden intention or agenda in his gaze, his eyes clear and honest. His smile turns a hint amused as he regards you. “And was it not you who said that breakfast was the most important meal of the day? You should take care of yourself too!”

You take a seat in front of him, glad to have a reason to hide your shaky knees. Calm down, calm down, you repeat to yourself in an attempt to slow your racing heart. He hasn’t noticed a thing. Don’t panic and give yourself away. “I suppose I did,” you say, smiling at the man opposite you as you raise your chopsticks to take some natto for yourself. Kyoujurou grins and immediately reaches for the sweet potatoes, popping them into his mouth. This time, when he begins to exclaim ‘delicious!’ once more, you let yourself breathe, chewing slowly on the food in your mouth.

Everything, you think, as you watch Kyoujurou compliment your cooking with vigour, is going smoothly.

On the second day, just as you’d planned, Kyoujurou joins you in the kitchen after breakfast.

At the sight of him grinning at you in the doorway, you feign pleasant surprise and gratitude by clasping your bandaged hands over your mouth, eagerly welcoming him into your kitchen. Behind you, the door to the meat storage is locked tight with a padlock, hidden from view with several crates of spices to mask the smell.

He doesn’t have a clue that his fellow slayer’s head sat on your kitchen table last night.

By your estimates, you have roughly a week to kill Rengoku Kyoujurou, probably less. You’ve stayed up for the entirety of last night after your meeting with it, wracking your mind for reasons and excuses to get him to stay - but regardless of how many lies you might be able to manipulate him into believing, he will eventually figure out that Yugou Fukuzashi isn’t coming back, and when he does, you know his suspicion of this place will increase hundredfold.

That would make your job a whole lot harder, so with the deadline of a week hanging over your head, you set the first part of your plan to lower his guard around you into motion.

While you’ve heard of the near supernatural strength of the demon slayers, you’ve never actually met one in person aside from Yugou Fukuzashi (who by the time of your encounter had already been dying from blunt force to the head, courtesy of the man whose mistake had gotten you into this mess in the first place). However, you have no doubt that any of them, much less Kyoujurou, would be able to overpower you with ease. All you have on your side is your identity as a human and your cunning.

You’ll just have to make the best of what you have.

Hence, you think it’s more prudent to take things slow - like a spider approaching the prey wandering onto its web, you cannot allow yourself to move recklessly, or you’ll get caught in your own threads and fall to a demise of your own creation.

Kyoujurou fumbles with the knife at first, when you set him to work scraping the scales off some tuna, and part of you almost hesitates if you’ve gotten the wrong man - surely no Pillar trained in swordsmanship would be so awkward holding a blade. Still, you correct and guide him patiently, and he progresses under your tutelage faster than you expect. With his help, you finish lunch preparations slightly earlier than you expected to, leaving both of you with a small window of free time to sit down for a bit of a break.

“You learn fast, Rengoku-san.” You comment brightly as he sits at your kitchen table, his fingers drumming idly next to a dark stain in the tabletop. At your compliment, he pauses to grin, clearly pleased.

“Well, I had a good teacher.” He says and you laugh, picking up the knife you’d be using to put it aside. On the surface of the cold steel, the reflection of your smile is twisted, distorted. Casually, you lean forward. “Well then, how about letting your teacher give you a little test?”

Kyoujurou blinks, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “Sure!” He agrees, amicably. “What test would you have me participate in?”

You rise to your feet. “Close your eyes, it’s a surprise.” You urge. For a moment, Kyoujurou holds your gaze, before his eyes slip shut slowly, his breathing slow and even. “Yes?”

Your hand drifts along the shelves, your fingers coming to rest against the lid of a tightly sealed jar, tucked out of sight in a corner. There’s no label on it, but you’re more than familiar with the substance that lies inside. You’ve used it plenty of times now, after all.

Cyanide.

Should you try it now? With Total Concentration Breathing, a demon slayer should be able to slow the spread of poison by slowing their circulation, but you have no idea how effective it will be on a man of Kyoujurou’s caliber. Chewing on your bottom lip, you hesitate, torn between wanting to get your job done as fast as possible and worrying that you might fail.

If you do fail, you’ll be as good as dead. He wouldn’t even need his sword, with the strength in his arms alone, he could probably tear your head clean off your shoulders.

The thought makes cold sweat slide down the back of your neck.

“Are you going to make me taste test something?” Kyoujurou asks curiously, and your hand jerks off the jar in an instant, so quickly you almost knock the bowl adjacent to it onto the ground. “Should I continue to keep my eyes closed?”

“Of course! Patience, Rengoku-san.” You say, trying to hide the tremble of your hands, even though you can see his eyes are still firmly shut. The demon had warned you about the demon slayers’ strong survival instinct, but this should be just coincidence… mere coincidence, that must be it. Still, because you’re wary now, you turn away from the jar on your shelf. Not now.

Reaching for the fruit basket instead, your shaking fingers close around a fruit and you turn back to hold it to Kyoujurou’s nose. A guileless smile still sits on his lips, as if he has no idea about the internal turmoil churning deep in you at the very moment. You take a deep breath and swallow, eyes fixed intently on his face.

“Guess what this is.” Kyoujurou’s nose twitches slightly for a moment, brows furrowing as he attempts to place the scent. Barely a second later, a triumphant grin passes his lips and he states his answer with full confidence. “Peach.”

“Wow, you’re good at this.” You say, exchanging the peach in your hands for something else. Kyoujurou beams excitedly at the praise. “Here, what about this?”

“Sweet potato!”

“Right again. What about this one?”

You hold up a mushroom under his nose, and instantly you see his lips pull into a frown. “It… doesn’t smell good. I seem to remember Kochou telling me something about this scent before…”

All of the hairs at the nape of your neck prick at once and you press your lips, trying your best to subdue the feeling of terror churning in the pit of your belly. “Of course it doesn’t.” You say, forcing your voice to take on a light, innocent tone. “Open your eyes.”

Kyoujurou opens his eyes slowly, staring down curiously at the mushroom you have in your hands before his eyes widen in shock. “[name], put that down, that’s poisonous!”

You lick your lips, taking a deep breath to calm yourself down. “Of course it’s poisonous.” You hum lightly, waving the mushroom at him. “The first rule of cooking that my student should learn is to never eat things you don’t recognise, especially when it comes to mushrooms and berries. This is the death cap, probably one of the most poisonous mushrooms in the country! I’m surprised you could recognise it by its scent.”

He nods, listening intently. “Most people wouldn’t, but I have a… friend who is a pharmaceuticals expert! She deals with all manner of poisons and their cures, so I have some knowledge about them.” He tells you, and you have to contain your sigh of frustration. This new tidbit of information makes your job a whole lot harder.

“You have a lot of… interesting friends.” You make sure he sees you toss it into the bin before he can ask you what lethally poisonous mushrooms are doing in your kitchen.

Kyoujurou only grins. “They’re all very honourable people! I am blessed to have met each and every one of them!” His smile widens as he looks at you. “It is my fortune to have met someone like you here as well!”

You stare at him in the middle of taking a seat opposite him, taken completely off guard for a moment. “What?”

“When I first got here, looking for my friend, I was actually rather concerned about him! He’s investigating something dangerous, you see, so I was sent to provide him with some support.” Kyoujurou explains, and your hands fist the cloth of your hakama under the table. “Since there is nothing for me to do but wait, I thought that I might spend the next few days in worry! However, cooking with you makes time fly by, so thank you for that!”

You bite your lip at his words, before you smile at him, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that has suddenly lodged itself in the back of your throat.

“It’s my pleasure, Rengoku-san.”

That night, after Kyoujurou has long gone to bed, you stand over the table the two of you had sat at together this morning, knife in hand as you slice carefully at the fish on your cutting board. The fugu meat falls away in clean chunks, but the meat isn’t what you’re after - reaching inside, you pull out its inner organs with a pair of tweezers, putting them in a bowl next to you, careful not to get any on your gloves.

It takes much longer than cyanide to extract, but it’s over a thousand times more potent. Only twenty five milligrams of it is needed to kill an adult man, according to your experience. The victim first experiences paralysis of the muscles, before the poison moves to the diaphragm and the muscles of that move the ribs, ultimately leading to failure of the lungs. The victim then dies from asphyxiation.

Without his lungs, all his Total Concentration Breathing will be rendered useless.

Tetrodotoxin is a water soluble toxin, it is odourless and tasteless, and most importantly, there is no known antidote to it.

You set down the knife. One of the eyeballs you’d removed stares at you from the bowl, accusation in its shiny, bloody depths, but you swallow and pick up the bowl anyway, moving towards the distiller to extract what you need from its contents.

“It’s nothing personal, Rengoku-san.” You mutter to yourself.

It’s just a matter of survival here, after all.

On the second day, the robbery happens.

Or rather, well, it attempts to happen.

You had planned to collect some ingredients from your usual vendor outside the gate, dropping slight hints to Kyoujurou here and there when he’d been helping you with dinner preparation the day before. The moment you stepped out of the back door of the brothel, you had found Kyoujurou already waiting there with his usual bright grin, the early rays of the breaking dawn setting him alight in a blaze of red and gold.

This time, you could not bring yourself to feign surprise, instead smiling and telling him of your gratitude as the two of you began walking down the street. Due to the early hour, the red light district is oddly quiet, empty streets almost peaceful except for the occasional drunkard reeking of alcohol stumbling from one tavern to another.

The third time you see Kyoujurou wrinkle his nose at the smell, you turn to him, head tilted.

“Are you not fond of alcohol?”

He shakes his head, and out of the corner of your eye, you see that his usual smile has dimmed. “Alcohol muddles the mind and dulls the reflexes! It would compromise my capabilities.” Kyoujurou tells you, as the two of you walk side by side. You steer him into a narrow side alley, your shoulders brushing against each others. “I prefer not to drink unless the occasion calls for it, since I must always be at my peak physical condition at any given time.”

You let your mouth pull into a confused frown. “Why would you need to be-”

Something steps into the alley in front of you, blocking out the sunlight and casting long shadows across the ground. You glance up to see two ruffians standing in your path, leering grins on their faces. Your footsteps falter, before coming to a stop completely. Next to you, Kyoujurou does the same.

“Oi.” One of the men call, his sneer only growing. “Pay up! Don’t you know that you’re stepping on our territory?”

Kyoujurou frowns at their words, turning to whisper into your ear. “Are we intruding on their territory?” He asks, and you shake your head, stepping forward to confront them.

“This is a back alley behind Momoshizu.” You say, your voice level as you point at the brothel right next to them. “Unless you’re a dog guarding the back entrance to a brothel or a stray cat chasing rats for a living, you don’t have territory here. If you want to extort money from someone, do it outside the walls of the pleasure district.” Your eyes narrow. “Penniless trash like you don’t belong here.”

“[name]!” Kyoujurou sounds aghast at your barbed words, but you lean back to whisper to him. “If you give in even a little, they’ll start harassing you for more. It’s better to turn them down from the start.”

“Yes, of course,” Kyoujurou says, brows furrowed in worry as he regards the two men before you, “but this could turn out dangerous, wouldn’t it be better to call the law enforcement instead?”

“Well, yes, if there was any law enforcement in the first place-”

A low chuckle interrupts the two of you, and you turn around to see one of the men pulling something from his pocket. Silver glints in the early morning light and you take a step back, eyes widening. “Rengoku-san, they have a knife!”

Kyoujurou’s face is impassive, and for a moment you wonder what he’s thinking about when he suddenly smiles again, his usual grin returning to his face as he rests a hand on your shoulder. Its weight and warmth brings with it a certain peace that leaves you stunned. “It’s alright, there’s no need to worry!” He booms, almost radiant in the shadowed alley. Gently, he nudges you behind him and steps forward protectively, shielding you completely from their sight with his large frame. “You have me! I promise I won’t let any harm come to you!”

Come with me, a soft, poisonous voice echoes from the edges of your memory. It’s a cold, frostbitten night, but the blood on your hands is so, so hot. I won’t let any harm come to you. Come with me, little human. I’ll fill your stomach and give you a place to sleep. You just want to live…

Don’t you?

Bile rises in your throat, but luckily for you, Kyoujurou isn’t looking at you, his eyes trained on the men before you instead, his back straight and head raised. Bitter resentment at the fates gnaws at you, your hands clenching tightly into fists.

On that cold night, why couldn’t you have met someone like Rengoku instead?

“Kindly move out of the way.” You hear Kyoujurou say. His hands remain calmly by his sides, neither in a defensive nor offensive stance. “The alley is not large enough for the two of us to pass at the same time.”

“Hah?” The ruffian holding the knife steps closer so that he’s in Kyoujurou’s face, their noses almost touching. Still, Kyoujurou does not make a move to remove the knife from him. “Do you need your ears cleaned, idiot? I said, this is our territory. You’re the one who needs to pay up, scum!”

“I repeat, please move aside, or I will have to use force.” In spite of the insults being thrown in his face, Kyoujurou’s tone is still firmly polite, but now his words are edged with steel. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

“Hurt us? You’re making me laugh here, man.” The ruffian spits in his face, pressing the point of his blade to Kyoujurou’s throat.

“Rengoku-san!” You exclaim, in shock, yet Kyoujurou still doesn’t move, hands pressed solidly to his sides as he looks at the man in the eye, dead calm.

“Get the other one, too. That fucking mouth needs some payback. If we sell her, we might be able to get some money out of that too.”

Your eyes widen. The man’s partner turns his gaze on you, and he grins, pulling out a knife as well. Biting on your lower lip, you take a step back.

“Rengoku-san?” You reach out to tug at his sleeve. “We should probably run-”

Your fingers close around empty air.

Hours later, you’ll sit in your room, playing back your memories of this moment and yet still have no idea what you’ve just witnessed. All you see if a blur of orange, and then suddenly the man who was holding his knife to Kyoujurou’s throat is flat on his back, hands empty of any weapons. You’ve barely begun to shift your gaze when you see that the second man has already met with much the same fate, and for a moment, you can only stand there and stare in horror when you realise just what you’ve been tasked with killing.

He’s a monster.

Kyoujurou stands over them, not a strand of hair disheveled or out of place, the rise and fall of his shoulders still even and calm - he doesn’t look like he’s moved an inch.

You have to kill him? Someone like him? Impossible. Your hand clasps over your mouth to contain your voice before it can flee your throat, eyes wide. No, no, no. You’ll die if you try to take him on. But if you don’t, you’ll...

Rows of jagged teeth fill your vision, crimson blood splattering over the carpet, a looming grin on the walls-

“It’s alright now!” A gentle voice cuts through your panic, and you look up to see Kyoujurou standing over you. You didn’t even realise when your legs had lost their ability to keep you standing, your behind planted in the dirt and your knees weak. With a reassuring grin, he holds out his hand to you. “Come, stand!”

You stare at his outstretched hand for a moment before tentatively placing your own hand in his. He pulls you to your feet, his other hand supporting you gently. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” The words are wooden in your mouth. “You protected me, after all.”

Kyoujurou grins at you. “That’s good to know!” Turning back to the two men still groaning on the ground, Kyoujurou holds up the two knives. “I’ll be taking these now.” His voice is stern. “I don’t want to see the two of you threatening innocent people again. Understood?”

Nodding frantically, the two men pick themselves up and scramble away, almost falling over their own feet in their bid to escape. As he watches them go, Kyoujurou lets out a sigh and pockets the knives in his sleeves, shaking his head. “Truly terrible, that people would try to hurt others this way for their own benefit.”

You swallow at his comment.

“Unbelievable.” Compose yourself. Taking a deep breath, you affix a smile onto your face once more. “Well, now I see what you mean by needing to stay at the peak of your physical abilities. You’re very strong!” You say, trying to lighten the mood. It works, because Kyoujurou lets out a laugh at your words, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“I’m flattered!” He says cheerfully. “Now, shall we get going? There’s still lunch to prepare, after all!”

The sun is steadily climbing up the sky when you look up at it, and you yelp, tugging at his sleeve. “Oh no! Hurry, Rengoku-san! We’re late!”

The two of you run through the streets of the red light district together.

“You didn’t warn us about him!”

You hold your breath at the sound of the door being thrown wide open, exhaling in an attempt to stay calm. Turning around, you pick up a ceramic jar of sake from next to you. “It’s a nice night out, isn’t it?” From the open window, you can see the full moon hanging in the sky outside.

“I don’t have time for your nonsense.” One of the two ruffians from this morning snarls. You pause in opening the jar to compose yourself, before you invite him into the room with a wave of your hand.

“Sit down and we’ll talk.” You say, pouring out three cups of alcohol. Both of them glare at you from opposite the room before they stomp up to you, unceremoniously sitting themselves onto the ground and scowls still painted on their faces. “Here, have a drink. I make the alcohol at this brothel myself.”

They don’t touch their cups, eyes full of mistrust as they stare at you. With a sigh, you shake your head.

“I’ll take the first drink, then.”

They watch you warily as you pick up a cup on your own, taking a long sip to enjoy its taste before placing the cup back down on the table. So different from Kyoujurou, you wonder to yourself, remembering the time you’d offered him wagashi during your first meeting and he had downed all of them without a second thought. Now that you think about it, you probably should have struck at that very moment. Evil truly expects evil from others.

“I want out of this job.” The first man snaps the second you put down the cup, grabbing a cup of sake from the table and taking a gulp. His partner, in contrast, downs the entire cup in an instant. “And I want compensation.”

You pour both of them another cup. “I can agree with the first one.” You say, trying to keep your voice even. “Not with the second.”

“You didn’t tell us that your target was going to be a fuckin’ monster!”

The two of you eye each other for a moment, neither willing to budge. Behind him, his partner picks up his refilled cup and downs it once again

“You never asked.” You answer. Your voice only wavers once. “Furthermore, you didn’t even manage to kill him. The only thing the two of you were good for was your acting, and even then kabuki dancers would have done a better job.”

“What the fuck was the point of the entire staged robbery anyway?” He snaps, knocking back another cup of alcohol. “If you meant for us to kill him, you wouldn’t have…”

The man’s eyes darken in realisation as he says it, his arm reaching across the table to grip at the collar of your clothes, yanking you forward hard so that the two of you are face to face. Your ribs knock painfully against the edge of the low table, but you don’t let your gaze leave his, forcing your expression to stay neutral.

“You were playing us the entire time.” His voice is a low, raspy snarl. “You knew we weren’t going to be able to kill him.”

You don’t reply, but your lack of denial is more than confirmation enough for him.

He hurls the cup at you. You barely manage to duck in time and it only clips your shoulder, its contents dripping all over the front of your kimono. The slight, bitter scent of almonds permeates the air. “I’m going to kill you.” He snarls, getting to his feet. Like this, he towers over you easily. “You’re going to regret messing with the wrong type of people, missy.”

He shoves you hard and you go crashing to the ground painfully with a yelp, your head knocking against the corner of the table and you see stars flash before your eyes. Before you can regain your balance, he swings one leg over your hips, pinning you down to the ground and before pulling another knife from his sleeve - this time, a sharp, single edged blade that could easily slice your neck to ribbons.

He presses it against your throat, and you swallow, trying not to tremble and cut yourself on the edge of his blade. You don’t know how you’d explain such a wound to Kyoujurou tomorrow.

“Now,” his breath is rancid, his knee pressing painfully into your hip - you know bruises will form there tomorrow, “I’m going to show you what exactly happens when you waste our time like this, you fucking-”

“Fujita!”

The grip on your robe loosens ever so slightly as the man whips around to glare at his partner. “I’m talking here, man, what the hell do you...” his partner is writhing on the tatami mats, clawing at his throat, desperate, breathless screams leaving his mouth. “Saburo! Saburo, what’s happening to you?”

You shove him off you with all your strength and he topples to the ground with a heavy thud. Shaking your head as you stagger to your feet, you wipe at the stain on your kimono before eyeing it with disappointment. “This is going to take ages for me to clean now.” You exhale as Saburo flails wildly, choking on air as he attempts to breathe. Fujita whirls around to stare at you.

“What did you do?” He roars, but when he tries to stand, he staggers to the side, nearly falling before he manages to catch his balance. His eyes go wide, and he looks up at you in horror.

“Poison in your cups, but not mine, of course. It would be a waste of alcohol to poison the entire jar.” You say wearily, picking up your own cup from the table and taking another sip. “Cyanide, if you want me to be specific.”

Fujita chokes, grasping desperately at his own throat, before he stumbles and falls onto his knees, eyes wide with terror. You watch as the knife falls from his hands and clatters onto the tabletop. Saburo is already still, aside from the occasional twitch. “The two of you made useful test dummies, I suppose. Well, I could pay the two of you for that… but you won’t have much need for money in a few moments, anyway.”

Still, Fujita tries to claw his way to the door, struggling to put one hand in front of the other as he fights to force air into his lungs. You watch him for a few moments and wonder if you should have used a higher dosage instead to finish him off more quickly. Picking up the jar of alcohol, you cross the room in three quick strides and bring it down on his head with all the force you can muster.

The heavy ceramic jar of alcohol shatters the second it connects with the back of his skull, and Fujita crumples to the ground one final time. For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing, and when you look down at your hands, a shallow cut bleeds red over your palm before the blood falls to the tatami below in little, crimson drops.

Looking at the mess before you, you can only shake your head and sigh.

“It’s nothing personal.” You say, out loud. “You tried to kill me, after all.”

The corpses on the ground have no reply.

#rengoku #rengoku fanfic #rengoku kyojuro #kyojuro #kyoujurou #rengoku kyojuro x reader #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #kimetsu kyojuro #kimetsu rengoku #kny fanfic #kny #kny kyojuro

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colehasapen · 4 years

Text

(CHAPTER 1) there's a river full of memory STAR WARS

Comfortember no.19 - Memory Lane

Comfortember no.21 - Hugs

There’s a cadet-sized redhead standing where General Kenobi had been only moments before.

Wooley knows he’s not the only one staring in mute shock at the magically-appearing Little, but his ARC-trained mind is already churning, categorizing everything he can about the tiny Human. He’s lanky in the way that betrays a coming growth spurt that he hadn’t quite reached, and skinny enough that high cheekbones are poking through dirty, freckled cheeks that should still be round from youth. He’s missing shoes, and the way he holds himself points towards injuries hidden by his ragged, tattered robes and torn leggings that are caked in more dirt, and stains that look suspiciously like blood. Small hands are wrapped around the very Force relic General Kenobi had been studying only seconds ago, before a bright light blinded them all and replaced their Jedi with a child.

Logically, all the signs point to the Little being General Kenobi. The red hair, the pale skin, and the blue-green-gray eyes are all the same - but Wooley can’t bring himself to truly acknowledge it, because there’s thick shackles around tiny wrists and a heavy collar weighing down a thin neck. Acknowledging the kid as General Kenobi means that the 212th’s Jedi had been this child, that he hadn’t had the happy childhood they’d all imagined the man having. They’d all built this image of their General in their heads, and what they see in front of them crushes all of them.

“... General?” Commander Cody’s voice is more shaken than Wooley had ever heard before, his expression openly shocked and alarmed, and Wooley doesn’t blame him. He may not be privy to most of the details behind his brother’s relationship with the Jedi, but he knows enough. “Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

The kid’s frightened, darting eyes sharpen, shooting towards the Commander at the name, and that in itself is proof enough that it’s damning, even if the possible cadet-Kenobi doesn’t verbally respond.

The little Jedi is afraid of them.

Commander Cody steps forward, almost hesitant, and the kid stiffens, looking ready to flee but he’s also rooted in place. It’s a trained response. It reminds Wooley too much of Kamino, where fear means that they can’t step out of line. Fear keeps them obedient. It’s trained into them from a young age, but General Kenobi - Wooley had seen the shiniest Jedi in the Temple in passing, they were all so happy and free and loved . He’d never imagined General Kenobi as anything but.

The Little in the karking slave collar says otherwise, and Wooley kind of wants to shake the next High General he sees and demand to know what happened to their General when the 212th wasn’t there to watch his back.

From the tense line of Commander Cody’s shoulders and the shaking of his clenched fists his vod is probably thinking the same thing. “You’re Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

Maybe-Little Kenobi hesitates, eyes darting around the number of large armoured troopers around him, before ducking his head submissively, and it makes Wooley feel sick. “Yes sir.”

The imaginary blade hovering over their necks drops. It’s official. The bruised, beaten Little with the too-shaggy hair is - was? - their General. The tension skyrockets, and Little Kenobi flinches, hunching inwards to make himself look even smaller, as if they were a threat to him. Across the room, Pace makes a strangled sound, taking an aborted step forward. Seeing the General in such a state is upsetting all of them, but Pace is their CMO, is General Kenobi’s CMO, and he’d want to help - but Little Kenobi shies away even further, breaths coming out in uneven little pants.

Panicking.

He’s scared. Jedi can sense emotions, Wooley remembers General Kenobi saying, and he’s surrounded by tense, aggressive adults who he doesn’t know. The last place he remembers is probably wherever he had been held, by demogolke who had slapped a collar around his neck.

Taking a deep breath, Wooley carefully pushes his negative emotions into a locked box, letting himself fall into mission mode. A few carefully relaxed muscles makes him less imposing, and a couple battle signs has even Commander Cody backing down from the kid and letting Wooley take point on this.

Little Kenobi is already starting to relax, so Wooley makes sure that his posture is gentle as he approaches, and the small redhead watches him like a shriek hawk. He keeps his hands where the kid-that-was-his-General can see them, and keeps inching forward until thin shoulders start to rise defensively again. He stops.

Slowly, carefully, Wooley lowers himself to his knees, placing his bucket in front of him, and he smooths out his kama, instinctively tracing the stylized sunbursts he had painted on the edges. “Hey there, Obi-Wan.” The name feels odd rolling off his tongue, but the sound of it makes the little one relax slightly. “I’m Wooley, you’re on board the Negotiator - it’s a Venator-class Star Destroyer belonging to the Republic.” He relaxes more, and Wooley carefully makes sure he doesn’t react when the kid starts inching towards him. “How old are you, Obi-Wan?”

Little Kenobi blinks, licking his lips nervously, eyes darting around him, but it seems Wooley, at least, has won his fragile trust. “Twelve, sir.”

Twelve. Wooley doesn’t have to look to know that his brothers are flinching. Most of the command ranks are twelve, some of the few to have survived as long as they have, while Wooley himself is a few months off of ten but had been in battle for just about the same amount of time as the oldest surviving Vode. He had been sent out at 8, caught awkwardly between the generations of clones who aged twice as fast as natborns and those who ages even faster, engineered to quickly take the place of the numerous Vode who died as the War progressed. He’s from the last batches of 2X-clones - some of the few who weren’t immediately put through gene therapy to speed up his aging, and instead sent out to the frontlines without much hope for a life expectancy, but he’d proved everyone wrong - and it’s not fun, being among the youngest-looking clones in service while his younger brothers outpace him, and his older brothers look at him in pity or try to put themselves between him and the enemy, despite the fact that he’s made it to ARC Trooper.

To them, twelve is fully grown, but Kenobi is a natborn - twelve year olds are kids , and while there are young Padawan-Commanders serving in the War, they’re shielded from as much trauma as possible with the Senate shoving progressively younger weapons onto the battlefield while defending themselves by labeling those suffering in their War as ‘others’.

Wooley has to push those thoughts away when he feels his anger bubbling up again, taking a deep breath to center himself like General Kenobi had taught him. “What’s the last thing you remember, Obi-Wan?”

Blue eyes are sharp, intelligent and calculating, as they scan the conference room that currently held the highest ranking members of the 212th Attack Battalion, then the strange round artifact they had stolen out from under Dooku’s ugly nose. Hesitantly, the boy lowers himself to sit across from Wooley, placing the Force doohickey between his knees to grip the collar around his neck instead, expression intense and thoughtful. The metal makes a small flinch run through the Little’s thin body, and causes something haunted to enter his eyes. “I was on Bandomeer.” Little Kenobi murmurs quietly, and Wooley’s brows furrow. He’s never heard of the planet, but a glance at Commander Cody shows that the older clone has some idea about what it means. “Sir-” Wooley turns his eyes back to the kid, “-why am I here instead?” The little Jedi asks curiously, his confidence growing with every moment that passes without any hostility aimed towards him. Little Kenobi glances down at the artifact, chewing thoughtfully on his lip, the natural curiosity of a child starting to shine through his unease. “Does this have something to do with it? I wasn’t holding it before.”

“Smart.” Wooley says cheerfully, and Little Kenobi ducks his head, a red blush lighting up dirty cheeks. “Yeah - as of approximately ten minutes ago, a thirty-seven year old Obi-Wan Kenobi was standing in this room, studying that doohickey right there. So you can imagine that we’re all a little confused right now.”

Little Kenobi looks completely flabbergasted and even a little awed. “I’m in the future?” He actually looks a little relieved too, and like he was about to cry, Wooley notes with a little alarm. “I - I thought I was going to -” big blue eyes peer around him, misty with unshed tears, lips quivering. “I thought I was going to die down there.” Little Kenobi warbles tearfully.

This breaks whatever thin thread of control the clones in the room had over themselves, and it doesn’t surprise Wooley that it’s the Commander that moves first. His older brother sweeps past him, dropping to his knees next to the child-that-was-their-General with just enough force to make Wooley wince - Cody would be regretting that later when his bad leg started aching. Little Kenobi doesn’t flinch away from him when the Commander reaches for him this time. Instead, he leans into the touch that is offered, tears carving a path through the grime caked onto pale cheeks as Commander Cody gathers him into his arms.

Little Obi-Wan Kenobi looks completely lost, eyes wide and sightless over Cody’s broad shoulder, trapped in whatever memory is haunting him. Then he lets out a heart-wrenching sob, and the small Jedi crumbles into his Commander’s arms with the muffled wail of a hurt, scared child.

#cole writes #star wars #comfortember 2020 #star wars the clone wars #fanfiction #commander cody #clone trooper wooley #obi wan kenobi #fanfic #212th attack battalion #memory-verse

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rishi-eel · 5 years

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Dominoes on Rishi Station HCs

domino squad was directly sent to rishi, with the exception of fives (the dialogue in Rookies suggests he hasn’t been there as long)

they’re all Really Glad to Have Him Here (TM) when he’s finally transferred, practically showering him in affection (and competing for his)

hevy might hate rishi station but he sure loves complaining about it

“the moment we’re sent to the battlefront, he’ll complain about that and start missing rishi” cutup teases

echo interrupted hevy’s rant to fives about rishi to sell its merits this one time and now there’s this (mostly one sided) cold war between the two over who can sway fives’ opinion

fives wrote to his brothers’ during their time apart, echo especially. he thinks echo made the place out to be far more beautiful in his letters than it actually is, but comes to share his appreciation for rishi’s sky full of stars and the delicate blue of its horizon

(”see that bright star over there? that’s home. and over here, near the galactic core, is the heart of the republic. there’s a black hole at the very centre of the galaxy, can you believe that?" echo says, beaming as he faces this window on the galaxy. it’s a sight to behold, although something in fives’ gut can’t help but feel uneasy at its enormity)

despite following the instructions to the letter, echo still has trouble getting the electronics working as they should. this amuses hevy to no end, who’ll come in and mess around until the problem is fixed. while it’s become a bit of a joke, echo has come to accept it. he’s quick to call for hevy’s help if needed

cutup once joked that hevy has a special touch with the machines. at this, hevy silently removed his forearm armour and threw it at him

they’re all continuing to discover their individuality, but are also remedying the distance that grew between them in their last months as cadets when they first began this quest for their personhood

droidbait has this tendency of withdrawing from the group. experiencing struggles in forging his own sense of self, droidbait has a hard time seeing himself as anything more than a burden

the other dominoes come to notice this and are careful to herd him back into the group so he doesn’t soak in his own misery

rishi station has its own training facilities and it’s becoming increasingly clear that droidbait excels at long range shooting. his squad mates praise him for it in order to boost his confidence (hevy, hollering: “looks like droidBAIT is becoming the droidWRECKER, watch out, seppies!”)

they’re also trying out nicknames for him, like DB or Dee, to see if it makes him more confident

fives and hevy did each other’s tattoos

echo doesn’t really get the appeal of facial tattoos (or any tattoos, really) and can’t stand to watch

hevy teases echo for “not understanding the need for individuality” but deep down he believes echo “doesn’t get it” because echo’s always had a strong sense of self, without ever realizing it, and hevy envies him for that

he would never desert his brothers, especially not after having promised 99 he wouldn’t go AWOL, but hevy likes to imagine what his life would look like if he left the army as he falls asleep

the clones at rishi base tell stories to pass the time, (space) urban legends being a favourite. it becomes a bit of a game to see if you can successfully scare your brothers or if you’ll succumb to fear yourself. it definitely makes the darkness and quiet of rishi moon less than boring...

the elusive rishi eel falls under the category. it often props up in tales of missing equipment (humorous) or missing troopers (less humorous). they’re a personal favourite of hevy’s, who along with cutup turned “the eel took it” (the dramatic line from the original tale) into a stock response to anyone looking for a lost object (fives: “where’s my caf?” hevy, drinking from a stolen cup of caf: “the eel-” fives: “hevy i swear to god”)

fives finds it annoying and doesn’t believe the rishi eel even exists, either (echo: “but the reg manual says-” fives: “come on echo, nothing can survive out there. they just dont want us outside. don’t believe everything you read”)

echo likes to read the reg manuals because (among other things) he likes to know why the rules are what they are. rishi station has its own, specific set of regulations and he’s been able to learn quite a bit about the moon and its surroundings by scouring through it

cutup has beat hevy at arm wrestling more times than he’s beat him

rishi station somehow gets paints sent to them along with their supplies. fives thinks o’niner has something to do with it, because he made a funny face when fives said they didn’t get that at his last emplacement.

fives is worlds away from having any objections though because he’s always loved painting. o’niner shows him a few techniques and in these moments o’niner feels more like a brother than a boss

fives totally falls for orange pigment. he can’t remember having ever seen anything quite like it (anything quite as beautiful) back on kamino. he paints a lot of naboo handmaidens, who’s robes are, he’s heard, orange (the holo devices on rishi don’t display true colour). fives is amazed at the thought that there are places in the galaxy where there is so much orange that you would make a servant’s dress such a colour

#domino squad #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #cutup #hevy #droidbait #clone troopers #star wars: the clone wars

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jackiesarch · 4 years

Text

come undone.

my half of a trade with the wonderful @red-nightskies! thank you so much for letting me write your sweet anna — it was a blast getting to know her!

word count: 3.7k

warnings: minor character death, canon typical violence, some language

summary: there’s whispers among the resistance that staci pratt is being held at the grandview hotel. anna reid thinks she knows who she can trust to help her free him.

This is the last safe moment: Anna stepping over the fresh corpse of a bat wielding Peggy, her chest heaving with exertion. Getting to the top floor of the Grandview Hotel unseen and unheard had been surprisingly easy. Even now, as she stands in front of the closed door of Room 306, she can’t help but be impressed by her own handiwork.

The oak panel in front of her is intimidating. She isn’t sure why. She’s checked every other room in this building, has moved through the halls and the staircases with such brutal efficiency that she should be pleased to be standing here, staring at what is undoubtedly the easiest part of this entire operation. But she isn’t. If anything, Anna finds she’s uneasy.

It feels too simple.

The Peggies have never made anything particularly easy for her. Sure, she can take down an outpost in her sleep these days or clear a roadblock in the blink of an eye, but Eden’s Gate rarely ever provides easy access to their special targets — to their leverage.

It’s part of why she’d gone to the Whitetails when the quiet whispers about Staci’s location had turned into real leads. Could she take down the guards and liberate her friend on her own? Maybe. Would she feel a hell of a lot better with an army waiting in the wings? Absolutely.

She stares at the door to the room again, her stomach twisting at what she might find behind it. Staci’s alive — that much she knows, that much a group of Eli’s scouts had been able to confirm. He’s alive, but who is he? Anna knows firsthand what Jacob does to people, knows the frantic, red-bathed horrors he puts people through to break them. Staci’s alive, but he may not be the man that flew them to Joseph’s compound all those weeks ago. It’s a thought that terrifies her.

He’ll be alright, Anna. It’s what Eli had said as he outlined the plan in the Wolf’s Den. A simple extraction mission: in-and-out, with backup waiting in the wings.

If he’s anythin’ like you, he’ll be alright. We’ll fix him up.

Slowly, Anna reaches for the doorknob, Eli’s words playing on repeat in her head. He’s right — Staci’s not beyond saving, not yet. They can fix him. Make him whole again.

She doesn’t trust easy, but she does trust Eli.

The cold metal of the handle makes her shiver as she twists it. There’s a click as the latch releases, and suddenly the door opens, creaking on its hinges as it swings into the room. All at once, she’s hit with the sickly, metallic smell of blood. It’s no wonder — the first things she notices are the smears of it on the wall, on the floor, on the discarded rags that litter the room.

The second thing she notices is Staci. He’s strapped to a chair in the middle of the room, bound by his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of it. His head hangs heavy, chin resting against his chest like it might take all the strength left in his body to lift it in her direction. He doesn’t.

“Staci?” Anna says quietly, clearing the room with a quick glance. “Staci, it’s me.”

He doesn’t answer. Anna can only barely make out that he’s still breathing, and the movement is one that both comforts and scares her. She takes cautious steps into the room, reaching for the radio on her hip as she does.

“Eli—it’s me. I found him,” she says, finger gripping the transmit button on the radio so hard her whole hand shakes. “He’s alive. I’m getting him out. Send the Whitetails in to secure the lower floors. Anna out.”

If there’s a response, Anna doesn’t hear it. She finds herself standing in front of Staci without realizing she took the steps there, finds herself leaning down and grabbing his shoulder to shake him without consciously telling herself to do it.

“Hey,” she whispers, her grip on his shoulder tightening. Anna shakes him again, a little harder, in a desperate attempt to rouse him. “Staci, hey—“

Staci jolts so fast it makes her stumble backwards, heart suddenly thundering in her rib cage. His head flies up, his eyes wide and bloodshot, and Anna watches him gasp in a breath that it looks like he’s desperate for.

“Anna?” he croaks, eyes flitting back and forth between her in front of him and the room around them. “That really you?”

It takes a half-second longer for her to recover than she’d like. Anna scurries forward, slender fingers grasping at the restraints keeping him in place.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s me. I’m getting you out of here.”

The bindings are tight, but she manages. First she frees his wrists, angry red marks dug into them with how tightly the straps had been pulled. His ankles come next, and Staci kicks his feet out a little before, with Anna’s help, he tries to stand. It’s not surprising that he’s weak, stumbling as he brings himself to full height. How long have they had him tied up there? How long has he been forced to sit?

She’s about to reach for her radio again, ready to tell Eli she’s on her way back to the Wolf’s Den, when the vague feeling of uneasiness from before returns with a vengeance. Anna looks around the room, frown pinching her face.

Something is wrong. The hotel feels too quiet, too safe. Why can’t she hear the Whitetails filtering in to secure the building?

And then it happens.

It feels like a slow-motion shot in an action movie. Staci opens his mouth to say something to her just as the only intact window in the room explodes, showering them with shards of broken glass. Half a second later, he crumples to the floor.

Anna’s breath leaves her lungs in a short, sharp burst. She knows better than to scream if they’re under attack, knows better than to draw all the attention to their position. Still, watching him go down like that, she has to say something.

“Staci?” Anna says, her voice unsteady as she stares down at his limp form. “Staci!”

He doesn’t respond. A pool of red forms under his skull and spreads out in a circle, inching towards her faster and faster like spilled paint on a dirty canvas.

Anna whirls around, eyes snapping in every direction as she reaches for her weapon. There’s no one in the room with them, no one in the hall, and no one down on the balcony below the window when she cranes her neck out to check. Off in the distance, she can swear she sees a glint of metal — a hunter? A Peggie with a sniper rifle? By the time she blinks, though, it’s gone, and Anna ducks her head back into the room, turns herself back towards where Staci lays. She takes a half-step forward, drawn to him as if he isn’t well beyond saving.

Then pain blossoms in her shoulder so suddenly she thinks she might be sick.

Anna stumbles back, her hand flying up to grasp at the place where sharp bursts of agony are starting to spider down into her chest, her arm, the very tips of her fingers. Liquid warmth spreads over her skin, and when she looks down, Anna finds her hand coated in her own blood. It seeps out of a ragged hole in her shoulder, and it finally registers with her that she’s been shot. Someone, somewhere in the mountains, has fired two precise shots off into Room 306 of the Grandview Hotel: one to hit Pratt, and the other meant for her.

The shock of the wound hits her all at once, sapping the strength from her muscles and forcing her to sink to her knees in the middle of the room. Anna just barely manages to brace herself as she hits the floor, her good shoulder sliding along the hardwood as she collapses onto her side.

Her thoughts are scattered, but the few cohesive ones left desperately trying to connect in a way that doesn’t quite add up. Who shot them? Why? It feels too convenient to be a well-timed accident, too ridiculous to be a case of mistaken identity.

Muffled footsteps in the hallway shatter her focus just as she’s about to consider the very obvious possibility that this is Jacob’s handiwork. Anna stills her ragged breathing as best she can and tries to listen as whoever is in the hall grows closer.

It’s hard to make out specifics with the doorway to her back. Forcing past the steady ache in her shoulder, Anna trains her ears and tries to catch the disjointed pieces of conversation.

“They’re both down,” she hears. It’s a man’s voice, a familiar one, and with her back to the doorway she struggles to remember his name. Briggs? “Pratt‘s dead. Deputy Reid...”

Briggs trails off suddenly. There’s a hissing, scratching noise — the sound of a radio transmission? — but Anna isn’t able to make out the response.

Help me!, she wants to scream. Help us! Her mouth opens to get Briggs’ attention, but nothing comes out. It’s as if the pain has stolen away her voice — her last chance at salvation.

“Right. We’re headin’ back,” Briggs says into his radio. There’s a pause, and Anna desperately tries to work out how to get his attention. “Tell Eli it’s done.”

The floorboards creak again. Footsteps sounds against the hardwood outside the room and fade away slowly, until all Anna can hear are the far away sounds of someone taking the stairs down to the second floor. There’s a distant shout; she can’t make out the words, not with the ringing in her ears, but it sounds like someone gearing up to leave the hotel.

Tell Eli it’s done.

Understanding hits her hard, like she’s been broadsided by an armoured truck. This hadn’t been Jacob and his lackeys at all. This wasn’t a well-planned take down by Eden’s Gate, wasn’t a terrible misunderstanding. Eli and the Whitetails had planned this.

She’s been betrayed.

Thoughts ping around Anna’s head. An in-and-out mission. Rescue Pratt. Escape unnoticed. A simple extraction job. How many times has she done something exactly like this? How many times has she liberated a captive Whitetail whose name and face she didn’t recognize?

How many chances have they had before this moment to take her out? Why wait this long?

The answer to her own question isn’t far out of reach. In fact, he’s sprawled out on the floor across from her.

Staci.

Better to kill two birds with one stone. Why waste time on a second covert mission when they could take down two of Jacob Seed’s most dangerous, involuntary weapons at once? It only makes tactical sense, she thinks. They were being proactive. Smart.

Vile. Heartless.

She doesn’t mean to look at Staci. She doesn’t mean for her gaze to linger on his cold, expressionless face, but it does, and she finds she can’t tear herself away. Anna more dead people than she has ever dreamed of, has watched the light leave so many pairs of eyes that she can no longer keep an accurate count. It’s the nature of the situation in Hope County — or at least, that’s what she tells herself to get by.

But this man was her friend. He was her friend, and he was kind, and now he’s dead; and it’s her fault. It’s the only thing Anna can think as she lays there, memorizing every line and every freckle of Staci’s face. She trusted Eli, trusted Tammy and Wheaty and all the other Whitetails.

She played servant when it was convenient for them, and Staci is dead because of it.

For a moment — a burning, bitter moment — she’s young again. There’s no electricity in the hotel, but that doesn’t stop the coloured glare of neon lights from registering in Anna’s mind.

She’s at the Grandview, she knows she’s at the Grandview. Every muscle in her body screams it to her as she tries to claw herself closer to Staci on the dirty floor. You’re here, she tells herself. You’re here, this is happening now, this isn’t then.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s thirty years old. She’s been shot in the shoulder, and she’s bleeding out on the floor of the Grandview Hotel in Hope County, Montana.

Memories swirl in her head like funnel clouds. This is the Grandview Hotel, and she is dying here, but it doesn’t stop the images of the rundown gas station and its flashing neon sign from filling her mind.

Her name is Anna Reid. She’s nineteen years old. Her best friend has been shot, and she’s bleeding out on the concrete outside of a Shell station.

Anna squeezes her eyes shut against the onslaught of things she has tried so hard to forget. The images feel like they’re burned on the back of her eyelids, like she can’t escape them no matter how hard she tries to flee.

“No,” she gasps out, eyes flying open again. She’s met with Staci’s face, with the clean, dark circle on the centre of his forehead. “No, Claire—Staci, Staci, not Claire—”

A choked sob tears its way out of her chest. Her wounded shoulder has turned her arm to dead weight, and she can’t pull herself across the floor any further with just one hand; even the few inches she’s managed have turned her fingernails bloody and broken.

“I’m sorry,” Anna whispers, tears staining her cheeks. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t know who she’s apologizing to. Claire? Staci? Herself? All she knows is that the words come without her help, unbidden and spilling out of her like the blood spills from her shoulder.

My name is Anna Reid, she tells herself. I’m thirty. This is the Grandview Hotel in Hope County. I’m sorry.

It becomes a mantra, four sentences that she repeats over and over keep herself present. Anna forces herself to keep her eyes open, even if it means watching Staci’s body grow colder and colder — if she doesn’t, she thinks she might lose herself to the nightmare festering in her head.

Anna Reid. Thirty years old. Grandview Hotel. Anna. Thirty. Grandview.

Hours pass like that — or maybe it’s minutes, maybe seconds. Anna doesn’t know. All she knows is that the edges of her vision are starting to darken, that the blood pooling on the hardwood and soaking into discarded rags is no longer just Staci’s, but hers too.

Her shoulder feels dead. Heavy, too, as if the simple burden of having it attached to her might be what finally pulls her under, and part of her begs it to. She’s bone tired — the kind where every tiny movement feels like it’s being torn out of her, the kind where blinking is a burden and her battered body screams at her to rest. She’s tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being hunted. She just wants this to be over and done with.

And then she hears the noise.

Creak.

For a moment, she thinks she’s imagined it. After all, she hadn’t raised hell getting inside the hotel — in fact, the plan had gone off without a hitch, quickly and quietly. The only ones who should know that she’s bleeding out on the cold floor of a dirty room are the people that put her there: the Whitetails.

Creak.

The noise comes a second time, louder, and this time Anna knows she hasn’t dreamed it up. Someone is outside of the room. One of Eli’s strays, come to finish her off? A friend-turned-foe with a pistol gripped tight and mercy on their mind?

Worse still, one of Jacob’s Chosen?

Whoever they are, they’re watching her. Anna can feel the stare on her back, burning the proverbial hole through her bloodstained clothes. The door is open, she knows, because she’s the one that left it that way.

The silence is deafening as Anna waits for them to make their move. She should be scared, she thinks. She should be paralyzed with the fear of imprisonment, of death, of whatever else might happen to her when the terror waiting in the doorway finally finds her.

Instead, she just feels numb. Nothing.

Agonizingly slowly, the steps grow closer, louder, until Anna can see the outline of a single steel-toe boot in the corner of her failing vision. They’re familiar, somehow, as if she’s seen those same boots before.

Where? Who?

The wearer takes another slow, measured step, until suddenly they’re consuming the whole frame of her vision. Until Staci’s body is nothing but an obscure, blurry background that her tired brain desperately tries to block out.

Anna can’t help it. Her focus drifts to the combat boots, to the old, cracked leather that’s stained dark with mud and darker still with something worse.

Some desperate part of her thinks she should move, thinks she should try to wrangle speech from the bottom of her dry throat. She doesn’t.

He speaks, and she and all she can do is listen.

“Wolves finally getcha, Dep?”

The boots were a clue, but there’s no mistaking the voice. It’s the strangest mix of rough and soft, an instant contradiction that matches the rest of him. And hasn’t he always been that way? Twisting her mind into something brutal and sharp with a song while he whispers praises into what feels like her soul? Withholding food with one hand while the other touches her with surprising gentleness?

If Jacob himself has come for her, then she’s finally facing the end.

The numbness is still there, choking the fear she knows she should feel as he nudges her in the ribs with the toe of his boot to see if she’s still alive. Anna barely reacts. She’s dizzy and heavy with blood loss, and even if she wanted to — well, she isn’t quite sure she could make her body do anything more than it is in this moment.

Jacob moves her around on the filthy floor like it’s easy. A push on the shoulder to get her onto her back, a steel-toe nudge to her good arm to get better access to her wounded upper half. It’s as if she’s a marionette being manipulated by its puppeteer, she thinks hazily.

No, not a marionette — the movement’s not quite that gentle. It’s as if she’s a rag doll in the hands of an over-eager child.

Suddenly, without warning, a bolt of white-hot pain streaks down her wounded arm, shoulder to fingertips. Anna has been hurt before — constantly, even, since she came to Hope County — but none of it compares to the burning, stabbing sensation she feels when Jacob crouches at her side, peeling the strap of her bloody tank top away and pressing his fingers against her bullet wound. She barely suppresses a shattered scream. The noise comes out as a high-pitched, broken whine instead, and for a minute, she’s almost positive she sees a flash of something sympathetic cross his face.

Anna thinks she should be furious with him. She thinks she should kick and scream and fight with all the strength she has left, should give him hell for making her suffering even worse.

Instead, she’s grateful.

Something about the pain splinters the blanket of numbness she’s felt since the moment the sniper’s bullets made impact. For the first time since she hit the ground, she feels.

“What’d I tell you, huh?” Jacob mutters, leaning back on the balls of his feet. Anna watches him wipe her blood on the ragged knee of his jeans. “Eli and his people. Cowards.”

Another pain stabs its way through her, but this time it doesn’t come from her injured shoulder. This time she feels it deep in her chest, a pang of betrayal that makes her hurt in an entirely new and unexpected way.

Cowards. A few months ago, she would’ve scoffed at that. A few months ago, she had scoffed at that. Now, she’s not so sure Jacob’s wrong.

There’s a shifting noise, the sound of crunching joints and slipping fabric, and the next thing Anna knows Jacob’s face is filling the frame of her vision. She strains her eyes, forcing herself to focus on him.

He watches her curiously. The steely blue gaze she’s used to is the somehow both the same as always and entirely different. It’s strange, Anna thinks — there’s a softness in the depths of his eyes. A fondness, even. This man, capable of such dangerous and depraved things, has looked at her and begin melting.

She doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

The blood loss makes it harder and harder to focus. Before she knows it, she’s following the lines of his face, tracing the roughness of scar tissue before her vision swims again.

Jacob is an enigma. He’s a cipher, a secret code she hasn’t been able to break. One moment, he’s twisting her consciousness and using it against her to make her a weapon, and the next? Well, the next moment, the cracks start to show themselves like ice before it crumbles.

Pain launches her out of her thoughts. Her tired body is being jostled, being scooped up like she weighs almost nothing, and it takes a few seconds for Anna to realize Jacob is carrying her. He’s warm, tempting to lean into, and so she does — her head sinks to the side, right against his chest.

“They’re not your friends, sweetheart,” Jacob rumbles, the sound coming more from inside him than it does from his mouth. “Makin’ you play servant girl? Leavin’ you to bleed out once you serve your purpose? Don’t sound like friends to me.”

She doesn’t have the strength to argue with him. All Anna can do is blink, eyes thick and heavy and desperate to shut so she can rest. Between flashes of her eyelids, she sees stairs, sees the tacky decoration in the hotel’s front lobby, sees the shape of Jacob’s truck in the distance.

“I’ll fix you up, honey. Get you back on your feet. Show you who your real friends are,” he muses, more to himself than to anyone else.

Her vision swims again, and this time she doesn’t have the strength to fight it. Anna feels herself go limp, sinking further into his arms, and welcomes the dark curl of unconsciousness into her mind.

“Thank you.”

The words are all she manages before she teeters off the edge into a heavy, consuming sleep.

#anna reid #far cry 5 #fc5 #fc5 fic #jacob seed #staci pratt #friends ocs #my writing

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libradusk · 4 years

Text

Touch Starved | Savage Opress

Word Count: 2,895

Pairing: Savage Opress x Reader

Summary: You finally crack and end up voicing a suggestion that’s been brewing for a while now, maybe it’s the night air that charges the situation more than you intended.

warnings: mentions of bodily harm and tattooing + needles. Otherwise, just good old yearning and fluff!

part of the Touch Starved miniseries

He never smiled.

The thought struck you one evening as you’d stared over your drink in the crowded, backwater cantina. It had become a regular haunt for you and the Zabrak brothers, ever since you had become entwined in their navigation of the galaxy’s underworld. He had sat unflinchingly stiff across from you, saffron eyes forever trained over Maul’s shoulder even as he sipped his own ale, tense and poised to snap the moment an unruly patron stumbled too close to where you all had poured over the cracked screen of a stolen data pad.

Savage Opress never showed much emotion in general really, remaining stone faced and apathetic towards most anything that didn’t strike the furnace of his temper. Since your first meeting he had always preferred to step backwards and allow his more talkative younger brother handle diplomacy, and even weeks later into your working relationship he had remained politely aloof at best and irritated at worst. He just seemed… empty, intelligent yet gullible and loyal to his brother to a fault at the best of times, but still so lost beneath the glares and the wall of muscle and armour.

You were just their accomplice by association, their guide to navigating the underbelly of the black market - not there to ask questions beyond what taste of freedom they could possibly offer you when all was said and done - how they could liberate you from the rotten depths of it all. Really, you had no reason to take such an interest in the taller brother, but there was something about him that sparked something within you, that constantly wrestled against your better judgement.

Whether it was pity, empathy, morbid fascination or something even deeper, you didn’t truly know - nor were you initially prepared to dig through the darker complications of your inner voice to do so.

Whatever it was, you were drawn to him further than what your line of duty - if you could really ever call it that - commanded you to be.

Somehow, over time and slotted snugly between covert operations and what little downtime he allowed himself - your gentle persistence seemed to work, Savage cracked just enough for you to scrutinise beyond the harsh line of his sneer. What you discovered proved to be more troubling than you had envisioned possible.

Savage Opress was a fragile soul - hollow and uncanny in the way he wore skin that did not quite fit him - that did not fit with who he was beneath it, who he used to be. You knew he had endured hardship - he sported the same scars of abuse you had seen countless times over plastering the slaves in the marketplace, and that branded the souls of tortured assassins as they drowned their demons in cheap ale and blood money. The trauma hid deeper than the ink that patterned his flesh, suffocated with fluctuating success behind his dedication to his kin, and the desire to reclaim power that had been stolen from them both.

Yet he still flinched at any touch of your skin against his own when you sparred, recoiling as if you had stabbed him with his own blade when you thoughtlessly placed a friendly hand against his forearm in the busy cantina. It broke your heart to think that you had contributed to the pain festering within him, the shame boiling your blood each time you witnessed that all-too-familiar flicker of panic dance across his eyes for a moment before it was bitten back behind a surly frown once more.

The underworld constantly reminded you that it was birthed through suffering - it only flourished through the agony of those that convulsed through its veins.

The alleyway fumes began to strangle you ever more tightly after that.

You thought you were dreaming the night he finally touched you. He had hauled you to your feet following your training session with such force, that for a horrible second you thought he was preparing to break you over his knee with the action. Savage’s fist had dwarfed your own as he had locked it around your wrist, and despite the frantic motion that had threatened to dislodge your shoulder from its socket, his actual hold on you had been uncharacteristically delicate. He’d seemed as shocked as you then, and while the memory pulled a shy smile from you now, at the time you had been too flabbergasted by the gesture to voice anything outside of wide-eyed disbelief as you stared up at the tall Zabrak.

When he had returned the flustered smile that blossomed across your heated face with a small twitch of his own lips, you had truly been convinced it was all some romanticised fabrication resulting from hitting your head after he had swept your feet from under you.

But he began to smile at you a lot more after that - it was always a little unsure, shy even, but it suited him all the same - like it should always have felt at home on his face.

The ghost of it played at the corner of his lips now, the light of the campfire softening the harsh lines of his face further as you sat together just outside his ship. Maul had long retired for the night, leaving just the two of you to watch as the embers flickered and grappled amidst the blackened wood. Despite the perceived serenity of the scene, you were nervous. You had long since noticed that the tattoos decorating his right forearm, though usually hidden beneath his armour, appeared faded and mottled with scar tissue. The extent of the damage was particularly glaring now, as he rested beside you in a short sleeved tunic that highlighted the swell of his arms. Even in the gentle lighting, whatever harm had been inflicted on him by his old “master” had long since twisted the sienna lines into a warped yellow-grey mess across the surface of the limb.

Scars were a commonplace sight across the underworld - some even viewing them as a mark of experience amongst the darker professions that thrived here - yet there was something about seeing them marred across the skin of someone you had grown to care for with increasing intensity that turned your stomach with anger.

You had taken a private trip to the marketplace not long after you had first caught sight of them, vowing to yourself, as you bartered your way to a rudimentary tattoo kit, that if you were ever to meet the person that had defiled him you would gut them yourself.

Now the little bag of equipment dug stubbornly through your pocket and into your thigh as you shifted in place, mulling over how best to voice your suggestion to the Zabrak. Would he be offended? Enraged? Would he even be willing to have your hands on him for as long as it took for you to retouch his tattoos? The shadows surrounding you bloated with your anxiety, swelling and looming ever more menacingly with each twitch of your knee.

“Speak.”

Savage’s stern bellow cut through the charged silence, commanding your attention and silencing the buzz of your thoughts in one fell moment.

Your eyes find his as they stare down at you, their supernatural glow glinting beneath his dark lids.

Like melted starfall, a pretty Theelin cantina-owner had once described them as such. Though she had obviously been attempting to butter the brothers up to spend more at her bar, the comment had stuck with you to this day.

Suddenly you felt incredibly tiny in their spotlight.

Spots of light stain your vision as you raise your head, and you realise that your gaze must have previously fixated on the glare of the fire pit for longer than you thought. Hurried fingers reach to rub at your face in an aim to refocus your vision. Savage’s face rests in an expression which is at once soft but unreadable as you blink up at him.

It's one he wears often these days, when it's just the two of you.

“You only make that face when you have something you wish to ask, so ask it.”

His speech is as straightforward as ever, but the Nightbrother’s tone is softer now, voice purposefully smooth and steady as he folds his hands in his lap and leans to sit back up straight. You can't help but curse inwardly at how quickly he has become able to read you, noting that your poker face must be losing its touch.

You allow a sigh of defeat to pass between you before fishing the kit out of the confines of your cloak pocket, your idea and reasoning spilling out along with it.

Savage’s face remains unmoving for your entire garbled confession and you contemplate hauling yourself to the nearest cantina to drink away the prickling embarrassment currently spreading across your body. Maybe a bartender will take pity on you and wax poetic about your own features just to numb the humiliation of it all.

The heavy weight suddenly dropped across your lap halts you before you have a chance to spring to your haunches. You jump in your seat, heart instantly racing with an all too familiar surge of adrenaline sharpened from years of simply breathing the air in the epicentre of danger. Savage releases a breathy chuckle at your reaction, but the rigidity of the arm splayed out across your thighs doesn't go unnoticed by you, its fingers flexing around the air in clear apprehension. The sight tugs at your heart uncomfortably and manifests itself in a sigh even as the brief panic fades.

“You don’t need to feel obliged, Savage - I can promise you now that it’ll be no masterpiece.”

The words are hollow and you both know it, but there is truth behind it nonetheless - an invitation to back away if it's too overwhelming a suggestion for him to handle. His eyes search yours again and this time your gaze remains steadfast. You note then, how the campfire paints across his skin in a sunset spectrum and suddenly the heat of his arm against you flares to a burn. His fingers continue to ripple over each other almost rhythmically for a moment as his eyes gloss over in thought, it’s a habit of his that became apparent to you early into your partnership - one that had served as a rare glimpse into his inner anxiety back when he’d remained otherwise unreadable. The muscles across his neck and upper body are pulled tight despite the lax position he's settled himself in, and a sizeable part of you now fights the urge to gingerly push him away and coax him to return to his quarters for the night.

His painted lips part to interrupt you once more, the glint of his teeth catching the thought before it could be tempted to coerce you into running once more.

“...Tattoos are important between Nightbrothers,” his voice rumbles like thunder, it stirs across your ribs even as he breaks your gaze to whisper into the embers of the fire pit, “-having another apply them for you is the ultimate sign of trust in our culture.”

The confession winds itself around your heart and thickens the words in your throat until all you can do is wordlessly reach for the pouch of tools and ink between you both.

Savage doesn’t so much as blink when the needle pierces across his flesh, but his complacency does little to prevent your own face from twisting to a cringe each time you cut into a particularly nasty patch of scarring. He has never properly spoken to you of his kin, aside from Maul that is. You had learnt early into meeting them both that raising the topic of family only served to darken the older Zabrak’s brooding, and you had never dared to pry further after that. Yet as you trace the hooked lines cascading down his arm, you can’t help but wonder how many times he has sat through this treatment before - no doubt by hands who’s skill extends beyond merely giving the odd stick-and-poke to an acquaintance within the brotherhood circuit.

The bare expanse of his skin is warm under your hands, apparent even through the barrier of medical gloves sheathing your fingers. It's different to Maul’s however, who’s penchant for going shirtless had often resulted in you brushing up against his heated flesh in the cramped conditions of the bars and marketplaces you visited. You knew Zabraks ran a higher temperature than most other beings, that much was common knowledge - but Savage’s skin was boiling even in comparison to that. However you couldn't ignore that it also left you feeling unnaturally cold each time you pulled away to refill the needle, as if there was something other than just blood stirring beneath its surface. You had been ignorant to how strange the sensation was before, but now as he sat at your mercy there was no escaping it for either of you.

Still, you fought back the shivers that threatened your hand and finished the job to completion, fuelled by affection than ran much deeper than any surface level discomfort ever could.

The campfire had shrunk to a simmer by the time you finally set down the needle. Savage remained motionless even as you let out a satisfied sigh, golden eyes glowing warmly in the moonlight. They retain their hold on your figure even as he takes a moment to flex his freshly inked arm. It requires a great deal of self-restraint to hold back your own from wandering over the broad expanse of his bicep as he rolls out the fatigue rusted across his joints.

“Wait-” your voice is barely above a hurried whisper, yet it seems to echo through the midnight air with a force that makes you both startle - you realise then that neither of you have really spoken the entire time it's taken to ink his arm.

“I need to disinfect and bandage it,” you hold up the small bottle of rubbing alcohol to punctuate your concern, pairing it with what you hope comes off as a casual smile.

Why did your mouth feel like it was stuffed with cotton? The task was done, yet your throat felt so tight it almost hurt to swallow.

“Besides, can’t have you ruining my hard work by stuffing them straight back into your armour straight away, can I?”

Your words, though much less polished than you would have liked them to be, seem to ease the Nightbrother all the same. Savage lets out a grunt of agreement and settles closer to you this time. Another shudder creeps down your spine as his shoulder brushes against your own, the heat continuing to ripple from his body despite the chill of the night having long since settled around you.

Gently, you take hold of his wrist and stretch out the expanse of his forearm across your knees once more. You can feel the muscles contract under your firm touch, as well as the subtle intake of air that grazes past your ear as Savage leans over beside you.

He jolts violently the moment you drag the disinfectant-soaked rag across his flesh, and for a moment you’re gripped with the fear you’ve hurt him, flinching away and almost knocking the bottle over with your foot in the process. There's a beat before he apologises in a voice far too small for a being of his statue. The surprise in your gut gives way to the electric flutter of butterflies as you become all too aware of the warmth of his palm clutching at your knee.

He nods for you to continue as you glance upwards to his face once more. If he can see the flush that has settled across your cheeks in darkness, he doesn't react to it.

His own eyes are preoccupied with following the path of your knuckles as you gently swipe the cloth in smooth motions across the raised patterns on his skin.

“...There.” The comment is mostly spoken to yourself rather than Savage as you wind the dressing around his forearm, but he thanks you all the same in that smooth voice of his.

The shadows have blanketed further now, yet even in the dying light, they no longer seem threatening.

You hold his arm to your face for a while longer. Your eyes are beginning to sting in the low lighting now, but you’re certain that despite your tiredness you could easily trace each and every line on his arm from memory across the bandage concealing them.

Perhaps it's the sleep deprivation that provokes you to edge forward between your fingers and place a chaste kiss against the exposed marigold skin of his wrist.

At least that's what you settle to tell yourself as you pull back, the sharp sting of rubbing-alcohol clinging to your lips.

Perhaps it's just because he looks so wistful.

Perhaps it's just because you’ve wanted to do it for a while now.

His face wears a new expression then - not a smile, but one you think you might like even a bit more. It's slack-jawed and shy, but also paints his face in thinly veiled peachy delight that even seems to brighten the sickly yellow-green bruising beneath his tired eyes.

You make a note to tip the stall owner the next time you pass through the market.

#touch starved #star wars imagine #star wars reader insert #savage opress x reader #savage opress imagine #clone wars reader insert #weird how his surname is spelled #i had to google it like 100 times to check i was writing it correctly #fucking star wars names i swear #mine #star wars #clone wars #i love savage he is warm like the sun #savage opress x you #savage opress

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emeraldembers · 4 years

Text

Fic: A Thief of Fate (Block/Longin, PG13)

Title: A Thief of Fate

Fandom: Мор. Утопия / Pathologic

Pairing: Block/Longin

Summary: There isn't enough time for them to fall in love, but Longin falls anyway.

Author’s Notes: Originally written for the prompt “The other day I discovered that Longin’s nickname is Patroclus. That, coupled with the many comparisons Block gets to Alexander the Great, (aka Achilles’ greatest fanboy) makes this ship write itself. So give me anything you have with these two, please (the big no is dub/non-con)” over on the Pathologic kink meme.

Warnings: Non-consensual drug use, references to future hanging

Comments loved and encouraged!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075645

* * *

It was a known fact that everyone under Alexander Block's command loved him. A variety of jokes had been made about men crawling through fire for the General of Ashes, and Longin had laughed at the same jokes himself until he was assigned to Block's unit.

He would be the exception to the rule, he had decided, if only out of spite. No man was perfect regardless of his talents, and Longin had yet to meet an idol who didn't deserve to be knocked from their pedestal.

He was determined to be polite but scrutinising, to find the flaws Block's men had refused to see, and when it was time to greet the General, he met his eyes without fear.

Something else gladly took fear's place. He'd never seen eyes so blue, before. Not in real life, outside of a painting.

In an instant, he knew he'd love Block as thoroughly as the rest of Block's men. Just for a different reason.

Longin had known Block was young, barely a few years older than himself, but the reality of seeing it had hit him like cold water. Wrinkles had only just begun to settle in place around his eyes, between his brows, and at the corners of his lips, while stress had threaded grey strands through his dark hair, but as for the rest of him? He was clearly young, and Longin could see more of himself in Block than he had in any of the other top brass.

Longin's captaincy meant having the General's confidence, and even though Block chose his words carefully, avoiding anything that could be spun as insubordination or accusations of conspiracy, Longin knew how to read his posture.

They were being shipped out to the middle of the Steppe by train, to some squalid little town and not to where they were most needed. Block said the order had come directly from The Powers That Be, a detour from the Southern Front to bring an outbreak of plague under control.

Block didn't speak out against the order, and didn't need to. The detour was bullshit, and Longin knew it as clearly as Block did.

Men began to fall ill within hours of reaching the town, even those in head to foot flamethrower gear, and Longin could feel the sword of Damocles hanging over Block's head as surely as if it were over his own. Diverting men to set up the town hall as their headquarters was busy work, an excuse to keep as many of them off the infested streets as possible, and Longin felt a twist of guilt for those still on the streets as he sat alone in an office with the General, sharing a drink while the men moved tables and set up banners outside. The room was far from sound proof, but the clatter of tables and keeping their voices pitched low afforded them something close to privacy.

"The Powers That Be Want Me Dead," Block said, and even though Longin knew it was true, had known something was wrong from the moment they were diverted from the Southern Front, it was sobering to hear the admission from Block's lips. "They wouldn't have sent Aglaya Lilich here otherwise."

"Because she wants you dead?"

"Because they want her dead, too," Block said. It made sense - no one with ideals made it far in the Capital for long. The Powers That Be were comfortable at the top of the chain of command, and didn't like the idea of others disrupting their comfort. "I don't know which of us will be allowed to survive. I fear only God has any say in who'll leave this town."

Longin raised an eyebrow. "You didn't strike me as the religious type, sir."

"I'd like to believe," Block said, sounding tired. That was unsurprising; few people slept well on trains, and the dark circles under his eyes were bruise-purple. "I need to. Someone will have to look after the men when I am gone. I'd rather God took care of the matter than The Powers That Be."

Longin folded his hands in his lap, frowned at them. After watching the uncle who had raised him die from a wasting sickness, and after seeing a close friend's intestines spill out at the end of a bayonet, he was fairly certain that if God did exist, then He knew little about justice or love. "You'll have us to the end, General. Whatever happens. Powers That Be be damned."

"None of you should be here," Block said, and Longin bit his tongue before looking up from his hands at the General's face. Block's eyes were calm, despite his words; he had already accepted his fate.

"But we are. For what it's worth sir, we know what we signed up for. To follow you into Hell, if necessary."

Block chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before he finally said, "Would you lock the door please, Captain?"

Longin carried out the order, breath catching when he turned to find Block standing, the line of his shoulders tight.

"I wish we had more time," Block said, and Longin prayed he wasn't misreading anything when he took a step towards his commander.

"I wish the same."

Block covered the remaining steps between them in a rush, and Longin barely managed to brace himself as he was drawn into Block's arms and kissed.

Longin hadn't misread him. They were young, war and death had their ways of firing up the blood, and Block's mouth drank up his own like a man starved of water.

Longin wished he could hold him tight enough to risk wrinkling his uniform, wished he could tell Block that his eyes were the most beautiful thing he had seen in all his days as a soldier and all his days before that too. The war had stolen so much from them, even the chance to know one another properly, and Longin wanted to steal it all back.

Block pulled away for a moment, Longin readying himself for rejection or dismissal, but instead found Block's hands coming up to frame his jaw, thumbs tracing the curve of it, feeling out and pressing down on the dip of his chin. The look on Block's face was something pained, and Longin wondered if he would ever be able to take that pain away.

"You deserve more than faith and blind luck," Block said, and Longin shook his head fiercely, smoothing his hands down Block's back.

"You've seen men through Hell before," Longin said, closing his eyes and letting his lips find Block's again, brushing against them as he spoke, "I'd trust no one else to navigate it."

Block had kissed him first. It only seemed right to take his turn now.

After their first meeting, Longin had known he'd obey any order Block ever gave him.

The moment Block relaxed in his arms, Longin knew he'd die for the General even without orders.

They were dying faster than reinforcements would ever arrive. No enemy force had proven as inventive, as invasive, or as cruel as the sand pest.

They needed to leave, but Longin had read the orders; if Block left without seeing his mission through, he would be court-martialed, accused of undermining his superiors and jeopardising the nation's safety. Even if The Powers That Be couldn't make an accusation of treason stick, the penalty for insubordination remained death.

Someone would have to bear that penalty one way or another.

Drugging Block's vodka was a simple enough business, and Longin's stomach churned as he watched Block grow drowsy, then concerned, then betrayed, fear constricting his pupils to pinpricks of black.

"What did you do?" Block asked, his words slurring together like a drunk's, legs collapsing beneath him when he tried to stand.

Longin wished he could give him the reassurance of safety, but couldn't - Block had to believe the betrayal was complete.

"We're leaving," Longin said, allowing himself that much honesty as he stood from his own chair and took the town hall's keys from Block's desk.

"Don't," Block said as Longin turned his back. "Don't make me die alone."

Longin held his tongue, knowing the other conspirators were outside, that they would want to know he had succeeded. There was no clatter of furniture to give them privacy now.

You won't die, Longin let himself think. That's the point.

"You'll hang for this," Block said, and Longin took a moment to picture that future - a noose around his neck, a public execution to make an example of the mutineers - and accept it.

His own death would turn Block into a nearly-martyred hero. It would be armour for him in the world of politics for years to come.

But Block would watch, and think Longin hated him.

"I will," Longin promised, and left.

#Fic #pathologic #alexander block #captain longin #Мор. Утопия

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mabeljonesrock · 4 years

Text

Name: Siwang

Species:human

Gender:male

Occupation:assassin/enforcer of the children of Twin masters, heir of golden lotus, part time mercenary/assassin

Voice headcanon: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bhXFNf0wA3o&t=46s (He will sound like an evil, calm version of Avocato)

Weapon of choice: Like his predecessor, his choice of weapon is golden claws but will sometimes uses two katanas.

Powers: His primary power consists in a powerful healing factor which repairs and wound or damage instantly. This also renders him being immune to poisoning of any kind, by simple alchol and cigarettes to vast amounts of cyanide in his body. Unfortunately, the more poison enters his body, the more it takes to Siwang to process it. Also, the healing process takes more time if he is shot to the head. Another good side though is that he can survive being grinded, having his head chopped off, being squashed by two walls and being liquefied. The nanites also strengthened his muscles and enhanced his speed and senses. His fighting style is compared to a stealthy and dangerous wolf and engaged in melee, stealth and Sword Mastery. Like his father and brothers, he had the ability to possess icy-breath but prefer to do the fighting and weaponry instead.

Story: The heroes of big green managed to rescue Dog king’s three sons but unfortunately lost the fourth one. The fourth one is stolen by one of the cultists. They went into hiding where they train the fourth son along with stolen babies into weapons. They named the fourth son Siwang. Over the years, Siwang grew up to be the cunning and dangerous enforcer/assassin of the children of twin masters and training to become the next golden lotus.

Appearance: He wear similar outfit to the decreased golden lotus but with a black scarf instead of a purple cape, had two horns on his mask and had red, blue and black colour schemes on his armour. Without mask and hood, he look like Wu zhi but with different hairstyle. He sport an undercut with armpit length hair tied up in a ponytail and dyed with red and blue tips. He wear a red and blue facepaint painted to look similar to twin masters.

Personality: Personality wise, he take after his predecessor’s charismatic but insane personality and serve as the most deadliest and dangerous member of the cult. Despite his calm and friendly exterior, he is *NOT* definitively sane and can become psychotic and insane when needed. Calculating, manipulative and ruthless, He has a high sense of honor, to the point where if he fails to complete a contract, he will refuse payment. He also welcomes challenging opponents, thinking of Lin Chung as his greatest victory if he is able to kill the harmonic warrior who murdered Twin master.

To some, he is hailed as the ultimate member of the children of twin masters.

However, deep down Siwang is just a bitter and lonely person and his villainous behaviour is just a mask. As a member, focusing a majority of his time on training, he lacks proper social skills and he is told “empathy, compassion and love” are weaknesses. He yearns to have a better life than the one he's currently pursuing as a cultist. On a daily basis, Siwang undergoes a never ending array of conflict, both physically and internally. Siwang deeply resents and envied Wu Zhi and his brothers for having a normal human life and real friends, while he ended up living his life as a weapon. Siwang had no true friends. The cultists constantly at his command and comrade with him which Siwang plays along with, but he’s aware it's only because he is the heir of golden lotus and his reputation as Children of twin masters’s “ultimate weapon”. Because he had no one to befriend him and understand how he feel, Things like love or friendship had slowly become an alien concept to him.

Trivia: Headcanons about Siwang:

•his spirit animal will be a wolf

•when not working for children of twin masters, he work as a mercenary.

•if he is not lost and taken by the cult, he will be named Wu Chang

•he is unaware Wu Zhi, Wu Ji and Wu Hung are his brothers and Wu song and Dog king are his uncle and father.

•he can ride a motorcycle

•in his childhood, the cultists told him and the children stories about the great and wonderful Twin masters and the treacherous, evil Lin Chung. They tell him that the world was a creation of their god, Twin masters, and that it was threatened so long as big green lived to oppose Twin masters's rule. They also told Him horror stories about the villainous big green.

• Siwang is translated to to die in Chinese

•he is pansexual

• Three years ago, Siwang experimented himself by injecting with nanite prototypes to cure his gut wound and the sepsis contracted from it after he was accidentally almost got killed during his brutal training. This what give him regeneration and healing factor powers and enhanced strength

• I can see the parallel between Wu Zhi and Siwang and their father and uncle.

1. They are long lost brothers who are seperated at birth

2. After their separation at birth, they were both raised and grew up differently(Wu song is raised by his human father and grew up to become dental warrior while Dog king is raised by dogs and grew up to become king of dogs. Wu Zhi is raised by his uncle and big green and grew up to become a strong hero while Siwang is raised solely to be an ultimate weapon against big green and to bring back Twin masters and grew up to become a very dangerous killer for hire)

3. The other brother went to the dark side(Dog king is tricked into believing humans are bad and once being brainwashed into becoming a cultist while Siwang is raised and trained by the children of twin masters).

•his whole body is covered with tattoos of demons, flames and skulls.

•Despite being 16 year old, he Look, act and sound like he is in his thirties and many people thought he was an adult.

#au #h108 #hero 108 #hero108 #oc #hero 108 au

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randomimperialcitizen · 5 years

Text

The Tool For The Job An Ork short story

A small piece I thought would be a humorous example of Ork antics.

The thumping of artillery could be heard clearly in the distance. The Ork camp was far enough away to be safe from the reach of the guns, but only just. The wily brutes unwilling to be far away from the action. The Ork camp, or what passes for one amongst their kind, was a shoddy thing. A loose collection of scrap sheds and wilting tents. Their pattern was ever shifting as they were erected one day and cannibalised the next. Dirt roads were busy with traffic as scrap engines hauled mobs of Orks towards the next battlefield. On the edge of this mess was a two story structure making its home on the edge of the dusty wasteland. It was little more than an overgrown shack. Its walls were strips of an old tanker hull patched together and a roof of corrugated steel. Despite its slap dash appearance and rickety engineering, it was one of the most permanent structures of the camp. The shack was the main dispensary for grog. The main source of drink amongst their kind. To call it potable is generous, but the greenskins thrive on the caustic alcohol. Most Orks were smart enough to know that you don’t mess with the grog. And those dumb enough to start tearing down the walls got a belly full of bullets.

The shack was a riot of activity. The noise was deafening as each ork struggled to shout over the others. It was crowded as well, with every available space filled with a mismatched collection of furniture. In one corner a mek slouched on a dilapidated sofa nearly flattened from use. On the second floor, a freeboota captain is passed out, a stack of chipped shot glasses balanced precariously on a dainty coffee table made of fine wood and silver gilding. Gretchin ducked and weaved between the jam-packed tables. Grog sloshed onto their shoulders as they hauled overlaiden trays over their heads. There was little time for specific orders. The grots simply threw down their load on the driest tables and scooped up any loose teeth left out. If an ork wanted something fancy they could fight their way to the bar and pester someone in charge.

One group was having a particularly interesting conversation. With a table made from a train axel by the window, it was a good place for lunchtime chatter. Today they were having a particularly deep and meaningful discussion of orkish philosophy.

An ork in the colours of the speed Freaks drops his weapon on the table. A good three feet of pipe with heavy cogs welded on for the head.

“Dis is da only choppa ya need.” The speed freak declared, tapping his knuckles against his prized weapon for emphasis. “Ya zoomin along yeah? All ya need do is give em’ a wallop and pop goes der ‘eadz! Noth’n feels betta dan getting dem just roight.” The chair creaks dangerously as the red ork leans back. “Made dis beauty meself. Didn’t cost a single toof. Dats da best part, ya just need a stick wiff somethin ‘eavy and ya good to go!”

“Bah!” another ork chimes in. This one was from the Snakebite clan judging from the tattoos and piercings. He leaned back in his chair with his arms folded, obviously unimpressed. “It doesn’t even chop,” he complains. He sticks his arm out, gesticulating with an upturned palm. “How can it be a choppa if it don’t chop?!” With this the snakebite leans forward and slams his own weapon on the table, spilling grog everywhere. It was the stereotypical axe of the orkish culture. A short steel haft with a brick of iron hammered out into the rough shape of an axe head. “Dis is a choppa, good an proppa. Any lad with some know-how can get ya one wiff just a pocket o’teef. Dis will kill anythin. And if it don’t, ya haven’t hit it enough! Every Ork should ‘ave one uv deez. If ya don’t, you’ze aint a proppa Ork!” He finishes his statement slapping the table.

Such a statement would typically end in a brawl to defend their Orkish pride. But the group had known each other for awhile now and were familiar with their friend’s puritanical rants. Now his inflammatory statement merely elicited a chorus of tired groans and a few eye rolls.

“Woah now, we all love somethin good an’ choppy.” The next ork in the circle chimes in, soothing the cantankerous Snakebite’s ire. This one was a Blood Axe kommando, his arms and face smeared with tiger stripes of blue and purple grease. “If you go at one o’ dem beakies or spiky ‘umies wiff dat, you gunna be hackin away for a day and a ‘alf,” the Blood Axe laments, waving at the axe at the table. He scoots forward on his improvised stool, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “What you need is wunna deez.” The bloodaxe slides a broad machete out of a leather scabbard. A simple piece of hardened steel hammered out into a straight backed blade. “Don’tcha worry, it’s good an choppy. But it’s stabby too. Real good when face’n dem ‘ard humies. Da pointy end is wutchya want for finaglin’ past all dem ‘ard bitz.” The kommando wiggles the blade around in the air, pantomiming the act of sliding the blade between his invisible quary’s ribs. “It’s everyfin an Ork needs.”

The circle of Orks hummed and hawed. None of them wanted to agree. It was a good weapon. Lethal and flexible in its uses. But a kommando’s recommendation to quietly go for a kidney? Quite un-orkish. But none of them could really come up with a decent argument. There is one member of the table who didn’t seem fazed. He was full of confidence with his toothy smirk. He was a big Ork. His bulk exaggerated by the gaudy, yellow amour he was wearing. He rattles like a sack of coins from the obscene volume of stolen medals tacked onto him. All the hallmarks of a member of the Bad Moons clan.

He wags his finger at the table.

“I got a treat for ya,” he offers.

He reaches down beside him, coming back up with a bulky chainsword. It was short and bulky, with a chunky engine block and a fat guide bar with a gap toothed chain wrapped around it. A strip of scrap was folded over as a back plate and a spiked guard added to the grip. It was an oversized and unwieldy deathtrap of a contraption, all painted in garish yellows.

“Now dis,” he says while he hefted the weapon. “Is da killiest choppa a lad can ‘ave. It slices, it dices and all dat good stuff!” The Ork was hitting his stride now. Speaking with jovial enthusiasm and becoming more animated in his sales pitch. “Dis bad boy will chop anyfin! Humies, beakies, creepy crawlies, whateva! And da best part? It’s flashy too and every Ork haz gots to be flashy.” He pats his prized weapon likes its a prized fighting squig. “Worth every toof,” he finishes.

“Oh, zog off,” the blood axe cries out. “Does it look like we’z made o’ teef?”

“Wut? Not my problem you ain’t got da teef,” the bad moons Ork deflects casually.

“He’s right,” the speed freak chimes in. “If I got dat much teef, I’m gettin sum snazz for me bike.”

“Or a new squig,” mumbles the snakebite.

The bad moons ork was losing his patience now.

“If ya don’t wonna spend da teef, why don’t ya get a stick like that git?!” The yellow clad points an accusatory finger at the speed freak.

Like all ork communications the polite conversation was quickly turning combative. The piece was quickly falling apart and devolving into a shouting match. Angry orks began pointing fingers and denigrating each other’s choices in weaponry. The snakebite accused the blood axe of being un-orkish and the bad moon called the snakebite a backwards simpleton. Amongst all this the evil suns ork was of the opinion that they were all self important snobs.

As their endless bickering dragged on a new ork entered the shack. A giant shadow filled the doorway. Too large for the crooked frame the colossal ork had to enter sideways, shuffling his bulk past the threshold. Once through the doorway one could truly appreciate his size. It was a monster of an ork, easily a head taller than any other ork in there and twice as wide. This was an ork nob, the biggest and meanest of the orks. The floorboards creaked and faintly trembled underneath the tread of his boots. With armour bedecked in chequered black it was plain to see that he was a member of the Goff clan.

Unfortunately for the squabbling orks the big goff heard their murderous debate. A discussion pertaining to combat? Of course a goff’s opinion was needed. He lumbered over to the table. Too busy arguing, the gang of ork didn’t noticed the mountain of muscle towering over them.

“You’z all wrong, ya gits,” the big ork growls.

The group all turn to look up at the giant brute. The black clad nob shouldered his way to the table. Leaning over, he drops his hand on the scuffed tabletop. More drinks are toppled over from the weight of the massive paw. It was a calloused mitt covered in a decades worth of scars, the smallest finger missing a joint.

"Dis. Is da killiest ting out dere." He spoke with a confidence born of experience. “Ya put anyfin’ in dis hand, it’s da killiest fing out dere’. No matter wot.” He looks around the table as his orkish pride infected the others. “It can be ‘ard. It can be choppy. It can be stabby or just proppa nasty! It’s all killy cuz you’z an Ork!”

The table cheered at the oratory skills of the orkish noble. He leans in, in a conspiratorial manner.

“Don’t you worry bout da teef. Cuz dis’ll get ya all da teef you need,” The Ork nob says while pointing at his fist. “Yeah just need a good buddy and…”

He whirls around and plants his meaty fist square in the bad moons’ face. Bits of ork ivory fly through the air as the yellow Ork tumbles to the ground. The big Goff scoops up the Ork teeth scattered across the table.

“Drinks for dese good lads. I’m payin!” He holds up the first full of teeth, yelling back to the bar. The tables cheers again, even the bad moons boy joins in groggily, raising a fist from the floor.

Another long night filled with grog.

#warhammer 40k #orks

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colehasapen · 4 years

Text

(ONE SHOT) ranov'la STAR WARS

Fives hits the ground running, his heart pounding in his ears and the truth of what he had learned weighing heavy on his shoulders. It’s like a collar around his neck, dragging him down like he’s running through a bog.

When he’d first started his desperate investigation into Tup’s mysterious actions and death, he’d never imagined this.

The Chancellor of the Republic is the mastermind behind everything. He was pulling all the strings, and everyone had just been a piece in his game - all the brothers Fives had lost, all the death and suffering, it was all Palpatine. The Chancellor was behind everything. He was the one behind the War, behind their cloning, and behind the chip in their heads that would be used to kill the Jedi if Fives couldn’t get his intel into the right hands. It was all a game, one that had turned into a session of hunt-and-hunted as the Chancellor sends the Coruscant Guards after him.

They’d be aiming to kills, Fives knows, because to them he’s just a single renegade clone who just tried to kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. They’ll have been made aware of Fives’ rank as a highly skilled ARC Trooper, and Fives knows enough about their training to know what it will mean - the Guard will be shooting first and asking questions later because fighting an ARC Trooper head on, even one with a CT designation, would easily spell the deaths of them and their brothers if Fives was actually a threat. And that was without considering the possibility that Palpatine hadn’t already activated the chips in the heads of the Vode of the Guard to ensure that Fives would die on Coruscant and no one would listen to the truth.

Force, Fives had really stepped in it this time. Echo must be cursing up a storm in the afterlife over his recklessness. He should have gone to the High Generals first, like General Ti had suggested. He should have left the information with someone he trusted in case of this very situation. He should have turned on his comm and broadcasted the Chancellor’s arrogant confession across every open channel in the GAR.

He should have done a lot of things. It’s the story of his life really.

So Fives runs, and keeps running. He needs to find somewhere to hunker down and plan, and try to ride out whatever drug the damned Longneck had dosed him with. He won’t be able to plan his next move if he can’t stay focused, no one would believe him either if he came up to them drugged out of his kriffing minds and acting erratically. He needs somewhere to rest and recover, and to try to reach out to some trusted brothers who might believe him.

It’s when Fives ducks into an abandoned and rundown warehouse many levels down from the planet’s surface that he realizes that he wouldn’t be able to contact anyone from the 501st. That’s what would be expected of him, and would put his brothers in danger if they were being monitored. To reach out to any of them would mean casting the entire Legion in a suspicious light and would possibly mean bringing the wrong kind of attention onto them. Rex was probably already in interrogation, being his immediate superior, as would Jesse and Kix, being the two living brothers Fives was closest two. He didn’t want to bring more attention to them, but who else did he have?

Commander Blitz? No, he wouldn’t want to hear from him after Fives had plowed through Rancor Battalion, even if he hadn’t killed any of them. He had lost so many in the Battle for Kamino that he took any attack on his men as a person slight, and would hold a vicious grudge, even against one of the ARC Troopers he had trained personally. Besides, he must have already left the planet after dropping Fives off on General Ti’s orders, and would be too far away to help even if he wanted to.

Commander Doom was still mourning the loss of one of his Generals and didn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess so soon after General Tiplar’s funeral. He needed to be there for his surviving men and remaining General, and the truth of General Tiplar’s death would put him and the rest of his broken Battalion in danger.

Commander Cody was his best bet. He and the 212th were scheduled for shore leave, and his connection with Fives wasn’t as well known. To the outside eye, Commander Cody was the perfect Marshal Commander, and didn’t have a close bond to anyone in the 3rd System Army to avoid favouritism, though everyone who knew him was well aware of his soft spot for Ghost and Torrent Companies. He worked with enough Commando squads that no one would question it if he disappeared for a few hours without warning, because of his role with SpecOps. Cody could get him in contact with anyone he wanted, he had eyes and ears everywhere, and if anyone could get Fives’ information to the Jedi, it was Commander Cody.

The downside? Fives didn’t know where Cody would be during shore leave. There was a reason why his personal Company was called Ghost, and it wasn’t because they were superstitious - the man could disappear scarily well for a guy in bright orange, and the only people Fives had ever seen actually know how to track him down were General Kenobi and Captain Rex, who seemed to have a sixth - or seventh, in the General’s case - sense dedicated solely to locating Commander Cody at any given time.

A clatter draws Fives out of his plots, and the ARC Trooper goes carefully still, reaching slowly for the closest thing that he could use as a weapon if needed. He curls his fingers around a rusty pipe, and strains his ears, listening for the sound again. There it is, closer this time, and Fives slowly lifts himself to his feet, pushing his body deeper into the shadows offered by the crates he was surrounded by. He stays predator-still, forcing himself past the fuzziness of the drugs in his veins, and keeps himself from shaking through years of intense training and an iron will.

A Trooper in red steps into the large warehouse store room, and Fives almost wants to curse. He knows that paint job - everyone does.

It’s Commander Fox himself.

Fives tightens his hold on the pipe, wishing that he hadn’t ditched his stolen blaster. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to lessen his threat level, but if the Chancellor had activated the Guards’ chips, then they’d shoot whether he was armed or not. At least Fox seemed to be alone. Even drugged as he is, Fives thinks he could hold his own against the Commander, as long as he could catch the older clone by surprise.

Commander Fox prowls through the room, helmet swinging as he searches and Fives forces himself to calm down. He forces himself to slow his breathing, and even his heart rate as he wills himself to blend into the shadows, horribly glad that he had ditched the white plastoid armour about three levels up.

“Building’s clear.” He hears Commander Fox reporting, “Moving on to the next grid.” Fives releases a slow breath, eyes on Fox’s back where he stands mere meters away from where the ARC hides-

-and then, because Fives has the worst possible luck in the history of terrible luck, he sways, vision graying out for the shortest of moments. The pipe in his hands impacts the nearest crate with a dull ringing sound, and the noise kriffing echoes in the empty warehouse.

Commander Fox stiffens, and Fives watches in slow motion as he begins to turn. He panics. Next thing Fives knows, he’s crossing the short distance between them in a rush, lifting the pipe as he goes. Fox is nearly facing him, and Fives swings, catching the Guard Commander in the side of the helmet with enough force to crack the old metal.

Commander Fox crumbles, bucket dented, and he doesn’t get back up. Fives wheezes, adrenaline shaking his limbs more forcefully than even the drugs managed to, and he stares at the limp Commander in shock.

“Well, shit.” He says softly, but with a lot of feeling behind it. “Damn.” The pipe clatters when he drops it, and Fives kneels beside him to carefully pull the helmet off. Commander Fox’s temple is already swelling, bruises already beginning to darken the skin, and part of his forehead had actually split open under the force of the blow and was bleeding sluggishly. Fives winces, pressing his sleeve to the wound to stem the flow, “I’m so dead when you wake up, aren’t I?” He asks the unconscious Trooper.

He should go - he should move on, but Fives doesn’t want to leave the Commander here where anyone can come across him. Doing so could very well be signing a brother’s KIA report if the wrong sort finds him.

“I’m so kriffed.” Fives mourns, staring at the limp CC. There goes any chance to hunt down Commander Cody -

Wait.

His eyes pause on the comm around Fox’s wrist, sucking in a shocked breath. His heart flutters in excitement, and Fives reaches forward to pry off the Commander’s vambrace. “Fives you mad genius.” He says into the silence. A few crossed wires should do the trick to cut off any chance of the comm being tracked - Crys had taught him all about it during a mission with the Ghosts behind enemy lines. Commander Fox would have Cody’s frequency; Fives had seen it himself that all the Commanders had person lines to each other to stay in contact when they could.

This was perfect - a chance coincident that he had never expected to fall into his lap. All it had taken was bludgeoning a Marshal Commander over the head, and - well, fuck it - Fives was already wanted for treason, may as well add assault of a Superior officer to the list. What was a little bit of near-murder between friends saving the Galaxy?

In his hands, the comm beeps as it connects, and Fives almost cries with relief when Commander Cody answers.

“This better be important, Fox.”

#star wars #fanfiction #cole writes #whumptober 2020 #no.17 i did not see that coming #arc trooper fives #commander fox #commander cody

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prorevenge · 6 years

Text

Steal our money and abuse your children? Good Luck with life.

I would just like to put this out there that while I still am a minor, this culminated only last year. Also, I am based outside the US, Canada and Europe, so perhaps some laws may differ. I also suck at languages. Sorry if it gets too long. NSFW tag is needed for details further on. This is a new account, so there will be people who call this fake, and I apologise if this comes off as so.

During the 2008 financial crisis, my father had (ironically) received a promotion based on a project that had rolled out worldwide a few months ago. While his salary only received an increment upgrade, he received a healthy stock bonus (I think that is what they called). As a form of celebration, he decided to buy the apartment we were (and still are living) in and give it a fresh coat of paint (i.e. renovate the house completely). He bought it at well below the market price and the previous owner was more than happy to get the home of his hands so that he could pay off the loan on it. All done and said, my father looked around for a renovator who would work at a reasonable price.

He eventually found one who was ready to do the work at a fraction of the cost the others were doing it at, and after settling on designs and material choices, we moved out of the house and into a service apartment while they began to do the work over 6 months. Now, my father is a very naive person. He believes in the good every being, and will give everything if it means it will help you. The renovator, who we shall name as James, seemed a pitiful character at first. He claimed to be severely overworked by the owners, and had been looking for a way to set up his own business. He non directly was insinuating that my father lend him some money, but, as it was the midst of the financial crisis, my father assured he will try his best to help James out.

Over the 6 months, my younger sister and I got very close to James' two children; twin sisters (Violet and Bella) who were of my age. We would meet often at the local playground, while my father and James would discuss how to help James out with his idea for a business. My father would always recommend a lender, but James would always refuse, stating some bullshit excuse about how he does not want to be tied up. Eventually, my father gave in, and scrubbed together $10,000 to help James bankroll his own renovation business (which in hindsight makes no sense because how do you set up a renovation business with only $10,000). James was very grateful for this and promised to return the money back, and my Father had a contract created with the help of a lawyer, and both James and him signed it.

After the 6 months was over, we moved in. The house was in a great condition, and us kids loved it. But strangely, right after we picked up the keys from James, we never heard a word from in. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and finally months into years, and yet we could never trace James or his kids (he had no wife), and my father did not get his money back, which was a severe strain on us for a year and a bit more. We lodged a police report, but found that this was only one amongst many cases that were against James, and the name and details we had received from him were fake. They were ghosts.

This really depressed my father, because it opened his eyes to the type of people that were around him, and the fact that even if he wanted to look for the good in people and help them, he would always be taken advantage of, regardless of whether it was in the office or in social life.

Fast forward a few years to around March of 2017, and I had just entered the final two years of my schooling education. At the time, I was 15, while my classmates were between 16-17 (I skipped a grade when I was younger, and thus, will still, legally, be a minor when I graduate this year). During the first day of orientation, I picked out two familiar faces in the crowd, that at first I could not put my finger on who they were, and this was strange because I had been in this school for many years and could easily recognise anybody. It took me a few days, and looking at them carefully during classes, to realise that the two new girls who had joined were Violet and Bella themselves, albeit with completely different names and in a bad shape. I approached them at first, thinking they would recognise me, but they never did (and had), and were kind of apprehensive the first few weeks. They did not make many friends at school.

But over time, I managed to get through their armour, and, while they were still not entirely comfortable with me, it was miles better than how the rest of the school treated them. And this was when I actually got a good look at how they had turned out. There were many scars on their hands, any time parents or family were mentioned in the conversation, they basically turned off and went ghost white, and if a boy came even within 2 metres of them, they would turn as white as a sheet or become very agitated. The school counsellor had also notice this, and asked their parents (James essentially) about this, but he played dumb when asked questions and claimed he did not know why these were occurring (just a note, I found this out later but added it here because it helps the flow of the events). I realised something was horribly wrong nearly the instant I saw them but this confirmed it.

Over the same time, my friends and I tried to include them in as many activities as possible, and we took as many pictures with them (and every time somebody took out a camera they would shudder) as possible under the guise of memories, but I mostly kept them as evidence because I had a feeling this was not a good story. It is also important to note I had not told my father that James' children were in my school as it would only trigger bad memories for him and I did not want him to go through the same phase again.

After collecting these pictures, my friends and I made a beeline for the counsellor. The pictures showed in greater details the type of scars that the two sisters had on their hands and feet, which aren't visible in school uniform as our uniform consists of long pants and a full sleeve shirt. I am pretty sure the counsellor and us had a good idea where these scars had come from, but the pictures only was not really great evidence to James arrested, but it was enough to have our country's CPS equivalent get involved. And let me tell you, these guys do not mess around. They have their own division of military trained "police" officers and are relatively well funded, will go to any lengths to thoroughly investigate a case, and will ruin your life if they even doubt you.

After submitting the pictures, and learning a case was opened, we were not involved in much else as we were still minors. That was, until a few months after (December of 2017), when my friends and I were pulled out of class by the principal, and were taken to the local police station were a representative of CPS was waiting for us. They were very polite, and wanted to know more information about the case. Apart from what were in the pictures, and what we gave, my friends could not provide much else. Neither could I, but I saw the representatives eyes light up for a second when I mentioned about who the father was and how he had cheated our family. But apart from that, we did not hear much after that, other than they might need us as witnesses (I am sorry if this comes off as wrong but this is what I recall) if the case proceeds onto court.

Some weeks later (January of 2018), my father received a call from the police to come down for the case on James (I don't think it was ever closed due to the sheer magnitude of number of cases against James). Apparently they had let him know that there was a new lead on where James might be and he might be needed later on. They also let him know that CPS was on the case too, so he should expect a call soon on them for their case on James (I think they now believed that James was behind the scars). My father had known by know that I had gone to the counsellor with pictures of Bella and Violet being potentially abused, as the principal had called him up on the day CPS had pulled me out of class for an interview, so he had fully expected this, and was seething with anger because a man he had thought to be good had stolen his money and abused his own daughters.

After that, I do not know what happened for a long time. Bella and Violet remained in school, more drawnback than ever, and my friends and I were not contacted any more. Until one day, around June of 2018, just before we broke for summer, when they were met outside of school by a representative of CPS. I was a close friend of them by now, so I was walking with them to the bus stop, when we were met by the representative. He asked me to continue on, as he had to ask them a few questions. I moved on, fully expecting what was to happen. It didn't take long.

Around end September of 2018, CPS contacted my father and I, as well as my friends, regarding the case, They needed some things (I could not go that day as I had been hospitalised for a compound fracture), so my father went for the both of us (he could sign for me as I was still a minor and he was a legal guardian). When he came back, he was truly shocked. It turns out the problem was far more than I expected. My father had signed an NDA, as had my friends, and even though I had been involved, I could not get much out of them except that my friends and I had started something huge.

Come December 2018, and finally I found out just what we had started. The entire article was printed in the papers (James, Bella, Violet, my friends and I, and my father were not named due to a gag order to protect the identity of the victim; other than us lot, nobody else in the school or society, to my knowledge, knew who the children in question were).

Bella and Violet had not only been physically abused by James with the use of pipes and belts, but they had been raped by James multiple times, and their reaction to the camera, which I mentioned earlier, was due to the fact that James had been recording his rapings of his Bella and Violet, and had been trying to sell them to snuff sites on the dark web. In addition to this, he had cheated nearly 15 victims (including my father) out of nearly $200,000.

The book was thrown at James, mainly due his treatment of Bella and Violet, as well as due to another incident which had happened when he was being arrested, but I will not mention it because it, on its own, will give away where I am from. He was given multiple life sentences, no chance of parole, and was also given another punishment that is not used in other countries, but I will not mention it because it identifies where I am, but I am guessing the smart people here will be able to find out just what it is anyway.

I am also pretty sure the people in prison will do not take kindly to child rapists, so he is in hell. Which is good. Because that is all he deserves.

I do not know where Bella and Violet are, they were pulled out as soon as court proceedings began.

(source) story by (/u/TakeRevengeAsALiving)

#prorevenge #by /u/TakeRevengeAsALiving #pro revenge #revenge stories #pro revenge stories #pro #revenge #last10

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thegildenheart · 6 years

Text

ARR: First Impressions

In which Thancred is robbed by, and stumbles upon, the unknown Warrior of Light completely by accident.

(My headcanon on Warrior of Light Alley’s first meeting with Thancred Waters.)

The Warrior of Light had many names, and was many things to many people. Hydaelyn's Chosen. The Hero of Eorzea. The Slayer of Gods. The Liberator.

Before all that, however, she was the Alley Rat.

Thancred Waters knew this better than most.

Better than anybody, perhaps; though he was not keen in claiming such, he was the reason she was introduced to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn at all. Indeed, the group he called home – the selfsame that had now become so earnestly affiliated with the various government bodies of Eorzea – would not be where it was today had it not been for the discovery of one certain homeless Midlander.

It was a fact he was certain of, despite the knowledge and trust he had in his fellow Scions.

Thancred himself was born a street urchin in Limsa Lominsa, just as the Warrior of Light was in Ul'dah. He was typically reluctant to recall his time amongst petty thieves, and even further still to relive his pickpocketing attempt on a certain elderly Elezen, but the parallels amused him all the same. Louisoix's boots were large ones to fill, but in the same way the Elezen had discovered Thancred, and given him a life of purpose, so too had Thancred to the Warrior of Light.

She, in turn, looked up to him as not only a close friend, but a mentor, and a saviour. To be looked upon so highly by the girl who had since slain god-like entities called Primals time and time again only ever prove to ground him in a humility he had long since accepted as inevitable.

The Warrior of Light's name was Allie Lindlum, the Alley Rat, and he remembered the meeting as if it were yesterday.

This damnable heat.

Thancred would call it insufferable were it not for the dancers on every street, clad in little but that to ensure their barest modesty. Minfilia had spent several evenings scolding him for his insistence on working to his utmost, so he felt little shame paying such sights a few moments of attention. Still, he was here with a mission, and the heat – welcome sights of dancers or not – was doing him no favours.

Silently, he envied Y'shtola's mission in Limsa Lominsa, amongst the ocean breeze and like-minded individuals (welcome or otherwise).

The Midlander weaved his way through the crowds of people, pricking his ears. The sounds of commerce were thick, filling the streets with cries of contesting customers and honest merchants alike. Aether disturbances were peculiar occurrences, but more likely than not, somebody in a city as large and populated as Ul'dah would let slip whispers of something untoward in the area.

That was his hope, at least; the Sharlayan goggles resting on his right shoulder would guide him if nothing else –

Wait.

With a sudden, growing sense of unease, Thancred patted his shoulder to find it bare, save for the linen of his dark tunic. He groaned. Y'shtola was going to kill him! The device – lenses set tightly against a gold frame – was designed to analyse aetherial energy in the area... which was, naturally, of great import to his mission of finding disruptions in the first place! With a grimace, Thancred ran fingers over his belt, confirming his suspicion: his coin purse was missing as well.

He'd be robbed.

Allie couldn't believe her luck!

Well, it wasn't all luck. She was very skilled, after all. And magical, too! Or so she told her friends. The young girl had always felt gifted in her craft, able to steal from even the wariest of marks, be they tall and burly or small and crafty. Or, in this particular case, sketchy but very handsome. She tried to teach her like-minded urchins, but none had the knack she had, and when she claimed to be able to sense what people were about to do when she really focused, all she received was a scoff and and eye roll for her troubles.

But it was true!

Easing through the crowd, she spied a particularly expensive looking doodad on an especially charming looking Midlander. He wasn't dressed particularly well – a black linen shirt on a white underlayer, really? - but the strange thing on his shoulder caught the waif's interest nonetheless. It was gold and had strange parts in it. That was definitely worth something!

Following along at a casual pace, Allie shifted all of her focus to the man with white hair. It typically took several moments, but her gift did always eventually kick in, and as with everybody else, the girl could begin to feel the ebb and flow of his movements. His intentions became clear to her, fleeting glimpses of changes in his direction seconds before they happened. It was when she felt him stop and turn his gaze towards several Miqo'te dancers that she found her moment.

Lifting the device off his shoulder was surprisingly easy, all told, certainly with the man's gaze so firmly... elsewhere. It was haphazardly held by simple leather straps, loose enough for nimble fingers to pry looser still. In a deft movement, the strange device slid free of the Midlander's shoulder and into Allie's possession just as the man gave a small whistle to a certain dancer.

She also lifted his coin purse for her troubles, but only because he was asking for it, wearing it so brazenly on his belt as he did, and more importantly besides, for his rather obvious ogling.

Eager to make herself scarce, Allie disappeared into the crowd going the opposite direction to admire her new royalty. She turned it over in her hands, marvelling at the strange design of the contraption as she carefully stepped over a drunken, stumbling Lalafell merchant underfoot. The frame was gold – or at least painted so, she couldn't tell – and it had curious round glass bits, too. Was it supposed to be a mask, she wondered?

Allie was drawn from her thoughts by a shrill cry.

Thancred's search was fruitful, if not entirely happenstance. Drawn by the sudden yell of a woman – a damsel in distress, perhaps! - the Scion spied a young, blonde dreadlocked girl crowding around the scene, with a rather familiar device in her grubby little hands, at that...

“Shut your mouth, you thieving little swine! You stole from me – don't even think to deny it!”

Thancred grimaced. His own thoughts – albeit a touch less mannered than his own – rang loudly, sourced from a particularly obnoxious looking Midlander merchant. Two thugs sat at his wings – a burly Roegadyn with a gaudy bandana and even gaudier leather armour – and a robed gentleman he could not see the features of. Easing his way closer to the thief of his dear aetherial analyser until he was directly behind her, Thancred found another woman, sprawled across the floor, hand clutched to her chest. No doubt the owner of the shrill cry just seconds prior.

“P-please, sir, I didn't steal nothin'! I b-bought this – paid for it with me own coin!”

Thancred's lips curled in distaste. It was a scene that grew in occurrence since the refugees began to pour in to Ul'dah, but they were no easier to see despite it. His focus was on reclaiming the device the onlooking blonde had taken, but at the same time... he curled his fingers around the dagger at his side and waited. He could not stand by idly while a woman – guilty or innocent – was endangered by thugs.

“What rot! You refugees are all the same – couldn't afford maggoty mole meat, much less a choice cut of dodo! I'm going to say it one more time: give back what you stole, or I'll make you wish you'd never set foot in this town!”

The crowd that had formed looked on in dismay, though slowly began to thin and disperse. Thancred settled on the idea that the offended merchant had strings to pull rather quickly, given the populace's haste to leave him berate the poor woman in peace. The thief that had stolen his device, however, remained stood, a grimace upon her youthful features.

“By rights, I should turn you over to the Brass Blades, you know – help keep the streets safe for law-abiding citizens,” the merchant continued, a coy smirk settling into his weasle-like features. It made Thancred's stomach turn. “But I'm a reasonable man. If you agree to serve me in... whatever capacity I require, the authorities needn't hear of your crime.”

“B-But I ain't done nothin' wrong! Twelve as me witness!”

Thancred had seen enough. He stepped forward, only to pause at the groan on his left. The blonde thief practically doubled forward, clutching her forehead. A pained expression wriggled across her freckled cheeks – an expression Thancred had seen before.

Staying his hand, his focus shifted, now, to the girl miming an action he'd see Minfilia do several times before...

The girl rushed forward, placing herself between the woman and the detestable merchant.

“S-she didn't do it! I saw it! I saw her buyin' the dodo cuts, I did! Paid for it with her own coin!”

Thancred's eyes narrowed, and for the first time, he took proper stock of his thief. She was young – late teens, by his guess – and definitely the fitting image of an unfortunate soul. Malnourished, underweight, impoverished – her frame was gaunt and empty, lacking in any real shape or substance. Her clothes were threadbare, tattered and frayed at their ends. What hope did she have against armed thugs?

But something in his gut kept him rooted. If she truly were like Minfilia... then...

“What are you on about, girl? I've had enough of this mummer's farce. You lot, teach them a lesson!”

What ensued next even Thancred could not explain. The rush of violence was expected on the part of the merchant's thugs, but the girl – the pickpocket – was something else. She was not trained, nor had she any weapons – but every fist that came her way found naught but air. Thancred could see the equal amounts of surprise and concentration in the girl's face, warring with each other in a sea of inexperience. She ducked, and weaved, and sometimes stumbled, but the fact remained... nothing that the brutish thugs swung her way found any purchase... nor did she, in turn, swing anything back.

“What the hells is this girl!?”

“I can't hit 'er! She won't sit still! Bleedin' rat!”

“Let's get outta here! She's some kinda monster!”

Could it be? This pickpocket, this young girl, through sheer, blind luck...

Did she have the Echo?

Thancred stepped forward.

If only he knew.

#ffxiv #longpost #alleywol #alley rat #allie lindblum #thancred waters #writing #divergence #forgive me while I find my writing voice for this #it will be rusty to start #and jump around a lot #but i want to get key moments down before i move to the divergence stuff #my writing

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aumonstax · 6 years

Text

The Truth Untold - Knight!Ten

Maybe back then A little Just this much If I had the courage to stand before you Would everything be different now?

It all started when you guys were kids

The little princess and the boy that lived in the sun house.

You were the heir to the throne, the only child to the Royal family.

It wasn’t a life you would have chosen for yourself, if given the option you always said you wanted to be a knight. They got the cool job.

You always had a fascination with swords and armour, which is how you met Ten.

His father was the Commander of the King’s Guard, one of the most highly regarded men in the country and a damn good swordsman.

You had a habit of running away from your nannies, none of the maids could keep their eyes on you for more than five minutes without you pulling some crazy stunt to run off to the armoury or the training quarters to catch a glimpse of them in action.

But you got caught. Every time.

After a while Ten’s father stopped ratting you out to your dad because they were good friends but he disagreed with keeping you away from the Knights, how else were you supposed to learn to defend yourself?

He secretly started to train you to fight; enter Ten, your new training partner and the Commander’s son.

He was soft-spoken and reserved, but that soon lightened with your goofy, carefree demeanour.

It was hard not to warm up to you, with a personality like yours people often joked about how you must have been blessed at birth by one of the Kingdom’s Mages.

The two of you would spend all day with each other, whether or not you were training. Some days you would just sit and watch, other days you would spend wandering the gardens together and he fought the urge to pick the daisies he wanted to tuck into your braids.

After a couple of months of you sneaking out to the training quarters, your father caught on and forbid you from going there.

And so you lost contact with your only friend.

Fast forward a couple of years and you’re a beautiful young princess, a year away from being ready to marry.

Being the only Heir, it was your duty to take over the throne and to do so you must be wed.

But also, now that you were known to other Kingdoms, you had to take extra precaution for your safety, and you were assigned a Knight to guard you always.

But dad, that’s why I wanted to learn how to fight. I’m too old for a babysi-

You stop mid sentence, suddenly breathless, when the door to the Great Hall is pushed open and a familiar figure enters the room.

He’s... different now. Most of the baby fat from his cheeks that you used to pinch having disappeared, they were replaced by high cheekbones, an elven nose and sharp eyes that send butterflies straight to your stomach.

Holy shi-

“I thought we could compromise. He graduated the academy at the top of his class, so I have absolutely no doubt that Ten is capable of protecting you with his life when and if necessary.”

You couldn’t stop staring at him, was he always this... beautiful?

He notices your eyes lingering on him for a second too long and the tips of his ears start to turn pink, if you hadn’t picked up on that tell tale sign of his embarrassment years ago, you wouldn’t have noticed it now.

And so, just like that you had your oldest and only lol fuck friend back in your life, although you had to admit things felt different.

It must have been the academy. It gave him the discipline and structure he needed, remembering how goofy you were as kids you could imagine it would have interfered with his training to continue playing around like when you were younger.

It took time but over the next few months together, he started opening himself back up to you and eventually it was like you were never apart. You had your best friend back.

But the problem was now he was really fucking hot, and you’re a 17 year old girl.

Did I mention he stood guard in your room while you slept ?

You weren’t sure when exactly he slept, but he had convinced you he did ... somehow ..

Unbeknownst to you, when Ten saw you that day all of his old underlaying feelings for you had resurfaced.

He’d loved you since you were only children, if he even knew what love was then.

All he knew was you were the only person to have made him feel the way he did, and seeing how fucking beautiful you were now just made him light headed.

How was it even possible for you to look that good in just a t-shirt and jeans?

And then to start spending time with you again, just to find out you were the same little dork you’d always been.. it filled him with so much joy.

Unlike you, Ten had grown up fortunate to have many friends. Most of them were also Knights now, but a few luckily worked in the kitchen.

He wouldn’t tell you, but that was how he managed to sneak so much food into your room late at night when you were craving cake but your father had told all of the maids not to bring you anything after 10pm because you wouldn’t sleep well on a stomach full of cake,, sure

What did he knew anyway? -eyeroll-

He risked getting in trouble for defying the King’s orders every time but he couldn’t help it, the cheeky grin on your face and the way your eyes lit up.. followed shortly by the bearhug you always gave him ... He was so weak for you, he couldn’t say no

Some nights you had nightmares, and he was always by your side brushing the hair away from your sweat covered forehead shushing you softly to soothe you back into a comfortable rest. Lips hovering millimetres from your temple, longing to kiss you softly .. but he never did, the closer he got, the more the pit of guilt in his stomach weighed.

Reminding him that he didn’t deserve you, he never would.

The morning after nights like that, he would always be slightly more quiet, more withdrawn and you wondered if you’d said something to upset him.

That year flew by, and before you knew it you were standing on a rotating stand with the castle tailor Taeyong measuring you for your ‘coming of age’ ball gown. It was a glorified auction. Your parents didn’t have to tell you but it would be the night they choose your future husband. The next King.

You sat in your room silently, thinking about all of your conflicting feelings while fiddling with the ring Ten gave you. He made it when you were kids, so proud of the first thing he’d ever made in his forging class, and naturally it had to be a gift for you... his best friend.

Was that all you were?

You couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially now.

Did he feel the same way you did? Did his heart ache for you the way yours did for him?

He burst into the room sounding out of breath

“There you are! Your father asked me to come find you, you were supposed to go to Taeyong an hour ago. He’s waiting to finally see the dress on you.... are you okay?”

He asked, noticing you didn’t look up when he opened the door, or even when he spoke.

You remain silent for a minute before standing up to face him, and you lock eyes. The serious expression painted across your face told him something was up, he’d never seen you like this...

“Ten I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

He nods slightly and you continue,

“Am I doing the right thing? Getting married to a stranger... I mean. I just feel like there’s something missing, shouldn’t I love the person I’m going to spend the rest of my life with?”

Realization starts to hit him, he knows where this conversation is going.

“I think that in your heart... you know what the right thing to do is. For everyone’s sake.”

You look at the ground between you in defeat, eyebrows furrowed.

“But what if... what if what’s right, and what’s best for me are two different things? What if I want to be selfish for once in my life? What if I want something that I’m not supposed to have.. but it’s all I’ve ever wanted... and it’s all I’ll ever want?”

Tears are forming in both of your eyes and he’s grateful you looked away, so you couldn’t see how desperately he wanted you too.

“Your father ... W-we shouldn’t keep him waiting..” His voice is barely above a whisper, afraid that if he spoke any louder everything he was holding in would just come tumbling out.

You nod once, still not looking up.

You felt so pathetic, you didn’t want Ten to see you cry; even if his expression mirrored your own without you knowing.

He escorted you down to Taeyong’s workshop to tweak the final few things on your gown for the evening, standing by the door but still inside the room. Even though Taeyong’s space was generous, the distance between the two men wasn’t so great that Taeyong missed the pained longing in Ten’s eyes when he turned you to face him, your hair and makeup now done.

“Isn’t she breathtaking?”

If there were any air left in his lungs Ten would have done more than nod dumbly, but it was all he could manage after seeing you. Words couldn’t describe the way you looked, you were ethereal.

That night Ten had to stand on the sidelines, in full armour, helmet and all, as tradition would dictate. Watching as the masses of Princes, Dukes and more all asked for your hand to dance, attempting to court you completely ignorant to the fact a Knight had already stolen your heart.

You were as cordial as you could manage to be, still aching from the rejection you faced earlier that evening.

One Prince had stood out from the masses though.

Jaehyun from the Jung Kingdom.

He was definitely one of the most handsome men in the room, with his wide doe eyes, dimples and cheshire grin... but it wasn’t that that had won your father’s approval.

He was a decorated Knight as well as a scholar.

‘Brains and brawn!’ He’d exclaimed while clapping a hand onto his shoulder proudly.

And so, your father had made up his mind.

You couldn’t complain, of all the men you’d met that night he was by far the kindest.

Sympathizing with your forced participation, as the two of you danced Jaehyun admitted he felt guilty that you didn’t exactly get a say in who you were to spend your life with. But if it were to be him.. he would do whatever it took to make you feel safe and happy by his side, and that he would promise on his life.

You almost didn’t notice Ten slip away, but Jaehyun points out his surprise at your personal guard not being by your side. You turn to look over your shoulder just as the door is closing behind him.

He couldn’t bare to watch, guilt eating at his heart reminding him he had just told you that you were better off without him.

The rest of the night carries on without Ten watching over you, and you almost feel worse without him there. As if you were dancing and laughing with another man behind his back...

And you had to remind yourself that you weren’t his, and he wasn’t yours. As mush as it hurt, you were free to enjoy Jaehyun’s company guilt-free because Ten didn’t want you. Ouch.

The next day you’re in your father’s office, Ten standing silently outside of the door, keeping watch like always.

The two of you are discussing the details of your arrangement with Jaehyun and the logistics of you moving to live with him in the Jung Kingdom, until your time to take over ruling when your father felt you were ready.

“So Ten will escort me there or is Jaehyun returning to take us with him?”

“Us?”

Ten cocks his head, overhearing the muffled conversation also curious to hear what would be happening.

“You know that Ten won’t be accompanying you once you leave the castle, don’t you?”

“...What?” Both of your hearts sinking at the thought of being separated again.

“Jaehyun is more than capable of protecting you, and he has a very sufficient Guard of his own. Ten will stay here to fulfill his duties and work along side his father. Besides, you’re too attached to him. You’re not a child anymore, people will start to talk.”

After that day Ten’s father has him working on training new recruits, taking the opportunity to give him some hard work now that Jaehyun had sent men of his own to watch over you until he’s able to come to escort you to your new home himself.

You don’t see Ten until the day you leave.

You’re packing the last of your things when you hear muffled talking outside, followed by the sounds of your guards walking away as the door opens quietly.

A mop of dark hair peaking around the open door before fully entering the room.

“So... this is it?” He asks softly, eyes on your hands working to pack away the last of your clothes into the trunk at the foot of your bed.

You don’t bother looking up before responding.

“I guess so. He’ll be here any minute.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, as you finally looked up.

“I guess I should be grateful this time I get to say goodbye at least...” he lets out a breathy laugh without humour, leaving the air thick with unspoken words.

“I’ll return one day, when my father is ready to let me take over the kingdom. But we both know he’s a control freak so we’ll see how long that takes..”

You both crack a slight smile this time.

Footsteps approach the door before a fists lightly raps at the wood, Jaehyun opening the door with a smile after you called to him that it was unlocked.

He and Ten acknowledge each other with a curt nod, but when his gaze lands on you Ten doesn’t miss the way his eyes soften.

And he doesn’t blame him, who wouldn’t fall in love with you?

Before you know it, you’re at the bottom of the castle steps, hand in the crook of Jaehyun’s arm as you wave goodbye to all of your loved ones.

It’s not goodbye, it’s ‘see you soon’. Jaehyun had said a few times while squeezing your hand lightly, noting the sad look on your face as you prepared to bid farewell to everyone you’ve grown up with.

He’s not here...

As the carriage takes you away to your new home, Ten watches from the window of your bedroom.

Clutching the ring you hadn’t noticed you left behind, he wondered when he would see you again.

I'm crying, That disappeared, That’s fallen. Left alone in this sandcastle, Looking at this broken mask.

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ventrue-rosary · 6 years

Text

Heroes Don’t Always Win

A small one-shot wrote shortly after the parties unfortunate demise in The Amber Temple of Curse of Strahd. Amaranthe is my own character, Vander belongs to @theasexualityfandom, Balthazar, Zazif and Raz are owned by people without accounts on this hellsite.

Carnage. Death. Destruction.

That is what surrounds Amara as she stands in the temple, shock paralysing her as she stares at the body of her fallen friends. Amara had never really experienced loss before. But this is more than that. This is complete and utter defeat. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, and a hollow ache in her chest as she feels the feeling of hopeless take hold.

‘You have to move...’ A voice that is not her own commands her. She feels a jolt in her limbs, calling her to action.

Her feet start slowly shuffling forward, her body still filled with perpetual exhaustion that makes every movement feel like it is bringing her closer to the brink of death. The quiet scuffle of her boots on the frosted ground is the only sound now, the sound of pain and the struggle to survive snuffed out with just two beams of magical energy.

Reaching the staircase, she faces up at the statue, a large amber construct depicting a robed wizard. Though his facial features are shrouded by the shadow of his hood, she feels as though he is sneering down at them.

Amara tears her eyes away, forcing herself to see them. When she sees Balthazar lying face-down and completely still, her eyes involuntarily close to blot out the ugly sight. Hot tears spill down her face.

She makes the first step down, and starts her slow descent.

Amara see’s home. The palace basked in the light of a peaceful dawn as the sun mounts the horizon, painting the rolling hills surrounding it in golden light.

Her mother, smiling and laughing as she walks Amara through the castle grounds, hand-in-hand. Her father sneaking her treats from the kitchen when her mood is sour. Sparring with Reginald in the training ground until it is dusk, her limbs are too heavy to lift and she collapses in bed still in her armour.

She is halfway down. A quiet drone sounds in the background.

Amara thinks of the people she met during her journeys, the fallen hero Addenus who gifted his legacy of greatness to her. The strong and fierce shieldmaiden Helga, with a heart of gold.

And soon after, Zed, Corvus and Zazif. The month they spent travelling and growing closer, followed soon by Zed’s untimely demise. She regrets she never got to know him better.

Zazif, though he and Amara having their differences, held great potential and died too young. Kind Corvus, absolutely brutalised, deserving better in both life and death.

She passes the bodies of Vander and Balthazar. Her feet nearly fail her, slipping on the ice. She catches herself. Sags against the railing trailing down besides the steps. Amara wants to lie down and rest. But she doesn’t. She forces her dying body onwards even as the deadly bite of frost takes hold. She closes her eyes again. Remembers.

Remembers Vander reunited with Elora, how youthful and joyous he had seemed since their meeting, departure and subsequent reuniting. Hope invigorated in his eyes that now stare up at the roof of the temple, vacant and empty. Elora’s still form cradles in his arms protectively.

Remembers Balthazar, and his sudden appearance when they first met, saving them from the jaws of death. The back and forth between them during their travels. Their few and far between disputes, but far outmatched by their playful teasing and shared jokes. The coy looks stolen during the quiet hours of rest they snatched between all the danger and fighting. A quiet pondering in both their minds, actualised just a few days ago.

Now there are visions she sees not of the past, but of the future, the future ripped from her hands. Returning to the Sword Coast with him, reuniting with her mother and father and making introductions. A secret and exciting love affair kept behind closed doors, hearing the servants gossip and giggle. What they’re children might look like.

It brings a smile to her face, but it is short lived as the droning grows louder.

Amara opens her eyes. From beneath the shadow cast by the hood of the statue, a sickly green glow slowly builds, then sparks to life just as she reaches the last step. She stops, taking in deep breaths to calm her pounding heart, as she watches a beam zoom towards her, cutting through her chest.

Pain, pain like she’s never felt, but it is a welcome reprieve from the grief and isolation she felt. The force of the strike makes her stagger backwards, clutching the ragged edges of the gaping hole in her chest. The world tilts sideways as she collapses. The world melts into one blurred pallette of obscure colours and shapes, but her vision slowly trickles back to her, revealing the prone form of Balthazar besides her.

Amara reaches for him with one hand. Her hand shakes from the effort it takes. Her hand lands on top of his, the skin already growing cold as the last remnants of mortality wither and die within him.

The exhaustion she felt before deepens, and it is a battle to stay conscious, but one she concedes to letting herself be swept away into the everlasting sleep.

No call for vengeance rings out through these halls. No tears are shed for these fallen adventurer's. Their sacrifice, though the most ultimate, and noble, is in vain. The curtain on a fight elsewhere between a greater and a lesser evil falls, as Barovia’s final and most unlikely hero falls.

Over time, Barovia’s steel-grey skies twist into sickly green. The scant wildlife of flora and fauna wither and die as the ground becomes poisonous. The denizens of Barovia, once empty shells devoid of hope and happiness lose their last shreds of humanity, as the madness and agony Raz curses the land with take hold.

And as for Raz himself, the only sole thing he remembers of the man he was once is a single name: Kia...

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#my writing #amaranthe vaenna darcelle #vander carris #balthazar #zazif #raz #dnd #cos #ly rambles #haaaa I'm still so sad over this

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asktheskinner · 7 years

Text

A Time’s Parallel

Melchiah sighed pleasantly. His lips curled a gentle smile with the brushing fingers of the lake-sweet air brushed on his clean skin. The coming spring was making the courtyard tree blossom beautifully this year, he couldn't help but stare. Every year, the children loved to play in their branch and risk climbing the well-aged heights despite the scolding of the stronghold nuns. A soft pepper of a chuckle coming to mind to the foreknowledge that Brother Zephon somehow manages to save the children each time, being the advocate of these childish games.

The boy was always a boy and perhaps, that is the innocence in his precious soul that saved him from his higher duties under the Lord-Guardians' commandments. Everyone had them, even Malek's young squire.

"Come along, Brother Rahab. We have to watch the new boys training!" A loud voice urged, still brimming of eager energy despite the hour. From his solitude of meditation, Melchiah looked on. The older man dressed in his simple robes of gentle gold and doe-white watched as Dumah, strong and stout with youth scarred by young man's battles, practically dragged the ever-patient Rahab behind him.

"Brother please," Rahab hummed - his voice was always controlled and careful, even on a friend's ear - but it edged of mature amusement, "We both know you just like to tease them on mistakes." Such easy observation made the somewhat younger knight huff with that characteristic little puff of cheeks and stiff thickening of the neck before it became a wild, ease smile to the raven-locked mane. "W-well yeah! To make them better. Its boring making spar with squires who can't tell a parry from a riposte." Rahab finally reclaimed himself with a quick halt of his walking boots and fixed at his outer blue robes, his scarred lips an easy smile. "It took me years to teach you." He remarked, making Dumah gag in the attempt of defence but his good nature couldn't bring even a white lie that Melchiah to be proud of. Then his violet eyes flicked over once before quickly gaining ground to change the subject with a wave, "Ah! Good 'morrow Father Melchiah. We didn't see you there, smelling the flowers again?"

"You didn't see." Rahab remarked with a brush of elbow as he approached into the courtyard for a gentle bow of respect to the cleric, "Good 'morrow, Father." Melchiah was lost a moment as he gave a gentle chuckle, "Please, it is little need for such formalities, Brother Rahab." The title given made the mariner bubble his gentle chuckle while Dumah struts over like a prize stallion, "Of course. Have our Lord given you a peaceful light today?" With a grip on his wood-creaking knee, Melchiah heaved himself almost gracefully. A misstep and both younger men were instinctive to try and catch him. Thank the Lord's grace, the cleric was able to easily adjust with a gentle palm of relent and smile of gratitude. "Yes, he has, Young Rahab. He has given me the vision of two boys who have grown to two noble protectors of His mercy and grace. I see our brotherhood's teachings in you and it brings me a ease to my heart that you two have been so eager to see our next generation."

This provoked a little smile of tease from Rahab and a glance of those ice-blues to Dumah's momentary stiffening and uneasy smile. Melchiah himself had a playful little smile on his lips and glint to his hazel eyes that matched the sun's kiss on his perfectly shaved pate. "Come, Brother Dumah. Let us see our sires."

"Y-Yes, Father Melchiah." Dumah says, the same tone he always gave with Melchiah's playful little lessons. The older man waved his sleeved hand and let the defeated knight lead on while Rahab and he walked side-to-side, entering the hall's cool shade.

The peering light of the dying afternoon pierced at the heavily stained glasswork of the stronghold's windows. The three marched through with the smell of battle thick still and the hollering sweet to memories until finally Dumah in his warlike pride, threw the iron-brazen doors ajar with his armoured arms wide as if to take all of the glory of battle upon himself as the winds of slaughter blew at his quilted coat's tails like a pseudo cape and armoured claws clinching.

"Hahaha, look brothers!" He hollered out to promptly announce of their arrival to the battle between their vanguard forces and the desperate warriors of the rogue vampire's human protectors. All of them thralls from different parts of Nosgoth, dangerous and perfect sport for three clans. "See the blood that my clan and happily paint on this fool's precious courtyard! It makes a lord proud does it not?"

Rahab wipes the blood rolling over his curved scimitar along the sleeve of his arm, his voice muffled into a dark dreary through the slits of his jaded mask, "Our clans, Brother. See how the unity of our power trumps over even the elder powers that dare to deny our Father."

From the flank, Melchiah drifted under his brothers' shadow like a wraith. His death-mask a cracked visage of a beautiful white-gold angel after one of the traitor vampires dared to strike at him. His red-velvet quilted coat tattered in places but he remained strong and proud, his hands clenching and unclenched to fill the tightness of his arm-blades protruding from his clawed gauntlets. "Yes. Our clans have done well, my plan has worked as expected." The Sixth chimed in, the glare of his blighted yellow eyes glanced off under his double-layered hood.

“Now we are due of the prime traitor’s head for our prize.” Dumah growls, leaning forward with his eyes gawking at the foremost tower. “I am eager to kill him. Melchiah, aid our forces. Rahab makes sure the others do not escape.” Melchiah stiffened his shoulders and about to speak, he couldn’t let Dumah - of all people - to hoard the glory as he typically does. However, Rahab was quicker, “I suggest Melchiah perform the execution. This traitor has stolen a number of his dregs and flushed out the treacherous elements more than ours. He has insulted our brother, Dumah. Besides...” The immediate younger lieutenant said, “What greater glory to show them that our youngest is stronger than this pitiful rebellion while you down all of these sheep to have our clans sing of your unnatural power?”

Dumah was silent a moment and Melchiah was a little wary. The three observing the battle as Dumah leaned on the balcony’s edge, a moment before a loud murderous laughter rolled from his helmet. “HA HAHAH! Very well, Brother. I like the sound of that,” He growled with a gleam of his red-violet eyes and looked over at Melchiah, “You heard him, Mel. Do not disappoint me.” Without even waiting on Melchiah, the Third Lieutenant vaulted and pounced with a loud warcry to crash into a phalanx of soldiers with a savage fist’s slam! Men flying by the savage punches and uppercuts before he even drew his mace and axe. Melchiah hide his scold well before glancing over, “Thank you, Rahab.” “Do not thank me, brother. You deserve something. This is your clan’s victory.” Rahab noted, jumping on the balcony and made a elegant backflip to a higher level. Now alone...the Sixth snorted out to himself, “Yes. Yes it is.” And neither of them will take it from him.

#v: brotherhood #v:golden age #writing #Fledgling Melchiah #fledgling dumah #fledgling rahab #Century of Conquest

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baguettelord · 7 years

Text

MER week :D

So yeap I’m actually being productive this time (albeit slowly) and contributing to a THING :O (I know its weird, right?) so I decided to do a bunch of little drabble thingies about one of my Sheps (thanks to @Cactuarkitty for the advice). Post-destroy seemed fitting, soooo yeah. Here’s the first one. For general context she was in a coma at the time and this is her dream. :o ~ Mercedes Shepard A/N I’m terrible at editing so there is probably some repetitive words in here and stupid typos or words missing etc. x_x

***WARNING*** this contains some pretty graphic violence (IMO) and also HINTS at sexual assault/rape/etc or torture/murder depending on how you read it.

Her hands were sweaty and hot, fingers poised on the threat of slipping from the rough grasp of her father’s calloused hand. He was pulling too hard, twisting her wrist on a painful angle, threatening to wrench her left arm right out of the joint.

Her breath was short, jagged and burning in her chest. Legs protested, stiff from sleep, as they ran through the edge of the cornfield, barely obscured from the view of the dirt road. The dry, dusty leaves tore at her already cut and bleeding face, slashing her bare arms, stinging wherever they sliced her.

“Faster”, her father grunted, his voice low, gravelly and laced with a subtext that struck terror into her heart.

In that moment, she turned her grime-smeared face skywards.

The sun was setting, casting the scattering of clouds in a halo of fire, and the atmosphere itself seemed to catch alight. Columns of smoke billowed high above the settlement and blew across the farmland, dusting everything with ash. The tiniest breeze carried only distant screams and gunfire to her ears, shattering any innocence that remained in a sixteen year old.

Mindoir was burning.

And suddenly she was wrenched to the ground, her father’s hand silencing her cry of pain, shielding her from whatever manner of vehicle roared by on the road.

The scream of protesting brakes, a hiss of pressurised air, and a small cloud of dust, kicked up as whatever it was ground to a halt. A pair of boots hit the ground, then another, then even more…a squadron?

Her father met her terrified eyes, bringing one short, shaking finger to his lips. She tried to swallow but her throat refused to comply as he slowly moved into a crouching position. She couldn’t see the road, couldn’t see past him, only his rough, dirty figure hunched over her like a bear guarding its den.

“You see something, Kaarek?” the voice was low, guttural, and overwhelmingly batarian.

“Not sure, boss”, another, presumably Kaarek, responded, a note of amusement in his voice. “Could make a game of it, if it is something, though…”

She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle the whimper that rose in her chest.

Her father was creeping away, parting the stalks ever so carefully, moving with all the silence of a trained predator. In that moment, all doubt of his heroic exploits in the Alliance left her mind. She followed him with her eyes, until all she saw was the occasional glimpse of his worn leather jacket through the yellowed leaves.

Barely within her sight, he suddenly broke into a run, tearing away towards the centre of the field and making as much noise as a rampaging krogan.

The batarians took immediate notice, roaring foreign battle cries and words that could only have been expletives. They charged into the field, trampling the spent crops and carving a path directly behind the old farmer.

A tiny voice in the back of her head told her that his limp meant the time he had bought for her would be very little. Another, louder voice, screamed that her father was about to die. Her chest expanded with a trapped scream and she bit down on her hand as hard as she could to fight it off.

For an eternal second, she struggled to grasp her reality, tears pouring down her filthy, bloodied face, searing into the scratches. She choked on a gasp, then drew a shaky breath, then a steadier one, then held it and forced herself to her feet, half-crouching like a wounded animal.

She crept towards the road, peering out at what appeared to be a stolen M35 Mako. This belonged to Ignatias Remunde, the man who owned most of the farms in the disctrict, including her family’s. The once brand new, glossy paint job was now scarred with black scorch marks and spatterings of what could only have been blood.

She took a moment to peer around the road, recalling the varren culling ‘missions’ she’d gone on with her father in the last year or so. She could hear the feral barking of the raiders hunting her father, the distant sounds of the settlement being ravaged, the screaming…but the road around the Mako seemed to be silent.

Parting the jagged stalks as quietly as possible, she slowly moved towards the abandoned vehicle, wincing as the leaves rustled ever so slightly. Pausing at the last row of corn, she did another quick scan of the area and, keeping as low as she could, ventured out of the sheltering field.

She had almost reached the aft of the Mako when she was alerted to the fact it wasn’t quite as abandoned as she’d assumed.

The distinct crunch of fine, dusty gravel under a heavy boot preceded the towering batarian that stepped out from behind the vehicle. His cold, black eyes radiated a combination of hate, evil and something that made her stomach churn. A jagged scar stretched across his throat, curling up to the corner of his mouth, which was twisted in a savage snarl and baring the most horrifying row of needle-sharp teeth she had ever seen.

Spluttering in terror, she scrambled backwards, skating on the loose gravel and falling gracelessly to the hard surface of the road. Growling something low and unintelligible, the batarian approached and she threw her arms over her head, cowering and twisting to cover her unprotected abdomen.

His gloved hand closed over her left arm roughly and she automatically struggled to loosen his grip. There was a muttered curse and he struck the side of her face hard, she sharp edge on the back of his armoured hand cutting deeply across her cheek, all the way to the bridge of her nose.

Momentarily stunned, she struggled to focus as bright spots popped into her vision. The offending hand grabbed her by the jaw, turning her head forcibly so that she could see his sickening smirk. In that moment, she had no doubt what was about to happen to her.

Suddenly, a shotgun blast rang out somewhere nearby, followed immediately by the triumphant hooting of the batarians. Her face went slack, eyes glassy and blank as her captor turned in the direction of the sound.

Then her brain ticked over.

Her father was dead. Her mother and sister were…lost. Her farm, settlement…her planet was on fire. Countless innocents were undoubtedly lying dead in the streets, and even more taken hostage, certain to be sold as slaves back on Khar’shan.

She felt…cold, like an insignificant, lifeless pebble buried under a millennia of ice. And at the same time, she was somehow a raging inferno, full of burning hate, her blood searing in her veins, heart about to explode.

Her right hand, almost of its own accord, balled into a fist, nails digging into her palm hard enough to draw blood. Her first omni-tool, a gift she’d received at her most recent birthday, loaded with the bootleg omni-blade she’d cobbled together in her spare time and still hadn’t tested.

But caution had evaporated entirely.

One young, feminine hand grabbed onto the gauntlet affixed to the arm that restrained her, teeth bared in a snarl that parted into a roar. Her fist came up as the omni-tool flickered into being, immediately forging the long, curved blade. Glowing brilliant amber, it radiated heat that burned into the back of her wrist and hand as it streaked towards the batarian.

Illegal for a reason, the entirely overpowered blade cut straight through his barrier and sunk into his armour as though it were made of tin foil. He struggled, gurgling something incoherent as it began to cook him like a jacket potato.

The tool spurted and sparked, sputtering into nothing and causing the now thoroughly dead batarian to slump heavily over her. His sizzling, semi-clotted blood oozed from the partially melted slash through his armour, smearing all over her shirt as she struggled out from under him.

Panting and trembling violently, she got unsteadily to her feet. The strong smell of charred batarian almost made her vomit and her wrist was already beginning to blister. She stood there for a second, confused by the amount of adrenaline in her system, heart pounding, ears roaring.

A yell from across the field jerked her back to reality and she staggered towards the Mako, fingers twitching from the pain in her burnt arm. She fumbled with the hatch, panicking as the interface refused to comply. The guttural shouting was getting closer and more insistent; clearly the batarians had hear her kill their comrade.

She slammed a fist down on the control panel in frustration, trying to blink back the darkness that loomed threateningly on the edge of her vision.

The horde of conflicting, terrifyingly deep voices were growing clearer and louder and she struggled to access the Mako’s system. Her heart raced as her fingers scrabbled to hack into the console.

The cornfield rustled, the growling words ceased, boots crunched on the dusty road. And then a voice, clear as day, human, and dripping with venom.

“You’ve failed”, it snarled.

She whirled, back pressing against the scarred Mako, feet spread into a defensive position through some sort of instinct she never knew she had.

And then she choked.

Kai Leng stood just feet away, arms spread wide with a cruel, mocking smirk on a face that had surely been handsome at some point. Behind him stood a small group of Cerberus Phantoms.

“No”, she whispered, horrified.

“That’s right”, he drawled slowly shuffling forwards, letting his boots scrape across the gravel with a sound like tearing paper. “You couldn’t kill me.”

“No”, she repeated, pressing back harder so that the armour plating jutted painfully into her spine.

“In fact”, he continued on triumphantly, one hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. “The only people you’ve ever been able to kill are innocent bystanders, your friends, your…family. Their blood is on your hands. The blood of a galaxy…”

Denial twisted through her brain as tears welled in her wide eyes. She shook her head forcibly, unable to accept his words.

“Face it”, he stopped, barely a meter from her, baring his teeth in a sadistic grin. “You’ve lost, Shepard.”

Recognition surged through her like electricity, even as the assassin impaled her on his gleaming silver katana. She coughed once, fingers weakly trying to grip the blade, slicing open and slipping against the metal in her own blood as she tried to pull it out.

The blackness swooped in to claim her, finally, mercifully…

#MERweek #fanfiction #mass effect #femshep #Mercedes Shepard #Mindoir #Kai Leng #Batarians #sorry for my terrible writing ;-;

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