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birbleafs · 4 years

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[fic] A Tragicomedy In Five Acts

Series: Saiki Kusuo no Ψ-nan || The Disastrous Life of Saiki K. Rating: T Genre: Friendship, Humour, Breaking the Fourth Wall Character(s): Akechi Touma, Saiki Kusuo, Saiki Kurumi, Saiki Kuniharu, Saiki Kuusuke Warnings: None, save for the canon-typical shenanigans Summary: Akechi has made a habit of showing up unannounced, uninvited at the Saiki residence. The inevitable "bonding" occurs and Kusuo despairs; the world continues to turn. A/N: A piece I wrote for the Disastrous Life Zine, a charity zine. I wanted to share the uncut version here since I like how it reads more (it's not too different from zine version, though). Leftover sales are currently still live, so here's your last chance to grab some limited items if you had missed the pre-orders earlier! Thanks to the mods & other contributors over at @disastrouslifezine, for all their hard work on this project. Many thanks also to my bro Digi for the awesome beta work and for always being an all-round great pal ❤ Fic can also be read AO3. _______ i. It’s a problem Saiki Kusuo should have—could have—nipped earlier in the bud, when he’d been forced to spend a whole Sunday with Akechi Touma betting on horse-racing. But between Akechi being (begrudgingly) accepted as one of the PK Psychickers to Kusuo having to stop a meteor from slamming into the planet—well, a lot had happened. Akechi had since taken to visiting the Saiki residence at random, with little notice in advance. On his second visit, Mom had invited him in before Kusuo could intervene. If it weren’t for the cupcakes Akechi had brought along—not to mention the terrifying heat of Mom’s demonic glare at the first sign of a protest—Kusuo would have teleported him miles away without hesitation. That’s how Kusuo finds himself now—glowering at Akechi who’s sitting politely in his room and firing a running commentary about nothing and too many things all at once. Resigned, he leans back into his study chair and asks, point-blank: What do you want, Akechi?

“Your mother is lovely as always,” Akechi replies instead, dancing around the question. “I’m grateful she’s gone from remembering me as ‘Pee Boy’ to ‘Kusuo’s Friend Who Only Ever Wets His Pants Occasionally’. Surely that’s a sign we have gotten closer.” It sounds just as terrible as the first—only a simpleton would be okay with that as a defining trait, Kusuo retorts. In any case, we’re hardly more than classmates. So, why are you here again? “I thought you would have realized it by now with your telepathy. But I suppose I can explain it for the sake of the readers!” Akechi beams, holding up a small case in his hand. Don’t just casually break the fourth wall, Kusuo frowns, even as he leans forward for a closer look. Akechi pops the case open and turns towards the game console. “I was recently gifted this game by my cousin, who assured me that, while underrated, it’s still a cult hit among fans. I thought it would be fun to play it together.” Kusuo stares flatly at the title OVERWORKED displayed on the disc as it slides into the console drive, already unimpressed. That is such a blatant rip-off. “Oh, no, it's a completely different game from the one you’re thinking of!” Akechi says. “Here you play as the overworked waiter of a cafe who serves multiple orders at once and takes over the cooking whenever the head chef throws a tantrum and storms right off.” How is that different from OVERC***ED? It is totally OVERC***ED! “Regardless, shall we have a play-off?” Akechi offers the controller to him. “Winner gets this box of cupcakes. I got them from the best pâtisserie in town, which is no easy feat. Why just this morning I left home at the crack of dawn to secure a spot in the queue, and even then, there were already about 30-odd people ahead of me! Who knew it was so popular—A-ah!” Kusuo yanks the controller easily from Akechi’s hand towards him with telekinesis, a glint of determination in his eyes now. Best two out of three levels. Loser also has to leave immediately. Akechi grins knowingly and cracks his knuckles, reaching for the second controller. “You’re quick to assume victory, Kusuo-kun. Very well, then!” Thirty-seven minutes later and Kusuo’s left staring at the final scores, appalled. He would have won if his character hadn’t kept freezing in place and glitching at crucial moments, messing up in the kitchens and sending out wrong orders. How is he always losing to Akechi like this? Clearly the universe is still conspiring against him. “You were so close to beefing my lask score dhoo,” Akechi says shamelessly through a mouthful of strawberry frosting. “And my, deez fupfakes are s’per dhasty!” Are you taunting me now? Kusuo scowls enviously at the cupcake in Akechi’s hand before he huffs, slinking back into his chair. Well, I’ll be staring dejectedly out my window for a bit, so feel free to eat your cupcakes and then leave. But Akechi only laughs then and, to Kusuo’s surprise, moves to place a chocolate cupcake before him. “You’re so melodramatic, Kusuo-kun. I never said the winner can’t share.” ... I guess you didn’t. They spend the rest of the afternoon eating cupcakes. _______ ii. This again? It’s been a month, but Kusuo already feels a sense of gloom settling over him when Akechi steps into the genkan. He would have been fine with leaving Akechi outside blathering away through closed doors for the entire day while he pretended not to be home, but obviously Mom is having none of that. “I’m so glad you’ve been coming over to play with Ku-chan!” she greets cheerfully. “I couldn’t believe it when I first heard, but you and Kusuo are getting along well, huh, Akechi-kun!” Dad says with a sagely nod, looking every bit the part of the morally upright, reliable father. Bold of you to believe such delusional notions of camaraderie, or that you even look the part of an admirable adult, Kusuo comments drily, before turning to leave. “We don’t just get along,” Akechi chimes in reply. “You could even say our friendship is super-califragilisticexpialidocious!” GET OUT. If looks could kill, Kusuo’s current expression is pure genocide. But his parents are already fawning and AH-HYUU-!!-ing at Akechi’s words, tears of joy gushing down their cheeks like an endless waterfall. Kusuo watches in quiet despair as Akechi is readily accepted into their fold with welcomed embraces, a key development in this romantic soap opera. Oi, what’s with the misleading narrative?! We’re not in that kind of fanfic right now! Dad and Akechi hit it off well enough, one thing leads to another, and Kusuo suddenly finds himself roped into playing MECH-O ARENA VR on the WAB station in Dad’s study. Seriously, stop it with the terrible rip-offs of actual games already, Kusuo frowns as he watches Dad’s and Akechi’s characters flitting about on the screen to fight off an incoming attack. “I suppose it’s not very original, is it?” Akechi says, punching the controller buttons in a flurry of movements. “But it’s different enough that we can probably avoid any unwanted copyright lawsuits.” That’s completely beside the point. Dad’s wholly immersed with the game now, so it’s impossible for Kusuo to get rid of Akechi without Dad throwing a childish fuss about losing his new gaming buddy. Not to mention Mom’s uncanny ability to appear with coffee and snacks each time Kusuo had tried to inconspicuously retreat back into his room, all while exuding an ominous aura that effectively dissuaded his need to leave immediately. Good grief—everyone’s being such a pain today, Kusuo sighs, before he finally relents to Mom’s cajoling to team up with her against Dad and Akechi in the final round. He figures it can’t get worse than this anyway. That is, until Kuusuke gets involved. _______ iii. When Kusuo returns home from a quick grocery trip for Mom, he walks into a surprisingly empty living room. He can hear Dad and Kuusuke’s voices from upstairs but for some reason he’s not quite able to perceive the atmosphere within—it’s as if his senses are partially blocked by a cognitive fog with the study engulfed in a dead zone. Must be that prototype “router” Kuusuke had installed in Dad’s study yesterday. Kusuo has zero interest in his brother’s tiresome antics, but is compelled nonetheless to check on them, if only to ensure Kuusuke isn’t playing Mad Scientist and coaxing Dad into yet another deranged human project. He opens the door, nearly lashes out in shock with telekinesis when he sees Akechi staring through the doorway with a creepy, owlish expression. “Oh, were you actually surprised, Kusuo-kun?” Akechi says. “My apologies for frightening you like that.” Kusuo studies the room cautiously, only to realize he’s unable to hear anyone’s thoughts with telepathy. He glares at his brother in suspicion. “Welcome back, little brother!” Kuusuke greets him with a Cheshire grin. “I see you’ve got yourself a new playmate. Hmm? Ah, you must think it strange that I've taken to Akechi-kun so readily.” Strange and highly dubious, Kusuo counters. What are you scheming? “Well, Akechi-kun shows the most potential and capacity for mental growth amongst the lesser primates close to you—” What a disparaging worldview. And stop deflecting! I know you can still understand me. “—So, he may yet make a good test subj—Ah, I mean, a good friend! Interesting specimens tend to gravitate towards you, after all. Though his propensity for peeing sure is troubling, isn’t it? Haha!” You can excuse questionable human experimentations, but you draw the line at incontinence? Kuusuke attempts a nonchalant shrug. “Priorities, amirite?” “But this is amazing, Kuusuke-san,” Akechi says, glancing up in awe at the blinking device on the ceiling. “The telepathy canceller really does block our thoughts efficiently!” “It’s child's play compared to Kusuo’s abilities,” Kuusuke says, seemingly modest, but Kusuo doesn’t miss the devious glint in his eyes when he reaches into his coat pocket to pull out what looks suspiciously like a detonator with a giant red button. “Still, with this, Operation SM☆SH can now finally commence—” Wait, Operation what?? Kuusuke, don’t you dare...! But Kuusuke is already pressing the button, and the study is plunged into darkness as the lights flicker off and the blinds draw shut. Alarmed, Kusuo wrenches the detonator away from Kuusuke’s grip with his telekinesis. What did you just do?! There’s an electronic whirr, a blinding flash, and Kusuo finds himself suddenly staring at a large LCD screen as it emerges from the ceiling. Music blares from overhead speakers as a cinematic opening sequence begins to play. “There you are, Kusuo!” Dad looks up from behind the coffee table where he’d been fiddling with the game console. He adjusts the VR headset over his eyes. “It’s time to finally beat you at SUPER SM☆SH BUDS as payback for last time! HII-YAAAH!!” ... Oh. So it’s just another game. “That’s right!” Kuusuke claps his hands together, blissfully ignoring the heat of Kusuo’s baleful glare. “I heard about your horse-racing bet from Akechi-kun and found this as the best way to even the odds for other types of games.” “The idea came to me while peeing in the shower; to find ways you could play and not get bored easily, Kusuo-kun,” Akechi adds in unnecessary detail. “But I didn’t think Kuusuke-san could actually pull it off.” “Here, Kusuo,” Dad says, waving his controller. “Come choose your character—” But Kusuo’s already teleporting away, fleeing the wretched upheaval within his own home to hide at Cafe Mami for the rest of the day. _______ iv. Akechi corners him after school three weeks later. Kusuo is surprised and unsurprised all at once; he had worn the germanium ring to class, after all, in a bid to avoid spoilers for the direct-to-streaming release movie adaptation of a book he’d been fond of. It’s easy to ignore everyone’s spoilery chatter when it isn’t droning directly into his mind—he’d kept his fingers stuck into his ears each time class ended, oblivious to the strange looks thrown his way, and had even hidden away in the restroom cubicle during breaks, successfully avoiding any interaction with the usual human nuisances. Until now, that is. “Let’s walk home together, Kusuo-kun!” Akechi calls, jogging after him. I’m suddenly deaf and sound has eluded me, Kusuo deadpans as he breaks into a sprint, determined to leave before Akechi starts blabbing spoilers. “I noticed you weren’t quite yourself today,” Akechi continues, catching up with him. “And I thought it might have something to do with the ring on your left index finger that you’ve fondled precisely seventeen times throughout the day.” What an awful way to describe it. I didn’t fondle anything. “Perhaps the material of that ring works in the same manner as the telepathy canceller—which would explain why you seemed uncharacteristically skittish today since you’re pretty bad at discerning people’s intentions without your telepathy.” What are you? A psychic? But Akechi only persists. “I realized later that you’d always leave whenever anyone started talking about that new movie on Netfl*x—” Can’t hear now, Kusuo slaps his hands over his ears. Gone horribly deaf. “And I figured it must be that you haven’t watched it yet for some reason, like maybe your home internet is down because your father forgot to pay the bills for three whole months and so it got cut—” How did you even..? Kusuo grimaces. N-nope, not listening! 100% deaf! “I know you don’t have a mobile phone to watch it on either,” Akechi continues. “So, that’s why I wanted to invite you to my house today, to watch it together. Oh, don’t worry, I know absolutely nothing about the movie. In fact, I’d only heard Kaidou-kun screaming out the title just ten minutes ago.” Kusuo pauses then, glancing back at Akechi in hesitance. Akechi only meets his wary gaze with a knowing smirk, and says, “We also have strawberry shortcake in the fridge.” _______ v. I don’t suppose there’s a good reason this time either, Kusuo sighs wearily, closing his book. Still, there’s a glimmer in his eyes; he knows Akechi had come bearing gifts—a selection of coffee jellies topped with cherries and chocolate drizzle. “I’ve made a habit of crashing your place unannounced, haven’t I?” Akechi offers a contrite grin, watching as Kusuo helps himself to a spoonful of jelly. “I do apologize, but whenever I get restless, I find myself wandering here by instinct. Admittedly, I was worried about being a bother, but your mother is always so welcoming at the door despite that dreary, constipated look in your eyes—” You are being a bother. Like a persistent mosquito that thinks it's summer all year round, Kusuo grouses with his Most Annoyed Expression, knowing how ineffectual his Feigning Ignorance Face had become over time. Also, have you graduated from pee references to shitty jokes now? Disgusting. But Akechi takes it all in stride, undeterred by Kusuo’s ugly grimace and acerbic jibes. “—Plus, it’d be considered extremely rude if I didn’t come in after that, and I certainly do not want you to think of me as rude. You’re a friend I hold in high regard, after all. I always have, ever since I found out it was you who saved me from the bullies back then.” The earnestness in Akechi’s words stumps him, if only a little. And though Kusuo is careful to keep his surprise from showing, there’s a part deep down in his not-so-granite heart that feels a touch of warmth at the sentiment. Akechi’s already placing the Scrabble board on the floor, so he misses the ghost of a smile that crosses Kusuo’s lips. Did Akechi honestly think he could beat a psychic at Scrabble too? How naive. “You’re probably thinking how naive I must be, believing I could beat you at a board game with your powers and all,” Akechi notes cheerfully, almost as if he’s a mind-reader himself. Kusuo frowns, slightly disgruntled by the fourth-wall breaking once more and wishes they would give it a rest for once. Overusing a trope gets really tiring, you know? Still, he smiles again as he takes a seat across from Akechi—who is now shuffling the Scrabble chips while nattering away about the history of board games and how the loser would have to give up his share of coffee jelly (as if Kusuo would allow it to come to that again). Two Sunday visits per month only, Kusuo says, lifting several chips into the air with a wave of his hand. If you beat me... I’ll allow it. Akechi’s eyes widen, before he breaks into a playful grin. “Very well, then. May the best man win.” Kusuo only lets out a soft laugh. Perhaps it’s not too late to pick up where they had left off in grade school. —End—

#saiki kusuo no psi nan #the disastrous life of saiki k.#saiki kusuo #akechi touma #disastrous life zine #fanfic #please check out and support the other contributors' pieces too !

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bisluthq · 4 years

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So why do you think Kurt Kloss was liking kaylor comments and those that said joshlie was fake? Seems like a really weird thing to do if joshlie was any kind of real...

Okay, so I’m actually really glad you asked me this because it’s like one of my favorite topics. Just FYI I will do a deep dive into the Kloss family’s Insta presence at some point in the next week or so (I hear y’all are complaining about me “ignoring” Kimby’s likes, @agronshizzie is very efficient Gaylor Customer Service lmao). But let’s do Dr Kurt Kloss quickly.

MY DUDES KURT KLOSS IS A BOOMER. Idk what else to tell you. He is a huge Karlie stan - he follows like every single Karlie Kloss stan account on Insta, and yes that includes Kaylor ones. Like it’s actually lowkey a bit cute. But anyway. Now there are several possible reasons for this: 1) he just literally follows every single one and he doesn’t give a shit what the theme is as long as it’s about his angel daughter; 2) he thinks it’s about their “friendship” (which is not actually insane, there is a Torlie account that is about that FRIENDSHIP so it’s an easy mistake to make if you are, as Kurt Kloss is, a het BOOMER); 3) he thinks it’s jokey.

He also does follow Josh just btw. And he poses for family pics with Josh. He does not follow Taylor and idk if he ever fucking did.

Also, some person apparently messaged him and he said he likes as much stuff as he can about Karlie because he wants her fans to know they appreciate them and their support. Again. HE IS A BOOMER and a proud dad.

We also know he posted about Joshlie’s engagement, and his various Boomer friendlings commented in the most standard Boomer ways.

And you know how else we know he’s a Boomer who is bad at Internetting? He got embroiled in this story. Now, I can’t actually... Like I genuinely don’t even know where to start unpacking that, it is such a deranged fucking mess. Kurt essentially DRAGGED HIS OWN DAMN SELF himself, by going into a professional forum on FB and flexing his konnections to the Kushners. HE WAS SOURCING PANDEMIC RESPONSE SUGGESTIONS FOR JARED ON FACEBOOK LMFAO. He straight up flexed having a “direct line to the White House”.

And how did he explain how and why he had this direct line to the White House? Well:

This is SUCH A MESS why is he BRINGING UP HER VOGUE KOVERS WHAT THE FUUUUCK IS THIS MAN’S DEAL.

The whole thing is a HOT MESS. But it also shows pretty fucking clearly that he considers Joshua to be his son-in-law. Also, some Kaylors were claiming this was because the Kushners “forced” Kurt. Dudes. This was EMBARRASSING FOR THE KUSHNERS. This was TERRIBLE FUCKING PRESS. It showed them as the incompetent morons we KNOW THEY ARE. And they got him to delete it, apparently - but only after allegedly Jared “read” everyone’s response lmfao.

Nobody stood over Kurt Kloss and asked him to make a mess. And if he’s able to be this messy on main, do his likes really matter? Are they “proof”? Or does he MAYBE JUST NOT UNDERSTAND INTERNETZ?

So yeah. That’s kind of what I have to say on Kurt. He’s not a mastermind, and he considers the Kushners his family members. Idk if any of you guys have any follow up questions on this, I’m happy to field them because he does make me laugh.

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gunnerpalace · 4 years

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How You Fix Orihime and Chad’s Character Development

Star Trek: The Original Series. That’s it, really.

Now, hold on, let me explain!

So let us for a moment assume that Orihime, Chad, and Uryuu as a trio comprise the main cast of “The Humans” in Bleach. Let us then try applying the Kirk-Spock-Bones model onto their trio.

Now, before we go any further, it’s important to note that Kirk was not Zapp Brannigan. That’s bullshit. You can go read a big long essay on the matter if you really want to dive into it. Kirk was not hot-headed, impulsive, or a womanizer. But the relevant bit to our discussion is this:

The existence of Spock, with his easily classifiable intelligence and over-egged rationality, blinds people to Kirk’s persistent, demonstrated, textually-flagged extreme professionalism and competence:

PORTMASTER STONE: Now, look, Jim. Not one man in a million could do what you and I have done: command a starship. A hundred decisions a day, hundreds of lives staked on you making every one of them right.

Stone is not simply discussing nerve (though Kirk has, via training and self-control, developed an extraordinary capacity for operating under pressure). He’s referring also to the vast array of knowledge at Kirk’s fingertips, to his ability to evaluate specialist counsel and make good decisions quickly in a crisis, and to his dedication to and concern for his ship and its people. Kirk is the only one, even over Spock, capable of resisting the influence of a deranging virus in order to protect the ship in “The Naked Time.”

Rash? Kirk is obsessively protective, hesitant to destroy the Enterprise and its crew even when it would be safer for the galaxy for him to do so (“By Any Other Name”). This is in fact about the only time he’s “rash”. He makes an objectively bad decision in order to protect the ship. It’s not a lapse he often repeats, and he almost didn’t allow sentiment to cloud his judgment on this occasion either.

It works out in the end due to Kirk’s cunning, not Spock’s genius. As clever as Spock is, he’s not the superior multi-tasking problem solver. That’s the whole point of Kirk, and Spock respects him and his work. In “The Ultimate Computer,” when technological innovation threatens to replace living captains (Kirk included), Spock is immensely supportive of Kirk. He highlights Kirk’s leadership, suggesting that he, Spock-the-computer-expert, trusts Kirk’s personal judgment more than that of even the most advanced machines:

KIRK: Machine over man, Spock? It was impressive. It might even be practical. SPOCK: Practical, Captain? Perhaps. But not desirable. Computers make excellent and efficient servants, but I have no wish to serve under them. Captain, the starship also runs on loyalty to one man, and nothing can replace it, or him.

If Kirk takes a “leap of faith” in situations, it’s because the other choice is to sit still and die. In fact you could argue that it’s Spock who sometimes behaves irrationally in TOS, prioritising Kirk over the safety of the Enterprise in "The Tholian Web," questing endlessly to find him in “The Paradise Syndrome,” and making a desperate last-ditch effort to signal the Enterprise with limited resources (rather than preserving these in order to marginally extend the lives of everyone on board a failing shuttle craft) in “The Galileo Seven” (an episode I hate so much we’d need another damn essay).

[...]

Face it: Kirk is a big nerd who punches people sometimes, but also memorises poetry and has nice chats with Spock’s mom and loves the ship intensely.

Okay, why am I talking about Kirk (and, by proxy, Spock) so much?

Let’s go back to trying to fit Uryuu, Orihime, and Chad, to Kirk, Spock, and Bones.

You might initially say that Uryuu is obviously Spock. You would be wrong. Uryuu is Bones. Uryuu’s whole thing isn’t logic, it’s principles. He is Mr. Principled. He got that from Souken. It animates everything he does. Sure, he can plan in advance and think things through, but even when he does that he tends to engage in some kinda dumbassery (e.g., fighting against Renji and Byakuya wildly outgunned to try and save Rukia, telling Kisuke to fix up Ichigo, deciding to go to Soul Society whatever the cost, going on a suicide mission to stop Yhwach, etc.) that is motivated by his sense of morality and ethics. He is, among the humans, the voice of common decency more so than he is the voice of rationality.

That means that Chad is Spock. In chapter 35, when Ichigo scored 23rd in their grade, Chad scored 11th. Uryuu scored 1st, and Orihime scored 3rd, so Chad is not absolutely the smartest academically, but he is often much more sober-minded and analytical than they are; he’s also street smart. (Orihime and Uryuu are both prone to flights of fancy; Chad’s only real weakness in terms of distractions is “cute things.”) This carries through in how Chad fights and understands things, which tends to be very cold and analytical. (Consider how easily he cut through Ichigo’s act about not missing being a Shinigami in the Xcution arc, or how quickly he suggested in TYBW to Kisuke that if Ichigo was allowed to do what he wanted, he might run away.)

And that leaves us with Orihime, who must, by process of elimination, be the Kirk of the group. And although that might sound surprising, go back to that final line of the description again: “Face it: Kirk is a big nerd who punches people sometimes, but also memorises poetry and has nice chats with Spock’s mom and loves the ship intensely.” Who does that sound like? Who showed grit and determination and rose to the occasion in the Numb Chandelier fight? Orihime. Who thought fast on her feet after landing in the bizarro-land of Soul Society and came up with the plan of using shihakushou as disguises? Orihime. Even Orihime’s plan to reject the Hougyoku out of existence was fairly decisive. Orihime is, early on anyway, quite capable of coming up with good and objectively correct plans, if ones often thwarted by the narrative.

So, from this, we can say something about how these characters should have developed. Uryuu basically grows about how you’d expect him to, letting go of his (supposed) hatred of Shinigami. Chad and Orihime... don’t. But this model makes it easy to see how they should’ve.

Chad should have become more vocal and forthright with his observations and analyses. He should have become the logical one who suggested plans of action on the basis of rationality, to be informed by Uryuu’s principled nature.

Orihime should have become more mature and decisive, gaining a tighter rein over her emotions but still using her creativity to make clutch command decisions with the input of her peers. Rather than routinely breaking down and thinking selfishly, she should’ve shown sober insight into what needed to be done which balanced logic and compassion; good, clear, and surprisingly nonlinear judgement.

What we actually got from both of them was the exact opposite. Their development went precisely the other direction, the point that when they were hit by the equivalent of a “deranging virus” in the form of Tsukishima’s powers, they both completely folded.

Note that I am not saying they should be identical to these model characters, but that this model provides a means to see roughly where they should’ve gone. Uryuu was The Principled One, Chad should have been The Logical One, and Orihime should have been The Decisive One.

Also, if you expand this analysis out a little bit, this becomes clear too:

Tatsuki:Sulu

Keigo:Chekov

Mizurio:Uhura/Scotty

I’m just saying.

(P.S. Sulu eventually got to captain his own ship, so, I mean, I’m just sayin’.)

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hylukotranslations · 5 years

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FOOL'S MATE - May 2005 Album: Juusankai wa gekkou (13th floor with moonshine)

Atsushi Sakurai (Vocal) Interview by Koh Imazu

Your new album is a type of album that Buck-Tick experimented for the first time, isn't it. I mean the point where you always keep the same context and let the songs evolve around it.

This was a point we paied attention at while making the album. So we tried not to go outside this frame.

As the lead vocals and as the lyric writer ?

Yes. This time there was "the gothic" as the general theme. If I wished it, I could work deviating more or less from it, but I tried docilely (laughs) not to go out of it.

When you say you tried not to deviate from it, we can hear it as an obligation, but wasn't it naturally that you did it without deviating ? That what I thought when I listened to this world.

Yes. Since it was a theme that I like, I could do it quite naturally.

If you wrote all the lyrics except one, was it also because you like this world ?

Because of it, and also for what Imai said : "this time if I write lyrics they may sound like explanations. So, it's preferable that the singer writes them himself." Also because when you try to enter the lyrics of someone else, there are limits.

Even after all these years you experienced ?

Yes. Even if you take just one word, only the one who wrote it knows in which intention he used it.

And you can't ask him his intention for all the words he used.

Since there is a kind of impatience about it, and since this time it was about a world that I personnally like, I also managed to write as many lyrics as possible. Unlike the previous albums, there was a concept at the beginning so it was more easy for me to write them.

Above all, where did this concept of "gothic" come from ?

As usual, from Imai. He was thinking about it during the tour for the previous album. He also said that he was convinced it was the right theme when he saw my solo stage.

About your solo stage, the set was very simple. If he got that conviction watching this stage, he was surely inspired by your performance itself.

Well, probably.

By the way, when we ask you "gothic", you can answer one hundred things about that keyword, right ?

Said excessively that way, that's right (laughs). I thought that if time permetted it, I wished I could always go on with that recording session.

Lately we can hear in various domains the term "gothic", or "goth" in an abbreviated form, but as far as you are concerned, when did you know about it for the first time ? I guess around Bauhaus ?

That's right. When I knew Bauhaus for the first time, I had unconditionally a kind of feeling saying : "I found what I like !". Until that moment people recommanded me stuff saying : "this one is good", but I wasn't that interested in them. Like the Pistols, I couldn't like their stuff as much as the other persons.

About Bauhaus, were you interested in their music like in their visual as a whole ?

Yes.

When we watch the PV of one of their representative song "Telegram Sam", we can see the parts of the shadows which aren't lit up by the light are used in a very efficient and powerful way.

Yes. I really can feel it. If they didn't have this kind of aspect, I think I haven't liked them that much until now. I really liked that intention from the members of showing the shadows.

You, Acchan, also try to show shadows.

Yes, in the moments where I am overexcited while writing lyrics or when I am on stage. Usually when I am on stage, I pay attention to the spotlights, but after years I also started to go intentionnally a bit away from the center of the light.

By moving away from the light, some parts on you become shadows.

Yes, when the light strongly lights up my face I am dazzled and I can't see anything, so I have a moment's panic. But I like that feeling too (laughs). So I also like to move away from it and make shadows. For that, I watched Bauhaus' videos and I found it so cool, so I studied them. I learned that there is the shade since there is the light, and there is the light since there is the shade. I also knew that it wasn't interesting to only light up everything.

And how is it at home ?

While writing the lyrics I only light on one lamp. And when the sun rises, thank to the curtains wich intercept the light it's still dark (laughs).

Do you have gothic items in you room ?

I would so like to buy some thoroughly, but I'm not someone that assidius. Thought I have some masks. (pointing his head) Since it's deranged in there (laughs).

Including the new album, do you always write the lyrics in the dark ?

Yes. In the daytime when the weather is good and sunny, I have the impression that I can't defeat the sun. Since its light seems to be justice.

You say justice (laughs)

If I want to feel peaceful, I think it would be like everyone under the sun. But it's during the night that various stories come to my mind. Since the night can be just as well evil as pure... About the day and the night, I think it's the same thing as what I just said about the light and the shadow. One of the two can't be accomplished alone. So when I'm on one side I'd like to be always aware of the opposite side.

Then in the daytime are you aware of the night ?

Yes. I'm a night owl and I can like doubtful stuff (laughs). And in the daytime there is no place where I can hide.

I guess that the hero of "Romance - Incubo-" would hide inside a coffin.

Ahahahaha (laughs).

Do you like the vampires ?

I think they are attractive. The way they can't live under the sun but give free rein to all their talents at night (laughs). But an adult like me shouldn't say such things (laughs).

Usually as we become good adults we tend to be of the morning side, but you Acchan are still of the night side.

I'd like to be always a one of the night side. Today I'm still waiting everyday for the night.

Finally this new album fits you like a glove. Since from the opening song "Kourin (Advent)" you sing : "Wake up. The night is beginning right now"

Indeed (laughs).

This time it appears that they are many songs, not only "Romance - Incubo-" and "Kourin", where the stage is the night. But on the other hand, I noticed several twisted situations. For example, in "Cabaret" or "Doll", there are parts where you sing as if you were a woman.

Maybe before I could feel resistance for doing it. But when, for my solo carrier, I did the cover of "Amaon wa Chopin no shirabe (rain's sounds are Chopin's melodies)" which is sang by a woman, I knew that "I just have to change my feeling to become one character". Since I had that experience, this time I could do it quite easily.

Is writing lyrics with the words of a woman and singing it like a mental disguise as a woman ?

Yes, though I could never be a woman. But in the songs I used the words of a woman so that I can be a woman in an almost vulgar way.

By writing yourself these words of a woman, is it more easy for you to put yourself in a woman's shoes ?

Whichever lyrics I write, I put into words what comes in my mind, so in my head I'm already in her shoes. Well, another way was probably to ask a woman to sing.

But then the meaning tends to change.

Yes. What I wanted in "Cabaret" was the vulgar side of a man who tries to dress up as a woman. Moreover, it's not about an external disguise as a woman, but he is inwardly a woman. It's about that kind of man who wants a man. In "Doll", one of the characters is a doll, but mentally it is awoken as a woman.

There are parts for a man and parts for a woman. When you sing such songs, do you record them separately ?

No, they were recorded at one go. But I did the changes paying careful attention. In the first and second lines I have the role of a little girl who is a doll, in the second verse A the role of the master, and so on. I can say it for the whole album, but this time I don't sing as the lead vocals Atsushi Sakurai, but as someone who acts a role in each song.

Then in "Doukeshi A (Clown A)" you act a pierrot ?

Yes. And when I'm on stage somewhere I feel like I'm a pierrot.

Did you ever think you were a pierrot ?

Yes. In the fact of entertaining the audience by showing myself. I felt in particular opposition to be seen as a known artist. The others know me but I don't know them. I thought : then, what am I ? At the time of the album "Six/Nine", I had plenty of time to feel unable to understand myself. This way I could plunge deeply into it, and as a result I think we did a good album.

And today, how do you feel about being watched ?

It's like : come on, look at me (laughs). I became kind of bold, or tough faced with it. In "Doukeshi A" I sing : "noone cares about you", so I think today I feel sufficiently at ease so that I can say that. Especially for this album where there are numerous songs where I act a role, I must not be too much conscious of myself. Unless I feel embarrassed and I can't get right into the part. Then after I can regret it. So I stayed as much as possible in a condition where I was into the part and felt full of confidence (laughs). This was another thing from singing right or not.

What about the fact of singing right ?

I and the director give more importance to the "taste" than to sing well or not. And during the recording session it could occur that I sing intentionnally sharp. I payed attention at least not to be too much false, but I fundamentally favoured the characters (laughs).

However, I think you can do that since you possess a solidly-based technique. For the lives, from a certain period your singing began to lead the band. Moreover you've been maintaining perfect notes.

It's true that if I'm not self-satisfied to a certain point, by twisting my way of singing I'll only become a bad singer (laughs). I think there is also the fact that I can sing now at a high level since I use the ear-monitor. Though with it the feeling of the lives disappear.

What do you mean ?

I can't hear at all the audience, so that sometimes I feel anxious : "maybe I'm not popular ?" (laughs).

Where did the title of the album "Jyuusankai wa gekkou (13th floor with moonshine)" come from ?

It's Imai who found it. He surely wanted it to sound disturbing (laughs).

But when we consider the album as a whole, it doesn't end at all in a total blackness. Humour is hiding too in an inevitable way.

Yes. Humour and pathos were for me elements of gothic as well. We can also talk about fantasy for this album. I thought it would be nice if it gives the impression to read tales moving away from the reality. When we say gothic we can also imagine pretty demons.

Like the combination between the lolitas and the gothic in the fashion...

That's right ! But in this album, apart the gothic I had my own theme. Like light and shade, life and death. So, the songs begin by the birth, and at the beginning it should have ended by the death, but Imai changed the order of the songs so that it became : "in fact I was alive" (laughs).

And this last song "Diabolo - lucifer -" ends by the phrase : "to your darkness, I give a toast !" If we follow this interview, it can be interpreted by : the night isn't that bad after all ?

Yes (laughs).

So in conclusion, the two inevitable questions for this period. First, about the 20th anniversary.

It's so different from what I really feel. Talking about the real time it must be something considerable, but I don't remember all the events that occured during this time. I feel it shorter than the figure of 20.

When did you know it was your 20th anniversary ?

When we were interviewed about it for our fan-club's newsletter, there I knew it for the first time (laughs).

What did you think at that moment ?

That it was like the singers of enka (note : traditional japanese songs) (laughs). The fact that it's about "anniversary", it sounds like if we're making many efforts and I don't like it (laughs).

Then the second question, about your next tour.

Considering the subject of this album, we are thinking a lot about the visual aspect. Since we even wished that the world of each song could become a movie, we want to do lots of things.

--fin

translation: hyluko [livejournal] scans: tigerpal [livejournal]

NOTE: these translations are not mine also might not be very accurate. i took them from hyluko’s site using the wayback machine. thought they’re great to share. if the owner is around and wants me to take them down i will!

#バクチク #櫻��敦司 #十三階は月光 #Buck-Tick #Atsushi Sakurai #Juusankai wa Gekkou #translation #fool's mate

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journalxxx · 6 years

Text

No Rest for the Wicked (4)

The darkness vanished in overflowing hues of gold, red and pink as the first sunrays appeared. Few thin, non-threatening clouds streaked the sky, promising a wonderfully clear and bright day. All was calm and silent, save for the occasional chirping of the birds and the cheerful burbling of the food in the crockpot. The scent from it was delightful too, exciting like only a simple and hearty breakfast could be for an empty stomach. Between the fire and the hot pots, even the temperature was pleasant, just cool enough to shake off the torpor of sleep and get one into gear for a productive day. Wilson crossed his arms and leaned back against the ice box with a content sigh, focussing all his senses on letting that invigorating atmosphere permeate his very soul. Whether by design or by accident, even the Constant offered its moments of beauty and peace, and one had to be either foolish or heartless not to partake in those rare gifts.

“These eggs are runny. Practically raw.” Maxwell grumbled, poking around the bowl with his crude fork. “It takes some skill to mess up frying an egg.”

“Why don’t you make your own breakfast?”

“Why waste the effort? You’re going to make it for everyone anyway.”

“Now that I think of it, why don’t you make breakfast for everyone? You’re always awake before anyone else anyway.”

“Oh, sure. Why don’t I, on top of taking care of the heavy gathering and the occasional magic necessities, also do the cooking? Why don’t I give everyone back massages and polish their shoes too, while I’m at it?”

“Why do you hover around me and pester me for an early portion, only to complain that it isn’t cooked properly? Intriguing questions, I agree.” Maxwell snorted, and Wilson finally averted his attention from the horizon to consider his unhappy diner’s plate. His whites were a bit transparent, and not nearly the most disgusting or dangerous thing either of them had ever ingested. “Fine, leave that. I’ll give you another.”

Maxwell waited in irreproachable silence for the remaining minute of cooking time, while Wilson finished preparing more meat and proteins than Maxwell himself had in his whole body.

“Oh, by the way, we’re planning to hold a birthday party tonight.” Wilson casually offered, along with the second, piping hot and perfectly executed portion of bacon and eggs.

“A what?”

Maxwell wasn’t exactly the kind of man who wore his heart on his sleeve. However, he had a way of openly displaying few selected emotions, contempt and bewilderment in particular, that could have earned him a living as an actor in the real world. There was something oddly likable in how his whole lanky body bent forwards to deliver an accusatory glance or backwards to highlight the most artificially genuine shock, or in how his features crumpled in disgust or bloomed in deranged amusement, something that inexplicably made one tend to chuckle and humour his curious mannerism rather than mock it.

“Nothing grand, mind you, but I think the kids will appreciate it anyway. They haven’t celebrated it in who knows how long, and this happens to be roughly the time of year they were both born in, so-”

“A birthday party?” Maxwell repeated, still shell shocked by the news. He was even letting his precious second portion get cold. He wasn’t getting a third one, that was for sure. “You do realize that seasons - hell, that time itself is purely ornamental here, right? They aren’t any older than when they arrived!”

“Maybe not physically, but I’d say they’ve certainly grown in other ways. Hardship and death toughen the spirit, don’t they?” Wilson mused, sitting beside Maxwell and claiming the discarded dish for himself. He eagerly shoved a good quarter of its content in his mouth with a single forkful, almost tearing up from how tasty it was. It was the small things in life.

“Don’t go all philosophical on me, it doesn’t suit you.” Maxwell spared him a single judgemental glance before picking at his own food too, thankfully without further complaints. “Besides, we have more urgent things to worry about. It’s almost winter, we have to mend the warmer clothing and make some new thermal stones-”

“The’e ifnt mah two-”

“Were you raised in a barn!? Chew, you animal!” Maxwell unceremoniously pushed Wilson’s head sideways, censoring his regrettable lack of table manners. Wilson doggedly chomped on his food and gulped it down purposefully loudly, ignoring Maxwell’s disgruntled groan.

“There isn’t much that still needs to be done, actually. And we have a huge surplus of food, we may as well put it to good use before it spoils.”

“And, instead of turning it into meat statues or feeding it to the birds or the pigs, you suggest you fools simply stuff your face with it while singing obnoxious tunes near the fire? Have you people learnt nothing at all about resource management?”

“Relax. We’re good on supplies for food and materials, we all have life-giving amulets, neither hounds nor giants will attack for another week, at least. We can afford to take it easy for a single day.”

“Ridiculous. I won’t be taking part to any of this nonsense.”

“Believe it or not, no one was really expecting you to.” Wilson sighed. He helped himself to an extra portion from the crockpot, as a reward for putting up with Maxwell’s charming personality so early in the morning, every morning. “Woodie and Wolfgang have kindly offered to decorate the camp according to the kids’ every whim. Willow will be taking care of the cooking-”

“Oh God, why would you let her do that? She’ll set the whole place on fire-”

“In her own camp. Wickerbottom will keep an eye on her too. She’s objectively the best cook out of all of us, even though her dishes tend to be-”

“Charred.”

“Slightly overcooked. Sometimes.” Wilson patiently corrected. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us? You could use some-”

“I can think of at least half a dozen better things to do with my time, frankly. Including catching fireflies, reading, and being murdered by bats.”

“That is certainly one way you could spend your night, yes.” Wilson absently commented. He eyed his grumpy companion with mix of concern and curiosity. Maxwell wasn’t the most easy-going and jolly fellow even at his best, but usually he wasn’t that unsociable. “You know, I was thinking that you could-”

“Pass.”

Wilson pouted. “Hear me out, at least-”

“No. Whatever you’re thinking of suggesting, no.”

The tempting scent of breakfast was always the best wake-up call in the camp; the low murmurs and rustles coming from the tents informed Wilson that the others would be joining them soon, and by that time Maxwell would have already disappeared. Ordinarily, Wilson wouldn’t dedicate too much mental energy to challenge Maxwell’s rebuttal: the man needed to meet his daily quota of lonely sulking just like air, apparently, and experience had proved that dragging him into forced socialization would only backfire tragically. But that day, Wilson decided, was going to be a good day. A day of merriment and rest and good food and birthday parties, a good day like no one in the Constant had had in ages, and he didn’t want a single, fleeting worry to cross his mind even for a second. He wouldn’t worry about death, he wouldn’t worry about finding a way out, he wouldn’t worry about the Shadows and their throne, and he wouldn’t worry about where the hell Maxwell could be or what could be slaying him at any given moment. He gobbled down the rest of his eggs, eliciting yet another disgusted noise from the object of his current predicament. He put down the plate and casually threw his arm around Maxwell’s shoulders, giving him his widest smile and holding his fork like a cigar, channeling his best impromptu impression of demonic persuasion.

“Listen, pal-”

“I will gouge your eyes out with my bare hands, Higgsbury.”

“You know, death threats lose their edge after being enacted more than 50-60 times. Anyway, I was merely thinking that you may delight us with one of those fascinating shadow shows of yours, like you did on Hallowed Nights. Everyone loved it, especially the kids!”

“Oh, how flattering. I’m being recruited as the court jester. Too bad the mime isn’t here.”

“What mime? Is there a-”

“No. There isn’t.”

“Mh. Too bad. I think you’d make a decent mime yourself, to be fair-”

“YOU TAKE THAT BACK-”

“Whoa, all right, no mimes! But I do wish you performed for us tonight.” Maxwell didn’t reply, and Wilson flashed him a marginally more honest smile. “Do it for the children, at least? You know, the children you kidnapped and likely mentally scarred for life? One of whom is your own flesh and blood-”

“Oh, for the love of - why are you so insistent about this?”

“Because it would be fun! It’s the point of this whole thing, to get everyone’s mind off things and just have fun, for once! And I do mean everyone, including you- don’t give me that look, I saw you last time, you were having a blast with those illusions-”

“Gööd mörning, Wilsön!”

Wigfrid’s fierce salute startled them both, and suddenly a swarm of famished survivors assaulted the steaming pots, in a lively cacophony of greetings and compliments to the chef. Maxwell immediately seized the occasion to weasel out of Wilson’s grasp with the efficient grace of an annoyed cat.

“You’ll think about it, then!” Wilson threw out, somewhat hopeful. He thought he saw Maxwell’s hand waving in response, utterly vague and non-committal, before he disappeared among the tents. Well, it had been worth a try.

Wilson’s day was indeed one he’d later remember with fondness. It had been so long since he had been able to afford the luxury to pour his remarkable inventiveness into purely recreational activities! Crafting decorations and trinkets with no purpose other than making them pleasing to the eye and amusing, with no concern for their durability or their usefulness, was incredibly refreshing. Everyone seemed to be feeling the same, and the camp was soon filled with a playful and gaudy atmosphere that drew laughs and jokes out of anyone who happened to stop by. Time literally flew by as the preparations for the party proved to be just as enjoyable as the main event was going to be. It was dusk before Wilson realized it, with three firepits blazing to light up the whole base and more than a dozen lanterns strategically placed for extra safety and ambience. Willow and Wickerbottom had produced enough delicacies to satiate a whole army, and everything smelled and looked so damnably appetizing that Wickerbottom had to guard the food with a stick to keep rude hands from snagging an early bite: Wilson himself got slapped once on his wrist for trying to steal a butter muffin, and twice on his head for trying to get Chester to commit the heinous deed in his stead.

The official start of the party was signalled by a veritable barrage of firecrackers and applauses for the youngest pair of survivors. In truth, Wendy’s mood didn’t seem to be any better than any other day’s, impervious as she was to any sort of positive emotion, but Wilson considered the fact that she wasn’t openly annoyed by the noise and the celebration of a prolonged lifespan a small victory in itself. Webber, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. Somehow, he had interpreted Wickerbottom’s constructive speech about age and personal growth as an encouragement to share what he had learnt in his hypothetical year in the Constant, starting from a genuinely impressive wrestling technique to be employed against pig warriors. Naturally, that had quickly devolved into playful roughhousing between Webber and Wolfgang, aptly clad in pigskin to better fit the part, and Wilson could only hope it wouldn’t result in too many accidental bruises. He watched in genuine amusement for a while as they tumbled on the ground at a safe distance from the fire, chuckling at Wolfgang’s belligerent oinks and Webber’s boisterous battlecries. Soon, however, Wilson’s enthusiasm started to wane. Not for any particular reason, just… well, Wilson wasn’t exactly a party animal. Noise and abundant company usually entertained him for an hour or so, but it was never long until he automatically gravitated towards the edge of the room and just got lost in his own head, letting the music and the chatter and the people blend in the background as his mind drifted back to that one project he was so invested into. Currently, he was short on idées fixes, so he simply let his eyes wonder. On the food first, yes, he was that base. While Wickerbottom was busy scowling at the brawl, he casually strolled to the table and snatched one of the coveted muffins; he idly munched on it as the little bubble of enthusiasm around the contenders kept sizzling without him.

Eventually, he noticed that Wendy wasn’t among the cheering crowd. He gazed around the camp in concern, but he spotted her soon, sitting at the very edge of the light and rather far from the group, holding her flower in her lap. Beside her, intently observing the unique item, was Maxwell. Wilson hadn’t noticed he had arrived; in fact, he had given up hope he’d even show up soon after he’d made himself scarce at dawn. Wilson couldn’t tell what they were doing: they appeared to be talking only now and then, and very briefly. At one point, Maxwell cupped the flower under his palm; when he removed it, shadows bled from its petals, morphing into copies of the flower itself, tied together and elegantly arranged as a whole garland. Wendy gingerly took it in her hands and studied it carefully, before wearing it. She was smiling.

A sharp cry from the crowd distracted them. Webber was standing victoriously on top of a squealing Wolfgang, dramatically begging for mercy. Neither Maxwell nor Wendy looked especially impressed, but Maxwell smirked when the girl whispered something in his ear. He closed his fist and made an odd gesture, as if he was rolling something between his fingers. He opened his palm, and tiny lumps of shadow plopped down from it, rolling here and there on the ground. They immediately grew small appendages and started crawling towards the group - they were spiders, Wilson realized as soon as they were close enough: not the kind of abominable arachnids that dwelled in the Constant, but the inoffensive earthly sort. Wilson hadn’t seen an ordinary spider in so long that he had almost forgotten they existed, and for some reason the realization made him inordinately nostalgic. How long had he even been away from home? It felt like a lifetime… Well, technically it was. Many, many lifetimes, however brief.

Wilson lost sight of the shadowy critters as they creeped among the crowd, unseen. Wolfgang’s scared yelp, a genuine one this time, made it clear where they were headed, and Wilson rolled his eyes. For all his haughty talk and composure, Maxwell had some rather juvenile tastes on the matter of pranks. Webber, on his part, immediately started collecting the spiders with obvious delight, letting them scuttle freely on his shoulders and head. He was positively adorable, at times. He ran to the dastardly duo as soon as he identified them as the responsibles for the disruption, and the rest of the group spontaneously followed. Maxwell didn’t look particularly happy about the invasion of his little corner of darkish solitude, but he didn’t complain vocally.

Finally, Wickerbottom declared it was time for dinner. Wilson barely managed to shove the rest of the muffin in his mouth before she finished her sentence, half choking in a desperate attempt to erase all incriminating proof. He obligingly waited for everyone else to grab their servings before approaching the banquet with an innocent smile. He was met with no reprimands, but the tight line of the librarian’s mouth made him suspect that he’d be charged with a sizable amount of crockery to wash later.

The feast was absolutely to die for. The loud chatters and laughters were soon replaced by the sound of vigorous chewing and a veritable onslaught of praises for Willow, who kept insisting that the best ingredient in any winning recipe was a fierce, crackling fire under the pot, and possibly around and inside it too.

“We should do this more often, eh?” Wilson heard Woodie comment amidst the other voices. “Lots of us usually eat at the same time, but we rarely do it together. Do you get what I’m saying?”

“You are absolutely right, dear.” Wickerbottom agreed. “It isn’t always easy to find the time and the energy to be properly sociable in this dreary place, but it would undoubtedly do us a world of good.”

“For what purpose? When death will inevitably seize one of us, our bonds will only deepen our suffering and haunt us to our own grave.” Wendy objected, and Wilson didn’t miss the small smile her words elicited on Maxwell’s face. Everyone else remained understandably silent, until Webber, probably used at the girl’s candid morbidity, chimed in as if no one had just exposed the tragic truth of human attachment.

“You know what would make this party even better? A story!” He looked straight at Maxwell, his many eyes shining with the unbridled excitement that only a hopeful child could harbour. If possible, everything went even quieter.

“...You want a story, eh?” Maxwell popped his last honey nugget in his mouth, without looking up from his plate. Suddenly, the old man was the center of everyone’s attention, and Wilson could bet that at least half of the bystanders, including him, were more or less expecting him to single-handedly ruin the evening with some untimely jab or rant. He unhurriedly put down his empty dish, cleaned his hands, and slipped his black gloves on.

“You know, I met a sailor once, just come back from a lengthy trip on the shores of Angola, who told me the tale of a boy just like you.” Maxwell stood up and started pacing in the middle of the rough circle of people, slowly rubbing his hands. Wilson could vaguely spy something coming into existence between Maxwell’s palms, some sort of fine, black mist; it almost looked like the gloves themselves were dissolving into thin air. “Anansi, the boy was called. A bright, mischievous lad, half human and half spider, with a heartfelt craving for stories as well.”

Maxwell waved his left hand with a flourish and a whiff of smoky shadow wafted from his fingers, coalescing into a vague Webber-shaped cloud. The apparition was different from Maxwell’s usual puppets: it was more ethereal, less defined and completely immaterial. Nevertheless, it fluttered and danced around with delightful ease and fluidity, immediately capturing everyone’s gaze and even earning Maxwell a couple of awed ‘Ooooh’. The story, as far as Wilson could tell, was a charming and classic fairytale with an exotic flair: a young boy sent on a quest for dangerous beasts, which he managed to capture against all odds through sheer wit and cunning. Despite the simplicity of its content, the tale positively enraptured the audience thanks to Maxwell’s stunning performance. Characters, monsters, items and even scenery were promptly summoned by Maxwell’s magic as soon as they were mentioned, interacting with each other, phasing through the onlookers and fusing hypnotically. Maxwell himself often stepped out of the circle to leave his creations under the spotlight, only to suddenly jump in again with a dramatic roar to highlight the plot twist. At one point, he even dived face-first into the silhouette of the current villain, brought the lit tip of his cigar to his lips and blew out, reproducing, in all its erupting magnificence, the impressive burst of fire the monster had just spit towards the protagonist. Wilson found himself wishing he had two pairs of eyes, so that he could watch both the shadows and Maxwell at the same time, for they were both spectacular in their own merits. The former King’s hands never stopped moving, his fingers wiggling and flicking as if he was really controlling his shadows via invisible strings. He never stopped pacing either, circling his spectators, drawing bizarre shapes in the air with the smoke arising from his cigar, as if tying his story together with that ephemeral strand. His narration was impeccable as well: he acted out each character’s lines with genuine passion (needless to say, he had a talent for channeling villainous threats and malignant snark), and his low tone and naturally coached voice had an enthralling quality that literally stole the show. When the story came to an end and the triumphant spider boy was promoted to God of the Stories, no less, for his brave deeds, Wilson felt the genuine impulse to join Webber in his enthusiastic request for one more tale. Everyone clapped warmly, and Maxwell dispelled his shadows with one last, wide motion. For the first time in the whole evening, Wilson’s and Maxwell’s eyes met and for a moment, just for a moment, Maxwell’s perfect showmanship seemed to falter: something shifted imperceptibly in his studied confidence and he stopped, briefly holding Wilson’s gaze, before bowing deeply to his audience.

Sadly, Maxwell wasn’t in the mood for an encore, and soon he retreated back to the farthest corner of the camp, away from the mounting buzzing and chit-chat. Wilson graciously allowed him five minutes of respite from human interaction, before deciding to fetch two cups of berry juice and join him there.

“That was amazing.” He sat beside Maxwell and handed him a drink. The other man accepted both the compliment and the juice with a nod. “You really have a knack for this sort of thing. You always look perfectly at ease when you’re in the spotlight.”

“I have been told. You could use developing the same skill, you know. The quality of your stitches is inversely proportional to the number of people observing you while you’re applying them.”

“Ehr, yes, I’m working on that. Speaking of peculiar skills, what’s the deal with that fire-spitting thing you pulled off back there? You can’t actually create fire, right? Because that would have come very handy on a bunch of different occasions-”

“I swear you get more gullible every time the sun rises. No, I can’t spit fire. That was just some basic fire-breathing trick.”

“I guessed so. It was fairly impressive but, if I were you, I wouldn’t have done it with Willow watching. She’s definitely going to try to do that, probably setting the whole camp on fire in the process. And when that happens, I’m going to blame you.”

“Like hell you are! She’s a grown woman, she’s responsible for her own actions.”

“Maybe, but you do have a talent for bringing out the worst in people. Anyway, how come you know how to breathe fire? Do you get a free course when you’re hired as a demon? Does that figure among the key curricular skills devils in training need to acquire?” Maxwell snorted in his drink, and Wilson smiled as well. “Do you have to pass a fire-breathing qualifying examination before you’re deployed to torment mortals? I suppose that demons who can’t properly handle the heat must be fairly damaging to the corporate image-”

“You cheeky sod.” Maxwell burst out laughing heartily. That jovial sound, so rare to hear, warmed something deep within Wilson’s chest. “Sure, why not? If I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

“Oh, yeah? Try me.” Wilson grinned, leaning his cheek on his palm and turning face Maxwell fully.

“Mh, let’s see…” Maxwell stroked his chin with a playful smirk. “I’ll give you three options. See if you can figure out the real one.”

“Nothing is ever easy or straightforward with you, is it?”

“Number one: I learned it from my own creations. I simply had to study how the dragonfly harnesses and redirects heat from the atmosphere to grasp the basic mechanism.”

“Mmmh… an intriguing explanation, but a faulty one. You can’t possibly create something functional without knowing or at least guessing how it works beforehands.”

“With just that one sentence, you fully proved your complete ignorance about the very foundations of the magic arts. Anyway, number two: I learned it from an alcoholic, self-proclaimed fakir travelling with a circus in exchange for half a bottle of Port.”

“That’s so ridiculously out there I can’t even imagine how you came up with that.”

“Number three: I never learned it. This was my first attempt ever and I instantly nailed the technique by virtue of my natural, unrestrained talent.”

“...This is stupid. All of these are stupid. You’re just pulling my leg.” Wilson pouted. “You’re right, I’m just going to assume Satan taught you.”

“Suit yourself.” Maxwell chukled, taking another sip.

“What did you use as fuel? Oh, wait-”

“You guessed it. Nightmare fuel, what else?”

“I didn’t see you put it into your mouth though… Where did you keep it?”

“Inside my very soul.”

“Ha! Ha ha! That- that was a joke, right?”

“Oh, I wish.” Maxwell declared with the utmost seriousness, taking a long drag from his cigar like the overly dramatic ass that he was.

“Is nightmare fuel even flammable? I experimented with it a few times, but I never managed to ignite it…”

“It can be, in the right hands. It’s extremely versatile if you know how to use it.”

“Well, that wasn’t an unnecessarily vague or creepy explanation in the slightest.”

“Oh, my apologies. I’d hate to accidentally give you the impression that your onslaught of childish and nosy questions was getting on my nerves.”

“Oh no, you aren’t fooling me, you know?” Wilson waved his finger at Maxwell with a knowing smirk. “You’re in high spirits tonight, no matter how hard you try to hide it. It’s quite telling that you even went as far as to waste some of your oh-so-precious fuel for the sake of our silly entertainment-”

“Mph! I only used few drops for the fire. The shadows didn’t even require any, they were little more than glorified tricks of light-”

“Nevertheless! You had a whale of a time and it showed, and damn if that wasn’t refreshing to see you waltz around like that!”

Maxwell gave Wilson a strange look. “Well, I’m certainly glad that my favorite petulant brat enjoyed the show. And Webber and Wendy too, of course.”

”Hey, no need to be- oh. Ha! See? You’re on fire tonight! With or without fuel.” Maxwell pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained groan, but it wasn’t enough to hide the obvious smile on his lips. “...You know, I’m glad you took up my suggestion. We’ve all been in dire need of a break for a while. Especially the kids, especially considering it’s their birthday-”

“It really isn’t.”

“It probably isn’t.” Wilson conceded. “But what’s the point of surviving just for the sake of surviving, with no real perspective of escape in sight, if we can’t find it in ourselves to enjoy our hard-earned lives?”

Maxwell didn’t reply immediately, regarding Wilson with something awfully similar to concern.

“...Say, is everything all right?”

“Uh? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, you’ve been awfully sentimental lately. And what’s with all this ‘poor kids’ here, ‘poor kids’ there? Where does this misplaced parental solicitude come from?”

“What an asinine question. I’ll give you a pass for not caring about the unjust punishment you’ve served to a bunch of naive adults, but Webber and Wendy, of all people, deserve better than being confined in this dreadful place. They’re just children!”

“Tsk! If you ask me, children are just as selfish as adults, if not worse. They’d literally sell their siblings for a handful of liquorice.”

“Oh come on, how can you be so cynical?”

“I am not, it’s perfectly true. My brother did it twice, and he didn’t even share the sweets. Wretched rascal.”

“Your brother?” Wilson couldn’t help but ask.

“Mm-hm.” Maxwell didn’t notice his surprise immediately, but he did when Wilson kept staring silently at him in mild fascination. He made a face. “What’s that doe-eyed look for? You chewed my head off for having a niece, you already know I have a brother.”

“No, I didn’t! It could have been… a sister… too…” It didn’t sound nearly as silly of a reply in Wilson’s head, truly. And Maxwell’s raised eyebrow did nothing to diminish his rapidly growing embarassment.

“Can’t argue with that airtight logic.” He deadpanned.

“Give me a break! You hardly ever talk about yourself, let alone your family. Sometimes it’s hard to remember you didn’t just burst out of a sulphur mine.”

“I really sold you the demon shtick flawlessly, didn’t I? Hey, and get this - you won’t believe your ears. I had…” He leant towards Wilson cospiratorily, lowering his voice and shielding his mouth with a hand. Wilson felt automatically compelled to draw closer as well. “...A father.”

“...Ha. Ha ha. Hilarious.”

“And a mother too! Astounding, I know. Don’t let the claws and the magic and the devilishly good looks deceive you, I’m 100 percent human, plus another 15 or 20 stemmed from the murkiest depths of darkness itself-”

“Will you stop that?” Wilson giggled despite himself, punching Maxwell on the shoulder. The old man let out a completely unwarranted yelp and leaned away from him, nursing his injured arm with an affronted scowl. Wilson was tempted to call him out on his dramatic reaction, before he remembered that that happened to be the spot where he had administered the injection.

“...Oh, sorry. Is it still sore? It’s been a few days, it should-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Maxwell ineffectively tried to wave Wilson’s hands away as he prodded the area. “It’s barely noticeable by now.”

As far as Wilson could tell, there weren’t any perceptible swollen or hardened lumps beneath the clothing. “Are you sure? I can have a look at it.”

“You don’t get to act all compassionate and thoughtful after deliberately poisoning me. Hands off.” Maxwell retorted without any real bite, and Wilson raised his hands in surrender. After a beat, Maxwell looked away. “Besides, you have no reason to worry about it. I think there may be some merit to that formula of yours.”

“Really?” Wilson instantly perked up. “Have you been feeling better?”

“Something of the sort, yes.”

“As if you had never died in the first place?”

“Possibly.”

“Yes! I knew it!” Wilson grinned, pumping his fist in triumph. He didn’t let Maxwell’s half-hearted answers mislead him: if he had felt like spontaneously bringing it up, the improvement must have been undeniable. “Now we only need to wait a little more to make sure it won’t have any odd side effects in the long term...”

“Glad to see you’re still expecting me to kick the bucket at any moment. How long will I supposedly be in danger for?”

“Now, I wouldn’t say you’re in ‘danger’… but I’d wait at least a full month before using the medicine on others.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” Maxwell rubbed a hand on his face. Wilson chuckled and patted his back encouragingly.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as Wilson nursed his drink and Maxwell smoked quietly. They watched absently the small but lively crowd from afar, lost in their own thoughts. On moments like those, when Maxwell was in a decent mood, Wilson was honestly glad they had met after the throne. If one managed to grow a liking or at least a tolerance for Maxwell’s cutting humour and his peculiar ways, having him around could be positively invigorating. It could be fun. For all his gratuitous complaining and gloom, he wasn’t one to just sit and let the world kick him the teeth. By hook or by crook, he’d pull himself and anyone he needed together and he’d come through, with a sharp sword and an even sharper grin. On moments like those, when they were virtually alone and their past misgivings didn’t weigh on their minds and their words, Wilson could even take a honest look at himself and contemplate his own feelings without worry. On moments like those, it wasn’t difficult to see all the disquieting thoughts and suspects about the throne’s influence as the overgrown paranoia they actually were, and dismiss them with ease. And when the little tidbits of Maxwell’s past, the unguarded laughs and genuine concern, and even his distinctly British interjections reminded Wilson of how exquisitely human that self-proclaimed fiend actually was, accepting the undeniable affection he felt for the man was as natural as breathing.

“What did they do?”

“Mh?“ Maxwell came down from his own reverie with a surprised puff of smoke. “What? Who?”

“Your parents.”

Maxwell let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. “You have this unfortunate, ingrained habit of mistaking thinly-veiled insults for viable topics of conversation. I didn’t mention my parents because I feel like sharing my life story, I did it to highlight the fact that you’re as dumb as a rock.”

“Oh, I don’t do it by mistake, I assure you. It’s a deliberate choice.” Wilson answered genially. “It’s also basically the only way I can ever talk with you for more than thirty seconds.”

“Lucky me.”

“What about your brother? Who did he sold you to?”

Maxwell flashed him his widest, most disturbing grin. “The Devil, maybe.”

“...All right, I guess I walked into that one.” Wilson rolled his eyes, still smiling as well. A couple of high-pitched cries made them both turn towards the crowd. Wilson couldn’t quite see what was happening back there, but if he had to hazard a guess, Webber was probably testing his fighting skills against Wigfrid, this time. “...Have you thought about what I told you? About trusting the others a bit more?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you must see it’s for the best. Hell, just tonight you had proof of how little it would take you to make a great impression on them. I’m not going to say that now all is forgiven and forgotten just because you put up a fancy magic show, but you can bet everyone will be more friendly with you tomorrow. That’s a start, and it took you no effort at all.”

“That’s an awfully simplistic way of conceiving human interactions, and you’re well aware of it. It’s certainly easy to see everyone in a good light now, with full bellies, warm clothes, good health and relative safety. But when food starts to grow scarce and danger approaches, that’s when people show their true colors.”

“And your solution is to treat them as if they had already betrayed you, without even giving them a chance? Especially when you’re the one who betrayed them? What sort of backwards logic is that?”

“A more cautious one than ‘let’s just hope for the best’, surely. Besides, this whole situation is beyond worrying in and of itself.”

“What do you mean?”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, and his tone lowered. “...Do you really see nothing strange in this?”

“In what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Maxwell made a vague, all-encompassing gesture, including the camp, the survivors, the darkness, everything and nothing. “All this. This… this is all wrong.”

Wilson blinked. He had no idea what Maxwell was referring to, but he sensed it must be something more important than his usual overly dramatic pessimism, so he waited for him to continue.

“Us. All of us. Meeting each other, surviving together, faring so well that we can afford to hold birthday parties, for heaven’s sake. Look at all the statues and the amulets and the piles of food! By now, death has become a mild inconvenience for us, rather than an actual threat. This is a far cry from the hellish experience you’ve had in the Constant when you first arrived, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.” Wilson agreed, dimly seeing where Maxwell was heading. Maxwell nervously shook some ash off his cigar.

“There’s a reason why you never stumbled into another living soul during all your travels, and that’s because I made it so. I kept you all accurately separated, I organized the connections between each world you crossed so that none of you would ever meet. Because surviving in pairs or larger groups is easier, both practically and psychologically. And this place was not crafted to make life easier. It’s an instrument of torture, devised to induce exactly as much pain as humans are capable of experiencing.”

Wilson didn’t speak. Maxwell crossed his arms, sulking at the noisy crowd. “And suddenly, within the span of few months, so many of us are reunited in a single place. Not by sheer chance, that’s for sure. Suddenly we’re allowed all this… comfort, company, cheer. It makes no sense.”

“Well, maybe the new Queen is on our side, inasmuch as she can be.” Wilson ventured to say. “You said you knew her, and she freed me from the throne. Maybe she genuinely wants to help us.”

“No, that’s not it.” Maxwell shook his head grimly. “Even if she harboured any sympathy for any of us, which is doubtful, she’d be in no position to favour us so blatantly. They wouldn’t allow it. Nothing happens here without Their permission, and They only care about Their own entertainment, which invariably involves slaughter and suffering.”

“So you’re saying that this is some sort of ploy?” Wilson frowned. “What are you concerned about, exactly? That there may be… I don’t know, a spy in our midst?”

“That is certainly a possibility.”

“Mh… that doesn’t sound right to me. It’s needlessly contrived and time-consuming as a way to torture us.”

“It certainly isn’t something I’d have resorted to… but if I was replaced, I guess They must have been growing bored of my methods to begin with.”

“I thought you got replaced because I bested you in a battle of endurance, stubbornness and wits.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night.” Maxwell deadpanned. “Anyway, there are much simpler ways our current arrangement can damage us.”

“How so?”

“What Wendy said earlier is true.” Maxwell shrugged. “Wounds of the soul are much more devastating than those of the flesh. When this idyllic period of peace will inevitably end and corpses will start to pile up, loneliness will be a heavier burden than ever, and loss will only add to its weight. That kind of pain is definitely something I can see Them enjoying.”

“So you think this is only temporary.” Wilson murmured, considering Maxwell’s words carefully. “That it was given to us only to be taken away.”

“That much is obvious. Still, I don’t think that’s quite all there is to it. It’s too much trouble for too little reward. They’re planning something, and I have no idea what it is. I don’t like it.” Maxwell rubbed his eyes slowly. “I don’t like it one bit.”

So much for his day without worries, Wilson thought. He had never really stopped to question which conjunctures might have caused the survivors’ paths to cross, but, as Maxwell put them, they did look suspicious. The thought that he may, possibly soon, be out there on his own all over again, completely alone with his struggles and his hallucinations against a whole, murderous world, was indeed depressing. Yet, for some reason, it was even more depressing to see Maxwell similarly affected by that perspective. Wilson silently considered the other man, all traces of his earlier mirth and lightheartedness gone; suddenly he looked very old and very tired, barely any more alive than the listless shell of a man he had found caged on the throne. Something within Wilson found that simply intolerable. He reached out and gently squeezed Maxwell’s shoulder.

“...Hey, look. There isn’t really any point in catastrophizing. We all know this place is terrible and evil, but that doesn’t mean nothing good can ever come out of it. Look at yourself, you’re free now. That’s an improvement over being bound to the throne, isn’t it?”

“Tough call.” Maxwell replied laconically.

“That’s an improvement.” Wilson declared. “I’m faring better than ever too! I’ve learned a lot, I’m free and in great shape, and I have at least one person I can unhesitatingly rely on, and that’s more-”

“Who?” Maxwell asked, with ridiculously genuine curiosity. Wilson gave him a look. “...Oh, you mean me.”

“No, I meant Chester. Who else, you thick-headed prick!?”

“Sorry, it was the ‘unhesitatingly’ that threw me off. Please continue.”

“And!” Wilson added, and abruptly stood up and walked away. He marched to the table and filled two plates with as much food of as many different varieties as they could hold, and brought them back to their comfortably private corner. He proceeded to refill their bowls to the brim with berry juice as well, and he added those to the heap before sitting down again, while Maxwell kept observing him with a mix of confusion and amusement. “We are currently in the perfect position to build our strength for whatever obstacle They might be planning to throw in our way. So eat up, stay safe and gather comrades.”

“My God, this has to be the most predictable and shallow pep talk I’ve ever heard.”

“Trust me, you just have to tackle the most immediate problems one at a time and don’t let remote fears distract you. Small steps. That’s how I made it all the way to your den.”

“Every time you rub that one victory in my face, you come up with a different reason for it. Last time it was by exercising caution and always having a backup plan, which is just about the opposite of what you just said.”

“That too. And also by being generally better, smarter and stronger than you. I’m just an extraordinary guy all round, when you think about it.” Maxwell snorted. Wilson smiled and held out his bowl of juice. “To peace and prosperity, however long they’ll last?”

Maxwell shook his head, but he was smiling. He lifted his own bowl and clinked against Wilson’s. “To short-sighted optimism.”

“Good enough.”

They drank their juice and enjoyed some more of Willow’s cuisine. It was true, Wilson didn’t have much valuable insight or advice to offer about Maxwell’s worries, but small steps did it, for real. And as of now, managing to turn Maxwell’s frown into a crooked smile felt like a worthy milestone.

“Maxwell!” Webber yelled. “Willow wants you to teach her how to spit fire!”

Wilson sighed. Maxwell, at least, had the decency to look alarmed.

#don't starve #maxwil #maxwell #Wilson P. Higgsbury #wickerbottom #webber #wendy #Wigfrid #wolfgang #woodie #willow

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violetosprey · 6 years

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BTD My thoughts on Strade

I covered my thoughts long ago on all of the “Till Death Do Us Part” game characters, but I never really took the time to talk about my thoughts about the main series “Boyfriend to Death” characters. I have actually talked about many of these characters through various different posts. But otherwise, there haven’t been that many posts dedicated specifically to certain BTD characters.

These posts will mostly be about my own opinions and views (a rough analysis more than anything). I may end up focusing on multiple aspects of the character, or just one particular one if I think it defines them best (we’ll see). For those that have read some of my other posts, there likely WILL be some thoughts I’ve stated before that I’ll simply be re-iterating here. But there may also be some new stuff in here if it happens to come to mind, or because I’ve simply not had the time before to go over such a topic.

It will take a while to get through all 8, so please have some patience and just check back later if it looks like I don’t have a post up yet for a character you’re really interested in. I will also be talking through these under the assumption that you’ve played/read all the routes (so I might mention but not go into explicit detail on a scene).

*major spoilers below for BOTH BTD and BTD2*

Fun Fact: Strade was the first character I’d ever seen related to the BTD series. A picture of him online is actually what got me interested in the games. That’s how I learned about them. Also, I still think Strade’s scar near his mouth makes him look like he has a toothpick in his mouth (until he makes certain expressions).

If you asked me who I thought was the most popular character in the original BTD game, my guess would be Strade. I don’t know exactly why, but I feel like Strade is the most common “face” of BTD (though maybe that’s just because he’s how I found the game myself). Strade I think does embody that sense of horror these dating simulator parodies bring. He’s one of the main reasons I consider the original BTD game that focuses on a character’s ability to be straight up evil (while the BTD2 characters had more depth). His pure sadistic nature might also be why he’s so popular.

First off, it’s perfectly fine if you want to head canon Strade with a slightly…nicer disposition. I know a lot of people enjoy doing this (especially with his relationship between either OC’s or Ren). They’re fictional characters, and people should be able to have a little fun with expanding on other possibilities (for stories, or just for kicks). However, people who’ve read my other posts may have noticed that I prefer to stick as closely to the game canon (and what the creators confirm themselves) as possible. And the canon truth about Strade is…he’s an absolute MONSTER. Despite being one of the few human characters in the BTD series (excluding TDDUP), he has proved to be one of most evil and remorseless characters. What’s more, we aren’t really given a back story as to why Strade is the way he is. From what Gato’s implied though…it’s almost as if he’s just always been this way. He has no deep rooted anger or anxiety issues from past trauma that we know of (and he appears way too confident). He’s not doing it out of hatred (on the contrary, he likes people). He’s just doing it for fun because he enjoys it. Hell, he’s made it his CAREER through the snuff films.

People have asked Gato various things about how nice Strade can be. In the game he DOES have a rather friendly demeanor to him. And he’ll offer you food, call you “buddy.” But I think the creator makes it pretty clear that while Strade holds no actual ill-will towards his victims, he IMMENSELY enjoys torturing them. I think Gato has even once said something along the lines of “nothing Strade does is consensual.” Meaning, he goes out of his way to make sure that no matter what, his victims are in distress. Even if they manage to get comfortable around him, he’ll find a way to make them fear again. I talked about once how each of the BTD and TDDUP characters respond to “initiative,” and both the game and the creator make it clear that Strade has a preference for people that are more shy or introverted. People that are less likely to open up or be assertive with him. It also means it’s more likely that the person will be submissive and afraid of him I’m guess. I think Gato had said that Strade decided to keep Ren because Ren was very submissive and willing to do whatever Strade said.

Speaking of Ren, I don’t think I’ve taken the time to really talk too much about the kind of “affection and love” Strade can show. I think Gato once described the relationship between Strade and Ren was most similar to…roommates? And Strade (when not tormenting Ren) would buy him games he wanted (so a weird snuff film rich sugar daddy?). We do see that Ren’s not in the best shape though when he comes down into the basement. I have no clue how frequently Strade tortures Ren, but it’s definitely enough to keep Ren in a very nervous state. When you attack Ren, Strade gets furious. But he doesn’t call Ren by his name, instead saying “You touched my fox,” I believe. So Strade probably never considered Ren a lover or friend of any kind. More like a pet. Why Strade would be nice to his “pet” could be a psychological play here where offering even the smallest bits of kindness between his sadistic activities causes Ren to become more obedient and closer to Strade (a carrot stick method if you will).

When a person is going through a horrible experience (like being kidnapped by a serial killer), the mind has the ability to do whatever it takes to help relieve stress from the victim and keep the will to live. What probably happened here is Ren started to cherish the “kinder” moments of Strade so much that eventually he saw them as having some kind of “bond.” It’s highly likely that Ren developed a form of stockholm syndrome. We actually see the proof of this in BTD2. Ren talks about how he KNOWS Strade was a horrible person, and we was afraid of him. But at the same time, Ren thought they had something special. In fact depending, on the level of affection and choices, I think Ren can even get really ticked off at you if you call him out saying that what he and Strade had wasn’t real. If people were confused as to why Ren wanted you and him to kill Lawrence together, this is probably because Ren had developed this warped idea in his head that sadistic activities (and even murder) were part of a more intimate experience. A quicker and more efficient way to form a stronger “bond” between the two of you.

Doesn’t that sound familiar? I’m pretty sure…Strade says something very similar to the MC in his basement back in BTD. That the moment you’re sharing together is very exciting and very “intimate.” This is probably the same kind of stuff he told Ren that caused Ren’s mind to slowly become warped. It could just be Strade messing with people’s heads on purpose to get them to do what he wants. However, I did occur to me that it’s entirely possible…that Strade fully believes that the act of causing harm to others, and hearing their screams, is an extreme form of intimacy. Like it’s not just a tactic for him to torment people with, he actually gets off on the things he does because it’s his form of “love.” Before anyone who reads the other stuff on my blog calls me out, no I don’t think Strade is a yandere. He’s far more yangire (I can’t quite be sure either if he’s really “loving the person or just the experience).

Now this is just a theory, but it might also help to explain the bleeding heart ending. Strade gets SO excited, that he forces himself on you and proceeds to strangle you to death while he’s doing so. I’m sure several people thought this was a little strange. Since I’m not a serial killer or murderer of any kind, of course this stumped me for a while as to how Strade ends up “loving you to death.” I think now it’s possible that he ends up liking the MC (or interaction) so much, you could even say “loving” I guess, that he ends up holding nothing back and in a state of ecstasy, ends up snuffing out your life with his bare hands. In the one survival ending, you need a full red (regular) heart to get your own shock collar. This puts you at the same status as Ren (a “pet”). But if you REALLY want Strade to “love” you…it ends up with your death. I think this says a lot about just how deranged and sadistic Strade is. It’s no wonder Gato has never painted him in a sympathetic light.

The last little bit I wanted to say about Strade, which I think it another reason people like about him, is the expressions he makes. Hats off to Gato, Strade’s expressions in the series I personally think are some of the best. If you don’t believe me, here’s a fun little video showcasing many (not sure if it’s all) of his expressions. The music makes me laugh, but it makes the video more entertaining I think :P You get to see him be cheery, sadistic, and angry, and it’s just a blast.

I really do like how simplistically evil Strade is. He’s never truly meant to be a lover, which is good because the point of these games was to be ironic. They’re not dating simulators where you win the heart of the bad boy (usually). They’re survival horror games where you work hard to just get out alive. But even when you do find that survival ending (and both Strade and Rire only have one each), you may realize to your horror that you don’t truly get to escape the nightmare. And that’s CERTAINLY a twist to be admired.

#btd #btd2 #strade #gatobob #own post #horror game #I posted Vincent thoughts before this but #tumblr was mean and wouldn't let it appear in searches #please be nice tumblr and let this post show up on more than just my tumblr

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toast-tit · 6 years

Text

You Put A Target On My Back, Baby

Mob!Tom x reader

*gif not mine*

Summary: Don’t leave your flash on, kids or you might end up getting interrogated by the world’s most fear mob boss.

Warnings: language, violent, blood kink???

A/N: lol I know I’m not active on here much but I will still take requests. I’m writing a fic on my wattpad that might be coming here soon, but if not my wattpad is Idrisisthetardis.

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The only thing I've known for the past hour or so was that I was completely engulfed in darkness. The rope that kept my hands back cut into my wrists and I knew for sure I was bleeding. What was weird was that there was no gag to silence me, but I still didn't shout or yell for help. I knew I was in deep shit and I knew why.

There was a distant creak from a door opening and a sliver of light that snuck in. It was tiny, but I still squinted because of the fact that I had been used to the dark. There was a murmur of voices and two pairs of footsteps getting louder with each word.

I wasn't even a cop when Scotland Yard contacted me. I was just a photographer who did one or two weddings a month and panhandled the rest of my rent money. Apparently Tom Holland, big bad mob boss, showed up to a wedding I was at and I had caught a photo of him, catching the eyes of the law. They promised me a year's worth of rent if I could be able to spy on the Holland empire and break the whole organization down with just a few clicks from the camera.

But my dumb ass forgot to turn the flash off and here we are.

I felt a hand yank my chin up and I faced a blinding light. It took me a few moments before I actually faced the man behind the light. It was Harrison Osterfield, Tom's right hand man. He was probably the only man to rival with Tom's body count and the one who caught me.

"Well," he said, "Looks like you got yourself in a sticky situation, didn't you?" He was amused, but it wasn't lighthearted. It was more satirical and dark than anything else. I didn't respond, I was focusing on my breathing. "No shit, Sherlock," I finally said, looking him in the eye, "Where's the big man? I might as well just get this over with."

Harrison frowned at my desire for efficiency. He cocked his head to the side, "And why's that? Do you not feel guilt? Aren't you going to deny what you've done to get in here?" I pondered his words for a moment before shaking my head. "I'm going to end up dead whether I deny my actions or not. There's no use dragging it out. I'm pretty sure you'll forget my name in five minutes and get on with your day," I answered. My nonchalance was affecting him, I could tell.

It wasn't that I cared about living, I do. I have a dog at home that needs her mother and I have a brother who owes me money from a game of Monopoly. But I didn't care about dying. I've already had one near death experience and it didn't alter my life in a positive way. I didn't see the light and I didn't find my religious niche or any of that weepy shit. Instead, I had realized that if I die, I die. There's nothing that will happen to make me miraculously live again, I just go dark for eternity. And with that mentality, I lost my fear of death.

"You're alright, mentally, right? Like you don't have suicidal tendencies or anything?" Harrison furrowed his eyebrows in concern and I laughed. Tom Holland was most likely going to kill me anyway and he was concerned for my mental health? Talk about ironic.

Shaking my head, I reassured the big bad mob guy, "I'm fine. Let's just do your big scary shit and continue our day." Harrison kept his eyes on me for a hot minute before putting two fingers to his ear and saying, "Bring him in. She's ready." He then looked at me and said, "You're making a big mistake by confronting him, Y/N. I'm the nice one." I smiled wryly and tilted my head, "I'm charmed by your hospitality." The door opened and I saw the blinding light of the outside world once again and watched as Harrison walked towards it and Tom Holland walked out.

Now that I was seeing Tom, wearing two holsters of guns placed on his hips and a knife in his hands, I began to regret my decision of meeting him. There was no smile on his face like Harrison, instead a frown. If I was going to die at the hands of a psychopath, I would at least want to see them happy.

He stopped just a few feet before me and pulled up a chair, sitting in it. On the top of the chair, he began sharpening his knife. It was a scare tactic, I was sure of it. It was working, but barely. I was anxious, not scared. Tom stopped sharpening his knife and looked at me for the first time. He was jaw droppingly beautiful, to say the least. His brown eyes had gold specks in them that reminded me of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. His jawline could rival the salience of the knife he held. It was unfortunate he was a criminal; such good looks shouldn't squander their youth in prison.

"Y/N Y/L/N," he said, my name sounding like a different language when he spoke, "I've seen you around quite a few times." He stood up from the chair and kicked it out of side, the volume of the noise caused me to wince. Tom was near me now, and so was the knife. The cold blade was placed behind my ear, threatening for a taste of my blood. I didn't mind death, but I sure as hell minded pain.

Tom pressed the knife closer on my ear and I felt the blade begin to dig in. It wasn't piercing the skin yet, but the pressure was enough to make my breathing shaky. I was wrong. I was so wrong. I should've kept with Harrison. "I thought it cute that you took photos at a few weddings I came to. You were popular among my friends. Hell, I almost requested you at Harrison's wedding. And then I see you taking photos of me and good ol' Jack Dearbourn," the blade pierced my skin and I yelped.

I remembered Jack Dearbourn; he was a mole within the Holland mob. Tom found out and had him scalped and bludgeoned. I took photos of the murder and I was never quite the same seeing that monstrosity. It showed me what Tom was capable of. It made me realize what I was getting myself into. The Jack Dearbourn murder was also the very first time I cooperated with Scotland Yard. I worked with them six times before getting caught but Tom had known since the first. I really was in deep shit.

"I thought it merely a coincidence you would take photos of that incident. You were a photographer from the slums, there was no way you were going to go to the cops," he pressed the knife in harder and I bit my lip to conceal my pain, "Then I saw you at Ruth Hall during the coke exchange, the brothels, even my fucking house. The moment you left that flash on, I knew I was going to be the one to speak to you, darling. And hear we are." The knife then left my ear and made its way into Tom's mouth. I watched him lick my blood from the blade in disgust. The man was insane.

"The photos haven't been turned in yet," my voice was shaky, "If you haven't gone to my apartment yet, take the card from the camera." I didn't exactly know why I sold myself out easily. Pain makes people cowards, I guess. Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out the very same card I was talking about. "I'm not as dumb as you think, dear," he smiled sadistically. "I'm sorry," I apologized profusely, "I wasn't implying that I-" "I find it rather hilarious how you apologize for implying I'm a dunce but not for putting a target on my back. I see where your priorities lie, Miss Y/L/N," and with that, the knife was now placed above my heart.

"Spare the torture, Holland," I whispered, not taking my eyes away from the knife hovering against my breast, "I've done you dirty, so kill me." He wasn't surprised by my brusqueness, and I didn't expect him to be. I'm sure he's heard the tough guy pleads for mercy many times and I was no different.

What surprised me, though, was when Tom took the knife off of my chest and threw it on the floor. I expected him to unholster his gun and shoot me, but he didn't. Instead, he analyzed me, watching my body language. I didn't think I was giving anything away, but I must have been. Bodies have their own secrets from the mind, I suppose. " Your breathing is normal now, and you're not crying despite your obvious pain. Adrenaline, perhaps?" Tom noted. I had totally forgotten about my near mutilated ear, but I still didn't feel the pain, I was watching him.

He walked circles around me, picking up my hair and touching my shoulder with light touches. Once he appeared in front of me, he crouched and lifted my chin with his finger and leaned in. He watched my response, looking at how I looked at his lips and how my breathing slowed. He watched as I wanted him to kiss me, no matter how deranged he was or how mentally incapacitated I was. We were both crazy, but mine was only temporary.

His lips were hovering above mine and I felt him smile. It wasn't sadistic this time; it was alluring more than anything. He spoke and his breath was cool against my mouth, "You're weak. You don't fear death, but you don't want it. You sold yourself to the law for money, almost how your selling your sexuality for a single kiss right now." He pulled away, but I wasn't flustered. I mulled over his words and provided a different approach. "What if I'm not the one that's weak, but rather you, Mr. Holland?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, "Continue..." "You're intimidated by a photographer from the slums. So intimidated that you had her brought in so you can play mind games with her. If you had known where I was from, you would've also known I would never rat out someone who has provided so much for my block. Scotland Yard already gave me the money, I didn't need to turn in the photos. But you were scared that I was. Fear doesn't work well for a lord of darkness, I'm afraid," I stated.

"I admit, I don't care for death and I really do want to fuck you, but that's just me being human. We take our riches and spend it before the guilt sets in. You, however, are feeding your guilt onto others. You can't squander your riches, they're infinite. But you take your snitches, philanderers, abusers, and druglords and you put your guilt unto them before they die, making them afraid. You pass your fear onto them so you don't feel afraid. If you're unable to handle an emotion with as much gravity as fear, then you're weak, Mr. Holland," I watched as he soaked in my words. He wasn't mad or defensive, but rather pensive. I observed his silence, taking mental notes.

Tom picked up the knife and pointed it at me. My heartbeat quickened as I waited for his next move. "You have a pair on you, Y/N," his voice was a little darker now and I felt a twinge of fear flood my veins. He walked behind me and cut the ropes from my wrists. I tried to bring them in front of me, but Tom held them tight. He forced me to stand up and pinned me to a wall, placing the knife on my lips.

"I've never been called weak. Not even by my own men," he slid the knife down my bottom lip and it sliced me. I inhaled sharply and glared at him. "Looks like you need someone to put you in your place," I said, hating how the blood was getting everywhere on my mouth. Tom leaned in once again, but this time it was different. He still held my wrists, but they were above my head. My back was pressed against the wall and my stomach was pressed against his. There was no space between us now. The first time he had leaned in, he was in control of the situation, but now, none of us were except chemicals. "And you think you're that person?" his lips were almost on mine and I needed them to be so badly. I pressed my hips against his, but I had no response. I needed him. I don't know why I did, but I didn't give a fuck.

"Not at all," I answered. I wanted to close my eyes and lean in, but I wanted to see what he would do. For the first time, I kept my eyes on him, never taking them off. He broke eye contact by staring at my bloody lip. He then made the first move. He took my bottom lip into his mouth and bit it lightly, causing me to gasp. I then felt his tongue on my lip, licking the blood. He was toying with me and I loved it. However, I didn't love it too much before I leant in and kissed him deeply, moaning quietly as he kissed me back with the same ferocity. He dropped the knife and put his hand on the small of my back, pressing me close to him. Everything about this was messy, from the blood, to the kiss, to us needing each other relentlessly. He pulled away and I felt empty.

"You need to be cleaned up," was all he said before ushering Harrison and a few other men in here. "I offered her a job here and she complied as long as she burns the evidence. Take her to the spare room and make sure she's comfortable," Harrison grabbed my arm lightly and lead me out of the room and into the light. I turned back and watched as Tom regained his composure and wiped my blood off of his lip, following his men out and smiling at me in a way that made my knees weak.

#fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #spiderman #spiderman: far from home #spiderman: hoco #spiderman: homecoming #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #tom holland oneshot #tom holland x reader #tom holland au #mob!haz #mob!au #mob!tom

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burntotears · 6 years

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Title: Meet Cute W/C: 1987 Summary: Ryan had always been looking for his place with a good crew and he knew how to take advantage of a situation. A/N: When criminal!husbands first meet, it isn’t mutual attraction. AO3 Link or read under the cut

Ryan’s first run-in with the Fake AH Crew went almost nothing like he’d expected it to. He’d been profiling them for a while, intrigued by the way they handled their business - notorious throughout Los Santos but still five ghosts with no names. They had resources and contacts that Ryan could sorely use and while being a lone wolf had some advantages, the luxury of someone watching your back was an undervalued commodity in this business.

So imagine his surprise when the infamous five men flagrantly blew into the bank (a bit over the top if Ryan was the judge), waving guns around while announcing they were there to rob the place. The bank that Ryan was currently standing in, a backpack full of money he’d just cleared from that very safe.

He gripped the straps tightly as he dropped to the floor with the other patrons. He tugged his cap a bit lower over his eyes and watched as the men scattered to different areas of the bank, every person performing his own job with efficiency. He needed a chance to cut and run. When they found out that the money was gone, he didn’t want to be there to catch the blow-back. He valued his life more than he admired these men.

Sneaking out of the side door was his best bet, but the man clad in a brown leather jacket and fitted jeans was casing the lobby with well-trained eyes behind a dark grey wolf mask. This wasn’t going to be easy, but even as the fear coursed through him, the excitement pumped through his veins alongside it. Ryan lived for challenges like these.

He made his movements slow, making sure to keep himself as inconspicuous as possible while he inched closer to the exit. His moment came when men started to shout from the back rooms - no doubt they had found the money missing. The wolf was temporarily distracted which allowed Ryan to fully slip from view and into the dark alley. He was pleasantly surprised when he felt a gun press into his back just as he was rounding the corner to the backside of the bank. At least they lived up to their names.

“Get against the wall,” the voice commanded and he did as he was told. The man ripped the backpack from his shoulder and yanked the zipper open, a low whistle escaping his mouth. “Well, well… seems someone already did our job for us.”

Ryan heard the quiet crackle of a comm in the other man’s ear, but he still couldn’t see who had caught him. The curiosity was killing him, but it seeped out quickly with his consciousness when he was hit over the head with something. The last thing he heard was the man saying, “got a problem” before he blacked out completely.

“You actually think we should just let him go?” an incredulous voice admonished, ripping Ryan out of the cold dark and back into reality. His hands were bound behind him, unsurprisingly, and the room was too bright for his eyes to focus immediately.

“I didn’t say that,” a woman’s voice responded. “I said we have no reason to kill him just because he outsmarted us.”

“Outsmarted is a bit much. Luck and convenience seem more appropriate here.”

Someone laughed derisively. “There’s no fucking way he managed that by being in the right place at the right time.”

When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, Ryan saw the five men standing around a table where his backpack sat like a trophy. He was bound to a chair at the head of the table like some fucked up guest of honor.

“Morning, sunshine,” a shorter man clad in gaudy purple and orange said, tapping Ryan on the shoulder with a baseball bat. “We were just talking about you.”

“I’m flattered,” Ryan replied, finding his voice was hoarse from disuse. “I certainly hope my good looks were the focal point of the conversation.”

“I don’t like this fuckwad.” Ryan’s eyes swiveled to meet a set of light brown eyes that frowned at him from behind a wolf mask. A pile of brown curls poked out atop the mask and he had the stupidly dopey thought of how he liked curly hair. He was probably drugged.

“You don’t like anybody, boi,” a man with a British accent responded, surprising Ryan. He was learning more about these men in five minutes than he had in the two years he’d followed their crew.

There was no way they were going to let him live.

“I can understand your current antipathy. After all, I did manage to pull off your heist single-handed and in mere moments before you. That would make anyone a bit irritable.” His self preservation had not kicked in yet, it seemed.

The wolf mask mimed slapping him on the head, his eyes betraying a fiery fury that Ryan had only ever seen staring back at him in a mirror.

“Chill, Mogar. He’s cocky, sure, but he’s also right. We shouldn’t have been outplayed by one dude with the fashion sense of a middle-aged dad in the suburbs.”

Ryan frowned. “There’s really no reason to make such low blows, even in a situation such as this. I’ll have you know that when I’m not undercover as a normal civilian bank-robber, I am actually a nefariously well-known criminal in Los Santos.”

A few of them started to laugh. He shouldn’t have been too surprised at that reaction. He probably seemed terribly non-threatening in his faded jeans and t-shirt, baseball cap, and long blond hair pulled back into a quintessential I.T. ponytail.

“What? You don’t believe me?” he looked at each masked man in turn. If he told them the truth, they might just kill him. If he didn’t, they might just kill him. His options weren’t looking stellar at the moment. He bulked up his shoulders and summoned all the confidence he could muster. “Ok, here’s what is going to happen. I will tell you who I am, you’ll be considerably impressed, then you’ll invite me to join your crew. Call it a trial run? If I don’t prove to be useful then you can kill me and you won’t have to worry about me ever again. What do you think?”

“Is this tosser serious?” the Brit laughed, though he was only one of two who did. He looked around in surprise. “Uh… you’re not considering this, are you?”

The female shrugged. “I am. He outplayed us. I want to know how.”

The man in formal attire spoke up. “How about you tell us who you are first and then we’ll consider whether you get to live or not.”

Ryan shrugged. “I feel like my chances aren’t great in any scenario here, so it’s best to play to my strengths. I’m Vagabond.”

There was a wolf whistle, a laugh, and a cough of surprise. “Bullshit!” the shortest man blurted out, shaking his head. “He’s fucking full of it!”

The man in the wolf mask was stock still and serious as he continued to stare Ryan down. “He’s telling the truth. It isn’t like lying would keep him alive longer.” He was no fool, Ryan would give him that.

“Okay, and what do you gain by joining us?” the formal man asked.

“Resources, power, connections, reliability, a name for myself. The list is fairly extensive.”

“You’ve already made a name for yourself as being fucking insane. How will that benefit us?” the woman asked.

“How will it not? I’m known as being insane because I will do anything to get the job done. I’ve risked my own life for it. How is that not an asset?”

The wolf mask looked personally offended by the statement, but Ryan wasn’t certain why. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut over by the suited gentleman. “Okay, Vagabond, we’re going to convene to another room to discuss this. You sit tight.”

Ryan snorted in contempt. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He sat there in that chair for at least thirty minutes before they returned. When they entered the room again, they were maskless. Ryan stood up immediately, his bindings falling to the floor uselessly and the blond with the British accent threw his hands into the air. “You’re having a laugh!”

The woman laughed in earnest, though, and extended her hand to him. “I’m Jack. You could call me the babysitter around here.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Ryan.” He took her hand in a firm shake with no surprise when she gripped his hand firmly.

A man with a mean looking mustache approached him next. “Geoff. I tell everyone what to do.”

Next was the short man in the appalling assortment of orange and purple. “Jeremy. It’s cool to meet you, Vagabond. I’m just muscle really.”

Ryan nodded and turned his attention to the Brit. “How did you even?” he asked, still looking at the bindings on the floor. “I’m Gav. I make everyone else look good.”

“Right.” The only person who hadn’t stepped up to greet him was the brunette with the wild curls. He was perched against the wall with his arms crossed, staring Ryan down petulantly. The fullness of his face contradicted the fire that lived in his eyes.

“This prat is Michael, my boi. He’s a bit grumpy.”

“Shut it, Gavin,” Michael responded, though his eyes were still trained on Ryan.

“Alright then,” Geoff clapped his hands and leaned on the table. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, we want to know how you pulled off that money grab.”

Ryan didn’t make it two steps from the high rise apartment complex before he was being shoved up against the concrete wall by a forceful arm. He lifted his hands up in surrender, looking at Michael in earnest. Whatever problem Michael had with him was apparently private and he was interested to hear about it.

“Look, Haywood. Just because you’ve got the rest of them eating out of the palm of your hand doesn’t mean that I’m fooled.” The fire behind Michael’s gaze had returned and Ryan found he was unable to tear his eyes away from it. This man was untethered in a way that sent heat broiling inside Ryan’s chest. He wanted to know more.

“And what about me is it that you think you know better?” Ryan replied steady, though he might have betrayed his curiosity.

Michael eyed him with suspicion, but continued. “You with your gaudy vocabulary and your overblown ego. You’re a narcissistic, overconfident, deranged asshole who is only looking out for himself. That’s not what this crew is about. We’re a family. And nobody fucks with my family, Vagabond.” The brunette pressed his forearm more harshly into Ryan’s chest for emphasis. “Do we understand each other?”

Ryan nodded slowly even as his heart began to beat like a drum in his chest. Michael was threatening him, but he felt exhilarated by it. “You never hesitate and while it might look like you’re just reckless, you actually have a fire inside of you that you haven’t been able to satiate. Your hate is cruel, but your love is even more ruthless.” He thought a moment before adding, “You’re an enigma.”

Michael’s jaw dropped slowly as Ryan spoke about him before he finally pushed hard against the man’s chest and backed away. “Who the fuck are you to tell me who I am? Stay outta my way, Haywood. I mean it.” The shorter man walked off without a second glance.

“I know you do. Goodnight, Michael,” he responded, still pressed against the cool concrete. He banged his head back lightly, waiting for his heart to settle to a normal rhythm again. “Fuck,” he breathed quietly.

This was exactly where he was supposed to be and he would be damned if anything separated him from the Fake AH Crew now.

#myan #ragehappy #fake ah crew #gta!au #(ah)#(mine)#(my fic)#(myan)#i wrote something #that wasn't what i meant to write #but it's something #here have it

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yeoldontknow · 7 years

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In Absentia

Author’s Note: hello!! welcome back to chanvember! i hope everyone is having The Best Time. this story, like IWTN, will also be very unlike the standard bits of writing i do. this piece is very loosely based on George Orwell’s 1984, and i hope...wow i hope you like it because my word i loved writing it. Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Summary: In a city where love is a considered a disease and a crime, you are arrested and forced to undergo treatment. While in prison, you think on all your happiest times with Chanyeol. Genre: sci-fi; angst; romance; some smut Rating: R Warnings: dark themes; explicit sexual situations Word Count: 4,294

I wish I could just...stop. I wish my heart would let me.

If someone else could be in this room with me, I'm sure they'd see my face - take in my sagging eyes and leather skin binding hollow bones together - and call me insane. If someone were here, I’m sure they’d try to talk to me, ground me in some kind of brittle reality that reminds me of all the ways I am little more than a sinner. Maybe, if someone were here, I would listen. Perhaps, I could even be persuaded to believe them. But I am alone, in this ten by ten cell.

Desperately alone.

Sometimes I wish I would die. I get pushed to that limit when the agony becomes too much to bear, when they hold me down in that transcendent moment when you can feel your life slipping between your fingers. In that moment, you think strong enough to hold on, but in the back of your mind, you know doing so means accepting the pain of actually being alive, and life itself becomes an all encompassing suffering for an indeterminable amount of time. It feels like it could go on forever. That's when I want to let go.

But I won't.

I will never let myself slip away. Often, it feels so easy and simple, and the knowledge that everything would end nearly drives me to finally giving in. But to die means I would forget and that I would be forgotten.

And I don't ever want to forget.

In truth, that's what they are doing. When they drag me from this cell, down the hall, and into the sterile white room; when they strap me into the chair; when they place the neurocipher onto my head, all they really want to do is take my memories. All of them, they are not picky, uncareful and unorganized, they take like vultures at a feast. They don't realize that doing this forces my heart into cardiac arrest and traps my brain in a stasis of constant stroke - or maybe they do and they just don't care. In the end, I think probably the latter.

It's like they're hungry for them, ravenous beasts of the police force who cannot, and will not, ever know or feel the love I have. I was stolen and beaten, arrested and gagged while unclean hands moved along my skin because I fell in love. Because I admitted to being in love and having love returned. The city mocked me, called me an imbecile and a traitor, because I knew it was the highest offense. I knew, we all knew. Rather, we know.

Love. The vicious affliction. Turns strong men into broken shells of their former selves, and leaves women in ruins; turns empires into ash and sends humans out to die for its cause. Love is a disease that can not be cured and so, the great country of Great Aeritum has set out to exterminate the symptoms. Valiant, maybe, if you’ve never truly lived.

And this is how they do it. Sucking the memory and the feeling out of the body, the soul, until nothing is left. Slowly, they have been feeding on every memory I have of him. They take him from me, and there are countless moments I can no longer recall, but they leave behind the sensation until that too comes undone. Without something tangible for my brain to hold or caress my emotion dissolves into a fog, until it dissipates completely.

At this moment, there are few memories left I am able to cling to. I reach for and grasp at them now, curled in on myself, desperate and needy to mold them into my bones. It's been six weeks and I can sense that a year of joy has been ripped from me, a lucid cavern of remembrance opening in my mind as a chasm. In the depths of my chest, I feel the seeping void where each of our shared seconds used to reside, and with the calloused threads of my mind I can almost touch the hole as it tries to form a scab.

To keep him as close to me as possible, I have etched our story into the concrete walls of my cell. I broke a small stone beneath my bed, sharpened it to a point, and each night since my first session I have taken to carving our story into my surroundings. I'm running out of space as quickly as I'm running out of time, and soon my words will bleed onto the floor.

Soon, they will all be just words.

You would never admit it, but you were positively aching for Chanyeol to take your hand. All polite smiles and boyish blushes, Chanyeol remained the picture of a gentleman even when his jubilant laugh gave away his true intentions. But even still, regardless of personality, he would never openly reach for you, fearing the EDA would find and arrest you both, separate you, a torture in and of itself. Instead, you settled for walking side by side, your fingers brushing in a nondescript pattern.

He walked you home, neither of you saying a word, both somewhere aware that speech was not needed. You bowed your head, smiling to yourself as the sound of his grey worker fatigues became the soundtrack of your final minutes together. It had, for intents and purposes, been an utterly exquisite first date. Unable to follow the conventions of the classic romantic stories you were taught in school, yet wholly unable to remain apart, Chanyeol had taken your to the game center where your played a virtual reality martial arts game until the city's curfew descended upon your pleasure, cutting the evening short.

And while in your own reality, neither of you could reveal your feelings, Chanyeol had displayed all that was necessary when he allowed his character to sacrifice himself for yours - four times.

When you approached your door, Chanyeol cast his eyes to the pale wood and gazed longingly at the entrance, a small sigh escaping his chest. Biting your lip, you choked an offer for Chanyeol to come inside down your throat, forcing it to die a silent death in the bowels of your lungs. With the CCTV's now inside each room of a citizen's house, there truly was no privacy and it would not be long before you would be discovered. Instead, Chanyeol nodded a quick goodnight and shook your hand.

As he walked briskly in the direction of his own home, you clenched your fist together to revel in the sensation of his warm skin. It was then you became aware that Chanyeol had slipped a small, folded note into your palm. Unable to contain your excitement, you turned towards your door, back facing the city’s cameras, and discretely unfolded the paper.

I wish you knew how badly I want to touch you; I wish it could be more than this. Yeol

I've come to loathe the morning, the slamming of the steel door against the wall shattering my brief moments of peace. They drag me by my ankle, crude and barbaric, out of bed and onto the floor. The most efficient alarm system I have ever come across. During my early days here, I would fight their hands only to injure myself in the process. Eventually, I stopped the struggle and started to anticipate the pain of the fall. No matter how weightless I become, it always hurts.

It's the anticipation that causes the most pain. Waiting for the door to open; waiting for the greedy hand upon my skin; the fall; the tug of my flesh along the floor; the leather straps around my wrist. The fear never seems to lessen.

When I'm strapped to the chair, they always say the same thing.

"Prisoner 100101. Y/LN, Y/F/N."

Same arbitrary numbers. As though my identity is binary code that happens to translate to alpha-symbols.

"Guilty of: Romantic relations. Infected with: Emotional Deterioration."

A disease to cause the guilt, a sickness to devour the blame. I wish they saw that the only thing that had deteriorated was my nationalism.

I pick concrete out of my nails as they slip the helmet over my head again. The contraption has become a ceremonial headdress that lays bare my moments for my captors to feast. A deranged emotional buffet, I think of it. Sometimes, like today, I am bitter and I hope my thoughts, my feelings, my memories taste sweet. I hope they get drunk on them, and, then, I hope they die from their unsatisfied grief.

Other times, in the moment before their great feed, I imagine my memories are glass and they are broken into pieces by the electricity of voracious envy. These shattered pieces are the crumbs my captors crave.

They flick the switch and I am left bereft.

‘Chanyeol, it's two in the morning! What are you doing?’ you whispered, though your voice carried into the night, anxious and eager.

‘I'm taking you to the Veldapark!’

‘Someone will see! Are you insane?’

Hushed voices and soft giggles were the limits to your volume. Anything too loud, and the world would hear the truth. The world would hear you.

Even in the bleakness of your surroundings, the grim, sickly black of the night, you could see his beaming smile. ‘Not at this time of night, trust me.’

Fond suspicion and a warm smile masked by the dark. Suddenly, you were overwhelmed by affection. ‘Why do I get the feeling that you've done this before?’

‘Because I have. And this is the only time of night we'll get to see them.’

‘Yeol, I'm more worried that someone will see us - wait, who is them?’

‘You'll see.’

A park made of cement, no greenery left anywhere in the city. It tried to remain beautiful, a place where children would feel the soft hands of freedom as long as they were innocent. A jungle-gym, a slide, sculptures of ancient landmarks big enough to jump through. History frozen in time.

‘I still don't know if this is a good idea.’

‘We have 30 minutes before the CCTV turns its attention back to us.’

He tossed a blanket onto the ground, placing you in the very center of the Veldapark.

‘Come. Lay with me.’

There was no room for hesitation, not that you would. He was inviting, open, warm. In that moment, you found you craved only his voice, his arms, his soul.

‘I still want to know how you know so much about this,’ you sighed, coming to nestle beside him.

‘Shh. Just trust me.’

Fingers laced with fingers, and you were silent again.

Understanding, as gradual as one might assume it is, is a sensation that demands immediate attention. You, waiting patiently in the darkness, abruptly understood what Chanyeol had meant when he said "them," and your only natural response was to stifle your amazement and channel it to your fingers in increased pressure. Chanyeol responded in kind, nuzzling into your neck as though the sky was not spectacular, as though somehow you were the majesty on display.

As long as you lived, you knew in your heart you would never forget the magnificence that can be found in a meteor shower.

When I return to my cell after each session, I feel as though I am suspended in water. Never in my life have I felt so vacant, yet I am always filled with the detached remnants of longing. What I know is that I'm missing a piece of my life, what I don't know is how much is gone - I do not know what is gone. I could recall all my remembrances but nothing ever seems amiss.

That's when I crawl to the borders of my cell. Before me are a thousand tales that seem to belong to someone else, but as long as I remember him, as long as I remember us, I can smile in the knowledge that these forgotten encounters happened. I like to run my fingers over the words and imagine I'm touching our timeline, or that he can feel the tips of my fingers tracing the curvature of his lips.

There's an innate sadness that comes with these diary entries. When I read of how he touched me, how he kissed me or loved me until I couldn't say no. In these moments, I ache for the day they happened. In an almost existential way, reading of my past self gives me distance enough to feel as though these were never my moments to remember - they happened to someone else, and therefore were not not mine. Are not mine. Not anymore. How can I be possessive over something I don't remember? I no longer have attachment, merely a misguided nostalgia. Assumptions of a life departed from me, dead and rotting.

Most days, after my therapy sessions, that's when I see him - rather, don't see him at all. I see his hands. They slip through the slat in my door with a food tray, always warmed in secret so I can have at least one hot meal a day. I rush to the door to take it from him and I'm never shy about letting my fingers hold his, if only for one second. I can always tell if they're his hands or not. Always.

I should hate him. I wish that I could. He let me go, let me take the fall for something of which he was equally guilty. His cowardice made itself known in my time of need. But the agony of punishment would have been worse for him by at least a hundred fold. When an employee of the government breaches the laws they have sworn to uphold, why should they be shown any mercy?

And besides, there's something oddly comforting about knowing he's my warden. My darling Chanyeol. Standing guard outside my door without ever allowing himself to cross the threshold. He is not valiant, I do not think this brave. I simply relish that the absence of me in his life causes him equal torment. That’s the comfort, I suppose. The knowledge that we ache alone yet, paradoxically, together.

After I slip the empty dinner try back out the door, that's when I take my makeshift chisel and start to carve the remaining pieces of our lives.

‘I want your mouth on my neck,’ you gasped, fisting strands of dark hair between your fingers.

A groan escaped Chanyeol’s throat, his lips diving onto flesh only to pause and halt their kisses. ‘I can't do this. Not again.’

Inside his chest, his heart was breaking, you could hear it in the way his voice splintered as he spoke. His forehead came to rest against yours, and you your hands held tightly to his arms, an anchor for all his lost and wayward pieces.

You ignored the pang of jealousy that burrowed in your stomach, choosing not to think of the other person Chanyeol did this with. They were nameless, and therefore nothing, an inconsequential absence. He was yours now, this was your turn. ‘You can,’ you breathed, fingers kneading crescents into his flesh. ‘I'm telling you, we can do this. I want you to.’ If permission was what he needed, you would give it endlessly.

Your bodies came together, two immovable states united in their faction of love. Skin and flesh riding tidal waves of exalted desire rhythmic, gluttonous, and sublime. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and you found clarity in that moment to focus on the feel of Chanyeol’s fingers on your spine. How he held you as though he were keeping your seams together, body breaking apart as it attempted to contain the love you felt for him.

Above you, he looked into you, deep into the trenches of your wasted heart, and loved colours back into your bloodstream. Tears pooled in his eyes, making his brow furrowed as he thrust into you, slowly, gently. He trembled, then, lips pursed as he focused on you, worried and adoring. This stillness caused you both the unsatisfied sting of pain, hears and bodies begging to merge into one.

It became a sensation you would venerate until the day you died.

‘It was always you.’ The whispered words tumbled from Chanyeol’s lips as he thrust mercilessly into your pliant body, and you could sense the fear and the reverence with which they dripped.

It would always and only ever be him. In turn, it would always be you.

And, in a brief moment of naiveté, you were sure nothing could stop you.

I can't seem to find enough air in this cell. Not anymore. I can feel the quaking of my skin, of my lips, as I inhale and exhale shaking breaths.

I've only got one memory left. Just one.

I'm frantic to find an escape. I would claw my way out of this room and leave my written words behind to live with our last day, alone only in a corporeal sense but forever existing beneath his warm touch. One final day, the most important, the most dear to my heart.

In six hours, they will rip it from me and leave me in ruins. Without it, without him, I will be half of who I am. Without the memory of this torture I will not be the person I've grown into, and I will revert to the person I have come to despise. I am everything, if nothing, but a person comprised of the scars of my experiences.

The only window is covered by a glass screen. I have grazed my knuckles to bleeding with the number of times I've tried to break it. The door has only one external lock. I am trapped in this room with the only thing I hold dear, and the only thing I have left to lose. In its absence, I will wither.

I'm not sure when I drifted to sleep, but I am woken, as usual, by the slam of the door.

I become a small, petulant child, screaming my pleas and twisting my ribs so I can take one last look at my live-in diary. This is the last time these words will matter, the last time I will read them and feel the loss of him coat the linings of my atoms.

I have nothing to hold on to as I am pulled from the room, my fingers digging and sliding for purchase along the floor. Tears begin to sting my eyes, and I am briefly detached from my body as I hear the sound of my own gasping sobs echo off the high ceilings. A strong hand thrusts itself into my chest and I am winded, quickly silencing my vocal chords.

Before I have time to process what's happened, I find myself thrown into the chair. With what little oxygen I can get into my lungs, I force myself to find energy and thrust myself out to run away. Immediately I'm caught and returned, strapped in tightly while powerful hands on my shoulders force me to remain seated. Hot things burn my cheeks, turn my flesh into fire. Tears, I assume. It appears I still have it in me to cry.

The only thing I can do is postpone the loss. I will give them anything.

Memories of my time in nursery school.

The day I failed a history exam.

My triumph when I beat James Dellary in the game station.

These things are meaningless. I don't need them.

Take them all. Take everything. Leave me alone with the only moment that matters. The only thing I will ever need.

The only thing I can never have.

‘I love you.’

Chanyeol whispered the words slowly, in time with his thrusts into you, eyes shining with affection. He glistened with it, let the words help him shimmer.

A shiver rippled through your muscles, a quake of romantic intention, and you held on tightly to the skin of Chanyeol’s strong back. Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you felt your eyes begin to water as your heart brimmed with love and need.

‘I love you,’ you whispered in return, lips gliding over the tendons beneath his skin. You kissed them, if only to keep yourself from weeping.

You both fell quiet, and you clenched your eyes shut as you listened to Chanyeol’s gasped breath so close to your ear. The whine in his throat told you he was was unsure how long he could hold back, your hips thrusting up to meet his in an uneven pace. You were craving speed, and he was craving you.

It took several moments for Chanyeol to growl and pull you into a sitting position, your legs wrapped gingerly around his lower spine.

‘Look at me,’ he breathed. ‘I want your eyes on me as you come.’

You obeyed, keeping your eyes wide open as his deft thumb found your clit and began to move in circles. His touch unmade you, pulled you apart and wove you back together, your muscles tightening around him as he brought you to the edge. Soon, your world was falling off its axis, but Chanyeol held you fast and held you hard. In his eyes, you learned to swim, in his soul you learned to breathe. There was warmth here, unmarred by the concrete skeleton of the city and turning the surface of your skin into oil, sweet and slick, gasoline for the bed upon which he loved you.

The strength and power of your orgasm nearly crippled your senses, a cry erupting from your lips as you clutched to him. But still, you looked at him. Still, you saw him.

‘My love for you could make the world,’ he muttered against your lips as you trembled around him, his own heart racing beneath your palm.

And then, a door was shut.

Everything shattered.

Today is the day I can go home. I have never felt such relief in my life.

No one has told me what my crime was, but they assure me that I have been a most excellent prisoner. My good behavior has offered me a full cure and I have been promised I will never be here again.

Sitting up on my bed, I stretch the tension out of my shoulders. I can't remember the last time I slept in my own bed, and I'm eager to return home. Though I have to admit, I have grown quite accustomed to the sterile white walls of my cell.

I gather my civilian clothes and change quickly out of my prison fatigues. The rough fabric of the blue uniform will not be missed, and I am relieved I will no longer feel so itchy.

In what feels like no time, I am being collected from my cell and handed a glass board that displays a release form. I run the stylus over the glass and sign my name. Everything should be processed before I even step out of the prison. I’m eager to smell fresh air, eager for the grey and the routine of my life.

In a moment of nostalgia, I glance back one last time at the cell that has been my home for six weeks. It's only then that I notice something is wrong, but I can't place it. I furrow my brow, trying to quell the sensation that is flooding my veins. It's akin to the fear that one has left the faucet running. But I know this cell. There is no change. As long as I can recall, it has always been white. Perhaps I am just too attached.

I'm led out the door by a grim looking man, thin lips and a receding hairline. He flanks me to my right and I wonder momentarily if he has ever smiled. He takes me to a man behind a desk and hands him my prison card. Within seconds, the few possessions I entered with are returned to me and the weight of my house key in my hand has never felt more welcome.

With downcast eyes, I turn to exit the door, ready to return to my old life. It's then that I bump into someone dressed in a warden uniform.

"I'm sorry, sir!" I exclaim raising my eyes to meet his. "I wasn't looking, I -"

I'm drowning in compassionate brown, chocolate right and sweet. Warm and….home. My heart seems to stop for a second, and the gravity in my stomach disappears, leaving me in a moment of sheer weightlessness.

I have never seen anyone so beautiful or so familiar. I have never felt like someone belonged to me. At my sides, my fingers tremble and twitch, desperate to have him and take hold of him. I want to pull him to me, pull him into me, and for one passing second I think he yearns the same.

But, in a flash, the sensation is gone. And I blink.

"It's fine," the stranger says. "I see you're going home! Good for you. It's about time."

"Yes," I nod slowly. "Six weeks is a long time."

"Perhaps I'll see you on the outside?"

There is a wave of hope in this man's voice, and I want to affirm his wishes.

"Yes. Perhaps."

He takes my hand, and it feels like it belongs there. "My name is Chanyeol." He smiles brightly and I'm blinded.

"Y/N."

He nods as if he knows.

Of course he does. He works here. I assure myself I'm being silly.

I turn to leave and, for some reason, I feel his eyes burning a hole into my back.

I'm positive I'll see those eyes again.

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol smut #kpoptrashtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #chamyeol angst #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol scenario #exo smut #exo scenario #exo au #exo angst #exo fanfic #park chanyeol

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whentommymetalfie · 7 years

Text

Blood on my name

A/N: Yeah. This turned out very angsty. But of course there's some fluff and comfort in there too, at the end, so fear not. Set some time after Bad things. Not much else to say, I'm an awful person who wrote this. And quite enjoyed it, on top of it all. I hope you enjoy it too! But do read the warnings, I don’t want to cause anyone unwanted pain!

Summary: Tommy has another run-in with Darby Sabini. Things end quite badly. Alfie tries to pick up the pieces afterwards

Warnings: Derogatory and explicit language (could be read as homophobia, so if that is a trigger for you, perhaps skip this <3), violence. A lot of cursing.

Wordcount: 4000

AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13420776

Tommy has begun to rather enjoy London, he decides as he walks through Camden town. Could very well be due to the man associated with it, but yeah, it’s definitely grown on him the past months. The city doesn’t show itself from its best side on this evening though, it’s absolutely pouring with rain. And added to that, there is wind. A lot of fucking wind. Alfie muttered about possible a power-cut to and fro all morning. Tommy is mostly bothered because it means he can’t smoke while on the move somewhere. Unacceptable. So it’s a walk without a cigarette on the way to Alfie’s office this evening. In the rain, and the dark. Still, feels like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Afterwards, he’ll think that maybe what happens next is his own fault.

Because he’s distracted, and his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. So, when he hears the familiar sound of a gun clicking behind his head, he is caught off guard. His ears pick up the sound in spite of the rain and wind, and the reaction is ingrained in his backbone. In one motion, he turns around, grabs the arm holding the gun and throws a punch at the assailant’s face. Bit of a shot in the dark, but his fist hits it mark and he hears the crunching sound of bone breaking as the figure staggers backward, grunting in pain. Running footsteps approach him from behind, and quite suddenly, he is surrounded. He can hold his own in a fight, but there are four of them and the odds are against him. It doesn’t take long before they have him cornered in a dirty alleyway. He stays on his feet at least, until suddenly there is a gunshot. Tommy freezes, instinct telling him to find an injury. Sometimes, it can take a moment for the body to register the pain… There is none. Just a warning shot then. He looks around for the shooter. The four men have backed off.

“Take one step and I’ll put a bullet through your fucking head.” Sabini comes sauntering down the alley, breaking out of the shadows. Great. He should’ve known the minute the four men jumped him, Sabini isn’t known to fight fair. His mind does the usual thing, quickly, efficiently sifting through the cards he could play, the possible outcomes. What it always does. What has always gotten him out alive before. But he’s drawing a blank here. He’s quite clearly taken up with the opposing side in the conflict between the Italians and the Jewish gang, but he would be surprised if Sabini considered him important enough in his rival’s operation to be of any value. To him, he is just a nuisance. Another pawn in a bigger game. And he’s overstepped.

Sabini has probably killed for less

Tommy stands still, suddenly feeling every blow he’s taken, weighing him down. The man is out of reach, aiming a gun at his head. And he realises he may die now.

“Thought you’d learned your lesson the last time,” Sabini says. “To stay the fuck away. But what do you do instead? Not only do you take up with the Jews, but now I hear you’re sucking Alfie Solomons cock too?” Sabini takes a step closer and Tommy straightens up a bit, suddenly realising he’s been hunched over clutching his aching ribs. He offers Sabini a slightly raised eyebrow.

“So, Mr. Sabini, aren’t you well-informed? I’m impressed.”

Sabini’s expression betrays him for just a second, showing something akin to surprise. Fuck it, let him know he’s right. It’s fucking below Tommy to be ashamed of anything in front of this man. Especially if he’s about to have a bullet put between his eyes.

“So, it’s true then. Thomas Shelby is whoring himself out to move up in the world.” Sabini looks to his men, who laughs and holler jeering remarks.

Tommy wishes the man would just get to the fucking point. Because the longer he stands here, the more he realises how little he wants to die. How much he’s got to lose now. But there is no swaying Sabini. No deals to make. Nothing to offer. If he’s made up his mind, he’s going to shoot him no matter what Tommy says. Better to just have it over with. Before he starts to feel something.

“If that’s what you’d like to call it.” He tilts his head to the side just a bit. Shrugs. “Have to say, if I’d known it would be so effective in taking control of London, I would’ve done it a lot sooner. Maybe you should try it sometime. Seems like your current strategy isn’t working out that well for you.”

Sabini’s face twists into a scowl.

“Get on your knees,” he says, voice filled with fury that bubbles right under the surface, as he takes a few steps closer and cocks the gun. “Get on your fucking knees and beg me to spare you, and I may consider it.”

He doesn’t move an inch, merely stares at Sabini, offers him a mocking smile. Alfie always said his mouth would get him killed. It just might.

“There’s only one man I get on my knees for,” he says, eyes boring into Sabini’s. “And it’s definitely not you.”

At least he’ll die having seen Sabini look utterly baffled for just a fraction of a second. Small comforts.

Sabini quickly gets it together again, and gives a short nod to two of his accomplices, who walk up to Tommy and wring his arms up behind his back. With a hard kick to the back of his knees, he’s forced down on the ground. Sabini stands over him, puts the gun to his forehead. Tommy stares at him. He’s determined to look at this man until the second he pulls the trigger. And not think about anything else. About anyone else.

He doesn’t want to die.

“How’s it going to be? Do you want to die here?” Sabini mocks. “In a fucking alley, and be left in the gutter?” He puts pressure on the gun and it digs into his brow. “I could send a message to Solomons. Let him know where he can find his whore. Think he’ll mourn you?” Tommy clenches his jaw. Says nothing. Just stares. “I bet not. He’ll just find someone new to warm his bed. Maybe he’ll leave you here with the trash where you belong. Not even bother to bring your body home to that family of yours.” Tommy wants him to shut the fuck up. And not mention his family. Arthur will be upset if he has a hole in his head. Better in the chest. Less obvious. “Wouldn’t that be fucking tragic?” Sabini waits for a reaction. “Can I get an honest plea? Or is that how you’d like to end your life?”

Should he beg? To spare Finn from going to his funeral?

Tommy takes a breath through his nose. “Guess that’s how it has to be.” He hopes they’ll have the fucking sense not to show his body to Finn.

He doesn’t fucking want to die.

“Fine. Have it your way.” Sabini shrugs. Cocks the gun again, but lets the moment drag on. Pull the trigger. Tommy wants to close his eyes, because when it gets down to it, there are a many faces he’d rather imagine right now than Darby Sabini’s. The sound of the rain is drowned out by the beating of his own heart in his ears. Pull the fucking trigger. It takes too long, and his mind is racing.

He was out of cigarettes yesterday. Discovered it when they were already in bed and he wanted a smoke after sex. Alfie reached down on the floor for his trousers and dug through the pockets. Threw an unopened packet at him. The brand he likes.

“Figured you’d run out. The way you go through those.”

Tommy lit one and ignored Alfie’s mutters of ‘filthy habit, that’

He would’ve liked to tell Alfie that it was nice of him, the whole thing. Now he won’t have the chance to.

Would Sabini just fucking get on with it?

A gunshot echoes through the alley, cutting through the howling wind.

Tommy registers the sound, which means Sabini can’t have put the bullet in his head. This thought hits him before the pain in his thigh does. Someone screams, and it takes a moment for him to realise it’s him. He’s been shot before, somehow he forgets in between how much it hurts. Sabini isn’t going to kill him? Why? Tommy’s mind is reeling: the pain makes it impossible to think clearly.

“I want you to remember something from this night,” Sabini says, but he can barely hear it over the blood rushing behind his ears. And the ringing. “You may be all that back in that sorry excuse for a city you call home. But you’re out of your league here, the moment you set your foot outside of Solomons’ bedroom. You may be a good fuck to him, but you’re also a liability. Fucking remember that.” He leans down, lowers his voice to a whisperer. “See how easy it was for me to get to you? Think of that the next time you have Solomon’s cock up your arse. That this-“ the cold metal of the gun digs into the wound in his leg and Tommy grits his teeth, but ends up letting out a stifled yelp of pain. “This is how you’re paying for it. Think of that.”

Tommy breathes, tries to focus on anything but the white-hot pain exploding from his leg. There is no way he will let Sabini have the last word in this. Maybe he’s gone insane, but he fucking refuses to have Alfie of all things be used against him.

“Oh, believe me, the only thing I’ll think about-“ he sneers. It must look utterly deranged, laced with pain. “Is how good it feels to be fucked by the man who runs all of London.”

Sabini’s eyes go all wide and manic. Why doesn’t he just shoot him? Tommy’s head isn’t working right, he doesn’t understand… What are his motives? Sabini spits in his face, causing him to wince in spite of himself. And then he turns to leave.

“Watch his face, Changretta likes it. For some fucking reason. The rest is fair game.”

The hands holding him loosens their grip and Tommy ends up face first on the wet cobblestones. He tries to push himself to his knees, wipe the spit from his face because it’s fucking humiliating- Then, the first kick hits him in the ribs. And there is a brief moment of clarity, when he thinks that his mouth may not get him killed tonight, but it’s going to end up being a rather close call.

Alfie fucking hates the fucking weather. And not just a certain weather, just weather in general. It’s always some shit or another. Today’s gift from the deepest pits of hell is a storm that’s succeeded in keeping him holed up in his office far longer than he planned on. Tommy hasn’t showed up yet, which means he’s most likely hiding at home. Probably doesn’t want to get his hair wet. Tommy being in his house waiting for him should be reason enough for Alfie to get his ass out of the chair, but fuck, it’s absolutely pouring outside. The door opens, and he instinctually thinks it must be Tommy. Only person in the entire world who would walk into his office without knocking first. So he’s highly displeased to see that it’s one of Sabini’s men. He recognizes him, because he’s got that face ugly as sin. Very much a downgrade from seeing Tommy come through that door. Ollie is becoming sloppy, clearly.

The man wastes no time on pleasantries. “Sabini’s got a message for you.”

“Does he now?” Alfie reclines in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. Where the fuck is Ollie?

“That you might want to swing by Warden road on your way home.”

“Oh, has Sabini gone through the trouble of setting up some sort of surprise birthday party? Considerate of him. He’s a bit off though. With about six months. But I guess it’s the thought that counts with these things, innit? Also, not much of a surprise now that I know.”

“He’s had a little chat with Thomas.”

Alfie’s heart does this weird, painful sort of cramp. Is that how it feels to be overwhelmed by complete and utter panic for just a second? Possibly. If that is the case, he doesn’t enjoy it. Though to the man, he just offers a shrug and a lopsided grin.

“Nothing makes me happier than when all the important people in my life come together. But then he really should know my birthday is in fucking April, right? Pretty sure Tommy knows that. Attentive, that boy.”

Sabini’s henchman just stands there. Alfie props his elbows on his desk and studies him. Waits.

“I would get to it if I were you. He may need some patching up.” The man finally says, and Alfie throws his hands up.

“Oh, quite, yeah, I guessed you were the sort. Fucking dropped a few too many times as a child, I guess? Because you’re honestly standing here, implying I’m not getting the message. Just coming into my office and insulting my intelligence like this. Dragging mud all over my nice floors.” Alfie pauses, scratches his beard. “Warden road, you say?”

“Yeah,” the man answers stiffly. At least he’s fucking uncomfortable. Alfie would’ve liked to keep this up for a bit, let him sweat a while longer. But he doesn’t exactly have the time for that now, does he?

“I’m guessing Sabini knows that expression… how does it go again- don’t shoot the messenger? On account of him sending you here to me, like some fucking carrier-pigeon. Making thinly veiled threats and shit.” Alfie bores his eyes into the other man, who in turn can’t seem to keep his gaze fixed on anything. “Good expression that. In this business. Suppose it’s to give us some sense of honour. Here but no further, you know.” His grin widens. “But then Sabini didn’t take into account that I’m completely off the rails, yeah?”

He reaches into his desk drawer, and before the man has time to process what he just said, he is spilling his brains all over Alfie’s office floor. Ollie comes running at the sound of the gunshot, and meets him as he walks out the door, pulling on his coat and pocketing the gun both at once somehow.

“Clean that shit up. See if you can get that stain out of the rug. Fucking shame, I liked that thing.”

Alfie Solomons doesn’t run. It doesn’t do to rush about on the streets: it ruins this air of nonchalance he usually aims for. But there’s a fucking storm, and not a sane soul is out in this weather, so if there is a definite sense of urgency to his movements, no-one is there to see it. His brain is in a loop of different curse words and plans of quite gruesome ways for Sabini to pay for this clear fucking infraction. Weren’t it for the fact that he’s got a concise plan to follow, he may have just snapped completely. But now he does, so he clings to it and his sanity. Get to Warden road, find Tommy alive –banged up, but alive, definitely- get him home and into a bed, safe and sound. Then annihilate Darby Sabini and his entire fucking organisation. Good plan. Sound plan.

However, finding that the alley is completely empty throws a bit of a wrench in it. And the rainfall is so heavy, it’s impossible to see any traces of a fight. Blood, it’s impossible to see any blood.

“Thomas?” He calls out anyway, listening through the wind for any and all sounds. The alley is littered with the usual junk: an old armchair, a pile of rags, unidentifiable mountains of scrap. Even if finding that Tommy has been left among the trash like some common lowlife would be fucking awful, the opposite is almost worse. Not finding him. Fuck. New plan. Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling very overcome all of a sudden. Unfamiliar feeling, that. Would Sabin lie? No, no point in that. Could the goon he sent just be so fucking stupid he gave the wrong street? ‘course not. He’s not thinking clearly.

Home, becomes the new plan. Make some calls, get some people out to search. Probably should’ve done that last part to begin with, but there’s this ringing in his head that won’t stop and it makes thinking straight very hard. His eyes scan the gutter the entire walk home, almost hoping to find Tommy collapsed somewhere along the way.

No such luck.

He finds the front door unlocked when he reaches his house.

The first thing that crosses his mind as he enters is how bloody nice it is to be out of the wind. The next, is that the hallway reeks of blood. And third, as he discovers when he tries to flick the light switch, there has been a power-cut. Just one fucking thing after the other this night, innit?

His eyes adjust to the darkness and he can make out a soppy pile on the floor. Tommy’s coat, he states when he picks it up. Dropping the garment back onto the floor, he makes his way into the kitchen.

And isn’t it a sight for sore eyes, to find Tommy lying on the kitchen floor? Awful, of course, because he’s lying in a pool of blood, looking about as dead as any man Alfie’s ever seen. But he’s there, and the ringing in Alfie’s head stops. Tommy’s right leg is propped up on a chair, and his jacket is tied around his thigh to stop the bleeding from an injury, presumably. Crafty, his boy.

“Tommy?” he crouches down, shakes him gently. “You awake, love?” Tommy lets out a pained sound and quite surprisingly opens his eyes. Yeah, he’s nothing if not a stubborn little thing.

“Welcome home, darling,” he slurs. “Sorry ‘bout your floor. Had a run-in with Sabini.”

“Any idea how much blood you’ve lost?” Are you about to die on me, on my kitchen floor? For once, Alfie doesn’t leave room for any detours in this speech.

“’s fine. Bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. Would’ve bled out already then.” Tommy’s voice sounds all thick and wet, like the blood is just sloshing around in his throat. Nasty sound.

“Good, that’s good...” Alfie nods encouragingly. “Any other injuries we’ve got to handle right now?”

“Think I’ve got a concussion. Broken ribs. Maybe my right shoulder is dislocated. Rest is just bruises.” Even such a fragmented sentence seems to take a lot out of him, and Tommy turns his head to the side, coughs up a mouthful of blood. Alfie nods again.

“That's it, eh? No worries, then, bet you’ve had worse. I’ll have to do you the disservice of stitching you up, because the phone line is dead.”

Tommy moves his head in what could be considered a nod. “Was going to do it myself, but I got dizzy. Had to lie down.”

Of course he fucking did. After dragging himself home with a perforated leg just pumping out blood, Tommy’s first reaction is to ‘stitch himself up’. Yeah, they’ll have to talk about that later.

Alfie has no idea how Tommy has managed to get anywhere at all, he states once he’s gotten all his drenched clothing off. Because he looks like one of those porcelain dolls Alfie likes to compare him to: except someone has dropped the doll and glued the pieces back together haphazardly. There may not be any jagged pieces of him sticking out at all ends, but the feeling is the same. Utterly broken. Complete fucking disarray of bruises, swollen red marks and scrapes. Alfie has both seen and caused his fair share of gruesome injuries, technically much worse than this. And somehow, this is still the most awful thing he’s had to face. Because it’s Tommy, a small voice at the back of his mind tells him. Because you care about him.

Yeah, seems like it’s come to that.

He covers the mess with a blanket, leaving the injured leg exposed. He’s kept the makeshift bandage on –can’t afford to lose more blood at this point.

Then Alfie gets to play doctor in perhaps the most bizarre scenario in his life yet, with Tommy lying across the kitchen table and the only source of light being candles. He curses himself for not keeping any morphine in the house: what sort of rookie mistake is that?

“Sorry, love, afraid this is all I can get you for the pain.” He puts a bottle of whiskey to his mouth and allows him a generous gulp. “Never thought I’d encourage this drinking habit of yours. I’ll take off this fine bandage, yeah?” He unties the blood soaked garment to reveal an ugly looking wound.

“Pity. I liked that jacket,” Tommy mutters. Alfie thinks that he’ll gladly buy his vain boy every suit in London, as long as he gets through this.

Stitching shut a gunshot wound in candlelight is about the most difficult thing Alfie’s done, as it turns out. It’s not made easier by the fact that Tommy can’t hide that it hurts like hell. Once he’s halfway into the exit wound, his cheeks are wet with tears. Then again, it’s pretty dark, so there’s no way to know for sure. So Alfie pretends not to notice, for Tommy’s sake.

When he’s finished, Tommy is soaked with cold sweat and trembling. Only the shoulder left, then…

“I’ll count to three, ‘aight?” Tommy gives a short nod. Fuck, he’s pale. Looks almost translucent.

“One, two-“ and on two Alfie pulls. There’s this sickening, wet, crunching sound as the shoulder pops back into its socket, but it’s nothing compared to the bloodcurdling scream Tommy lets out. He pitches forward off the table and Alfie catches him, tries to find a way to hold him that won’t aggravate any of the injures. Impossible feat, that.

“Shh, I’ve got you. ‘s okay, sweetie. All better now. That’s the worst of it, yeah?” he mutters soothing nonsense as Tommy’s breathing slowly calms a bit. “Let’s get you to bed, eh?” He shifts his arms as he tries to figure out the best way to carry him without touching the broken ribs. Again, impossible feat. '

“I can walk on my own,” Tommy says quietly, without looking at him. “Don’t coddle me.”

Only Thomas fucking Shelby would call being carried after having been practically beaten half to death ‘coddling’. Alfie wishes that Tommy would just let himself be cared for, for once in his goddamn life. Because it’s not right, is it? Tommy having to drag himself home and pass out on the kitchen floor, all fucking alone in the world as usual. Always Tommy against the whole world, innit?

But something about Tommy’s voice tells him he needs this. Alfie’s got no idea what Sabini has been up to in that alley, what kind of nonsense he’s been putting in Tommy’s head. A chat about that is definitely in order once Tommy’s brain clears up a bit. But now is not that time.

“Fine. But I really thought we’d gotten over that fucking threshold by now.”

One bloody awful walk up the stairs later, he can finally deposit Tommy in the bed.

Tommy is shaking after the ordeal, and has gone from pale to almost white. Yeah, if that mouth of his doesn��t get him killed, his pride definitely will. Or his stubbornness. Alfie tells himself that was the last time he enabled stupid behaviour like this.

“How did you even manage to get home? Your leg seems rather useless.” He piles blankets on top of him.

'“I’ve got two. The other one worked alright”

Alfie shakes his head at this and covers him with the duvet too, before slumping down on the chair next to the bed. Tommy opens his eyes and gives him a look. But there’s no real sharpness to it. He just seems very tired.

“You’re not going to sit on that chair all night, are you?”

Alfie makes a face to show that he just might.

“No you ain’t,” Tommy states. “I’m cold, and you’re like a furnace. Get in.”

Let it be said that it’s not in Alfie’s nature to deny Thomas Shelby a thing like that. He leaves his wet clothes in a pile –trivial things- and lays down next to him. Tommy is cold, alright, and Alfie wishes he could wrap his arms around him, pull him close. But that would probably result in one of those broken ribs puncturing one of his fucking lungs too. And isn’t that the only thing missing from this shitshow of night?

Alfie settles for just stroking his hair softly.

“I went looking for you,” he says. “You realised that was Sabini’s plan, yeah?”

Tommy mutters something incoherent.

“You could’ve stayed put. Would’ve lost a lot less blood that way.” Alfie states. “That’s why you faint, to let the blood flow back to your head, keep it functioning. And instead you walk about, just leaking like a broken bottle all over the place, silly boy. Sin to waste good liquor you know.”

He gets no response.

“You knew I would come looking for you right away, didn’t you?” Alfie asks, because it suddenly feels very important that Tommy knows this. Acknowledges it.

“Saved you some trouble dragging me back home,” Tommy finally says. There is a pause. “I don’t want to be a liability.”

Liability. Not Tommy’s own word, that. And Alfie wants to strangle Sabini with the man's own entrails for putting words like that in his mouth.

“What kind of talk is that? For all the shit I give you about making stupid decisions, we both know you’re the clever one, yeah? This is an equal partnership, nothing less.”

“It isn’t, though,” Tommy says, too quietly.

“Your brain has been rattled around in your skull, clearly.”

There is another stretch of silence, until Alfie finally speaks up again. Softer, this time. “Thomas, whatever Sabini told you, forget about it, alright? Desperate move from a desperate man, this. And he should be, because now I’ll have to kill him, won’t I?”

“You shouldn’t escalate the situation… over this. You have to think rationally about it.” That sounds more like the Tommy he knows. “I’m not of any actual…” his voice dies out before he can finish the sentence. Yeah, Alfie has to stop talking. Because Tommy can’t let things be, and it’s clear that his head is a fucking mess and that just forming words hurts. And he’s not making any sense either. But Alfie is pissed.

“He’s the only one who’s escalated anything,” he snarls. “The fuck does he think he is, walking about, shooting people?”

“Alfie-“

“Fucking disrespectful, that. For all that talk of being ‘above’ brutish methods, that posh fucker sure has a lenience towards ‘em. I swear, since he shacked up with that ridiculous New York mobster, he’s lost the last shred of dignity- And don’t even get me started on that parody of a man. Bloody hell, I hope Changretta accidentally breathes in that fucking stick he’s constantly chewing on and chokes.”

“Alfie.” He snaps his mouth shut, because Tommy sounds utterly exhausted. “It feels like someone is having a go at my head with a fucking sledgehammer,” he mumbles. “So you can keep talking, but please do it quietly. And no scheming. Because I can’t fucking tell you no. Can’t think straight.”

“Fine. We’ll sort it out once your head is back to normal.”

This statement passes without a response too. Alfie isn’t sure if this silence is due to the injuries or something else, and it worries him. But there isn’t much to do about it. Not tonight. He tells himself things will be better once Tommy has gotten some sleep.

All that can be heard for a long time is the sound of rain against the windowpane. Alfie lies awake and listens to it. And to Tommy’s ragged breathing.

“You bought me cigarettes yesterday.” Tommy suddenly whispers. Alfie looks at him through the darkness of the bedroom. Can just barely make out the silhouette of his cheek against the white sheets.

“Yeah, believe I did.”

“Remembered what brand I smoke and everything.”

Alfie hums.

After a while, Tommy adds: “It was nice.”

He chuckles dryly at that. “Yeah, that’s me: enabler of your self-destructive tendencies. Would be nice if you’d let me take care of you every once-in-a-while instead.”

“You’re doing a better job at it than I ever managed to do myself. Counts for something don’t you think?”

Alfie smiles, for the first time in a whole lot of hours. He fumbles a bit under all the blankets, finds one of Tommy’s cold hands. Hopes none of the fingers are broken as he takes it. It seems to be unharmed, because he gets a light squeeze in return.

"Yeah. Maybe it does."

#alfie/tommy #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #requested by anon #tw: violence #tw: homophobia #darby sabini #angst #so much angst #and h/c of course #but first so much angst

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fallout4holmes · 6 years

Text

Journal 8

The Personal Journal of Mr. S. Holmes

Diamond City, The Commonwealth, 2288

The journey south was quiet, at first. Getting out of Boston does not facilitate conversation to begin with, but even so, there wasn’t much for the mercenary and the Mayor of Goodneighbor to talk about. Still, fighting raiders does bring out something of a bond between people I suppose, because once we were outside the city proper Hancock spoke.

He apologized for the “dictatorial shit” from before, having his guards ready and waiting for Bobbi to rob him blind. He really does take the idea if everyone being allowed to do anything they please seriously. No, not anything. It's a particular code of acceptable behavior, but a code nonetheless.

He told me about the previous mayor, some character named Vic. Overpowered scum with a squad of thugs to keep people in line. Hancock witnessed them kill a drifter in cold blood. To this day, he's ashamed he did nothing, even though he likely would have been killed as well. Instead, what he did was nearly overdose, steal the clothes of the original John Hancock from the State House museum, convinced Kleo to loan him some weaponry and assembled a sort of drifter militia, training in the ruins. The next time Vic’s men “went on a tear,” Hancock and his army burst from the windows and rafters where they'd been hiding. It was a coup; Vic’s men were slaughtered, and the former Mayor hung from the balcony of the Old State House.

As he stood there, looking at all the people of Goodneighbor assembled below, the newly christened Hancock said the words that would become his city’s motto; Of the people, for the people. They made him Mayor on the spot.

He finished with the declaration, “I just hope you get where I was coming from. I ain't out to bring harm to anyone that didn't earn it.”

I remained slightly skeptical. “Our definitions of 'earning it’ may differ.”

“Nah, we're on the same page.” He grinned, “I’m just a bit more straightforward in dealing out the punishment, that's all.”

Warwick Homestead is on the point of a peninsula east of Quincy. To our benefit, the Gunners still inhabiting the town were locked in battle with the Brotherhood of Steel, giving us the opportunity to sneak around the town undetected. As we made our way down the peninsula, I said, “I should warn you, I'm not certain what sort of reception we'll receive.”

“Well, that's encouraging,” MacCready quipped.

“Spill, trouble,” Hancock said, “These people asked for your help, right? So what gives?”

“They asked for the Minutemen’s help. It is an important distinction.” I explained, “Our destination is Warwick Homestead. The patriarch of the Warwick family is Roger Warwick, father, husband, and according to a terminal within the Bioscience division of the Institute, a synth.”

They stopped in their tracks, looked at each other, and back at me. “You mind runnin’ that by us again?” Hancock said.

I sighed, “You were both aware I was inside the Institute? That’s how I managed to blow it up.” Rolled eyes indicated I should get to the point. “Some of the scientists were experimenting with modified strains of crops, and using Warwick farm to test them. They replaced Roger Warwick with a synth agent to oversee the experiments. Everything went well apparently, Roger and the crops were to be retrieved and all evidence of the initiative purged.”

“They were going to kill everyone,” MacCready stated, disgusted. Hancock swore.

“That seems the likeliest scenario, yes.”

“Well if this guy starts shooting, he’ll be the one purged.”

“Wait a minute,” Hancock said, “the Institute’s gone, so didn’t you save this guy’s family?”

I continued walking. “Those are the two options, yes. Either Mr. Warwick will be hostile to the man who destroyed his creators, though I don’t think he’d be foolish enough to open fire, or he will be glad to spend the rest of his life with his family.”

“Hey, boss. What are the chances of a nice straightforward job with a decent payout at the end after this?”

“Slim to none, MacCready.”

“Figures.”

“You’re under no obligation, I consider our contract fulfilled.”

“Yeah, but this still beats drinking myself to death in Goodneighbor, so. Let’s go help an ex-Institute synth and his family.”

The farm is built on the remains of a sewage plant, resulting in the most fertile soul in the Commonwealth. With it comes a stomach churning aroma, but one adjusts. Roger Warwick greeted us pleasantly enough, though he clearly didn’t realize who I was. He told us about the farm, and said that after super mutants had wiped out most of their crops, he and his family were starving. “No man should watch his wife and family suffer.” The crops were restored now, but the super mutants were still a threat. He’d put out a call for help to the Minutemen, though he didn’t expect anything to come of it.

“I’m happy to say you’re wrong,” I told him. “The Minutemen have arrived. We’ll take care of those super mutants.”

He was surprised. I imagine we didn’t look anything like what he was expecting. He told us the direction the mutants had come from, and we headed out.

“Seems like a family man sort of guy,” Hancock said as we left.

“Yeah. He also doesn’t have any idea who you are,” MacCready said.

We focused on the mutants, taking them out with devastating efficiency, but it was well past nightfall by the time we returned to the homestead. A trader had stopped for the night as well, setting up camp with her brahmin near the gate. I recognized her as Cricket, a somewhat deranged merchant who specializes in anything designed to do damage to living things. She was also one of the Institute's informants regarding escaped synths. Ironic she would stop here. Warwick was waiting on the steps of the treatment plant, converted into a living space. We could hear the family inside, cleaning up and preparing for bed.

He was hopeful, but also wary. “You’re back. Either you haven’t taken out the mutants, or… good news?”

“Super mutants won’t be bothering you again. At least, not that particular group,” I said.

He breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank you. That’s great to hear. I guess the Minutemen really are here to help.” He stepped down, and gestured we follow him, leading us a little away from the door. “Cricket told me she saw the General of the Minutemen headed out from here, with the Mayor of Goodneighbor and some mercenary.”

“Some merc,” MacCready drawled with a grin, “great.”

“You’re him,” Warwick pressed, “the one who destroyed the Institute.” It was a simple statement, waiting for a simple answer.

So, I gave it to him. “Yes.”

He was quiet a moment, then said, “Well. Thanks.”

It wasn’t quite the reaction I’d expected. “You’re welcome… Mr. Warwick, I know about your purpose here on this farm. I had a chance to explore every department of the Institute, including BioScience.”

His expression hardened. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it, but just leave my family out of -”

“Whoa, slow down, brother,” Hancock stopped him, “it ain’t like that.”

“Could be like that,” MacCready muttered.

“Ignore him,” I said. “I only brought it up because I want to know if you need help. Is your cover secure, are you happy here?”

Warwick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “… yes, everything’s fine. There was some trouble before - Bill, our foreman, he was getting suspicious, started trying to turn my wife and kids against me, but then with the Institute gone and the trouble with the mutants, it all sort of stopped. I guess he figured there wasn’t much point in splitting us up anymore.”

“We could get rid of him, just in case,” MacCready said. “I don’t care if you’re metal or flesh, no one should split apart your family.”

Warwick wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. “That’s not necessary, I think everything’s going to be fine.” He looked at me, “And yes, I am happy here. I know I’m not… they’re still my family.”

I nodded. “Good. If you need anything, there’s a Minutemen checkpoint north of here, near Neponset Park.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, “It’s a relief not to worry about any more late night secret meetings, waiting for every visitor to say a passphrase, all that nonsense. Now I can just live. Anyway. Come on inside, we’ve got a few spare sleeping bags set up for you.”

MacCready was asleep, snoring lightly, while Hancock made a quick walk around the farm. All three of us are dissatisfied with the farm’s defense systems, or lack thereof, which I intend to remedy in the morning. Hancock returned and quietly snuck past the sleeping family to join me in our far corner.

“Hey,” he kept his voice low, “you look like you could use this.” He offered an inhaler of jet.

“Tempting, but no, thank you.”

He shrugged, sitting down next to me. “Suit yourself. You look like your head’s running a million miles a minute.”

“It usually is. Had you offered mentats, I may have taken you up on it.”

“Fortunately for you,” he produced a pack, half empty, from inside his coat, “I keep a personal stash. Happens to be my ride of choice, too.”

I nearly laughed, and accepted one.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he said with a bewildered shake of his head. “Not a lot of folks would travel with a ghoul, even one with my kinda charisma. Hell, that business when we met, with Finn? I thought I was trying to protect some drifter from getting taken for everything they had. Didn’t know I was meeting a goddamn superhero.”

I scoffed. “I was hardly a superhero, and I’m certainly not one now.”

“Eh. These days, there’s too many good folks not willing to get their hands dirty and too many assholes taking advantage of it. Look at what happened to Diamond City. Before McDonough took over, it was a half-decent place to live. A little stricter than I usually go for, but not terrible.”

Valentine had mentioned Hancock was originally from Diamond City. “You grew up there?”

“Yeah, I thought he and I had a pretty happy childhood. But then he decides he's gonna try and get elected with his anti-ghoul crusade - "Mankind for McDonough." Before ya know it, you got families with kids lining up to drag folks they called "neighbor" out of their homes and throw 'em to the ruins.”

The facts fell into place. “You’re his brother.”

He nodded. “I remember storming into his office above the stands after the inauguration speech. He was just standing there, staring out the window, watching as the city turned on the ghouls. He didn't even look at me, just said: "I did it, John. It's finally mine." Should have killed him right there, but I don't think it would have changed anything. Instead I pleaded with him, begged him to call it off. He said he couldn't. He had nothing against the ghouls, he was just carrying out the will of the people and he couldn't betray the voters. And then he smiled. That hideous, fucking mile-long smile. He never smiled like that when we were kids. I didn't even recognize him.”

I hesitated a moment. “Hancock. Did you hear about -”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard. Guess everything makes sense now, knowing that he was with the Institute, but honestly? I think I'm even more angry. I mean, where do I draw the line? Was the guy I grew up with the amoral piece of trash who gave the ghouls the boot or was that just some synth makin' a play for the city? Have I been hatin' the guy all these years for nothin'? Almost makes me wish I didn't know. At the time though, I just couldn't wait to get away from him and his whole damn constituency. I still wasn't a ghoul at this point, so I didn't have to leave, but I couldn't bring myself to stay in that cesspool after that. I'd been sneakin' off to Goodneighbor for years to get decent chems, so I knew the safe routes. I managed to track down a couple of the families, lead 'em there, but most couldn't get used to the Goodneighbor lifestyle. I brought them food for a couple of weeks, but after a while, they just disappeared. Folks in Diamond City signed their death warrants and all the good people were willing to just sit by and watch. I felt like I was the only one who saw how screwed up things truly were, who couldn't just pretend things were fine.” He sighed, “I know I run my mouth, but having someone who sees the world for what it is and is willing to do something about it. It's meant a lot to me. I feel damn lucky to have you as a friend.”

I was surprised. “Friend?”

“That ain’t a term I toss around lightly. It doesn’t take much to see you’re my kind of freakshow.”

“As flattering as that is, I’m still trying to decide what I think of you, Hancock.”

He laughed. “I’ll take it. Anyway, thanks for hearing me out. You probably weren't looking for a history lesson, were ya?”

“On the contrary. I’m consistently amazed by the people who inexplicably decide I’m - how did you put it? Their sort of freakshow.”

“Can you blame us?” He lied down, a hand behind his head, hat tipped over his eyes.

I thought for a while longer, digesting everything Hancock had told me. As I watched the family sleeping nearby, the men without families beside me, I suddenly had a desperate urge to return home to mine. In all my years of long stakeouts, cases that took me away from my wife for days, occasionally weeks, I never once felt homesick. Not like this. I always knew she would be waiting. It was a horribly naive certainty, but no one would have blamed me for it then. In this world, where nothing is ever certain… The fatigue following the mentat wearing off was the perfect excuse to lie down, and for once, I slept when I wanted to.

#fallout 4 #sherlock holmes #crossover #fan fiction #hancock #maccready #warwick homestead

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