#its been rotting in my files the poor thing

[parper]

Rahhh‼️‼️‼️ wtf is composition‼️‼️‼️

[necroromantics]

🪓 — Conversations With A Killer

ticci toby short story.

- your pen will rapidly hit against the cold, metal table as you watch the clock tick on. time had you in a chokehold, squeezing your throat and forcing its way into your chest. you have done this before, countless times. sitting yourself in a small, empty room with nothing but a pen, notebook, and case file.

- early in your life you decided upon a career in forensic psychology. the mind of a criminal captured you as every interaction you had with a patient made you fall into their hands like a new victim. the difference between yourself and the ones 6ft under, is that in these small, empty rooms, you are in control.

- squirming impatiently in your chair, you opened the case file once again and began refreshing yourself on the indictment . goosebumps began tingling their way onto your arms, and you didn’t quite know if it was the cool air breezing in from the ac or the content on the pages that were the cause.

- thoughts swam like great whites hunting for blood in your mind about the kind of person who was capable of doing such things. your eyes glanced at the suspects name. and then his age.

- the repetitive sound of the plastic pen quickly pattering against the table came to a sudden halt as the door opened behind you. turning around to face the noise, you eyed the man wearing an orange jumpsuit being led in by two bulky policemen.

- you were wrong. that was no man, that was only a boy. he was small, and lanky. his poor posture brought his height down to around 5’6, his skin was pale and his hair was a shaggy mess.

- he threw himself into the chair as he sat down, immediately facing his head down to his shoes, eyeing the ground. you looked back at the officers who brought him in and gave them a nod of approval to leave you alone in the room.

- you knew better than to trust him, despite the harmless appearance. but here sitting across from you was a sickly, awkward looking boy who you knew to be only 19 years old. his gaze stayed firm to the floor, you couldn’t catch a good glimpse at his eyes.

- clearing your throat, you ignored the occasional twitch and jerk coming from the brunette who sat unspeaking across from you. you started, “uh- well. im going to need you to state your name for me, can you do that?”

- for a minute, there was no reply. the only sound was the buzzing of the fluorescent light, and the random sporadic whistle or forced cough from him. you repeated once again, “your name?”

- “toby.” his voice was quiet, but rough. a bit raspy. it was spoken so low you could barely make it out. you knew his name though, of course. you knew everything on the books about this boy. your job here today was to see what he knew.

- “okay toby, do you know why you’re here with me?”

- silence again. he didn’t speak this time, he only shook his head. the boy began biting his nails, his head still so far down his chin almost hit his chest. his head was coiled into his shoulders as he hunched over, doing his best to avoid any form of eye contact. his arm was wrapped around, hugging his core as his other one was raised up to his mouth to be chewed on.

- here sat a boy who didn’t look like he belonged in that orange jumpsuit, and across from him was you who didn’t know what to expect. its not to say you were clueless, god knows you’ve been around the block. but you’ve never dealt with someone so weird.

- amongst the twitches, awkward body language, and aggressive lack of eye contact, there was something else about toby you couldn’t quite put your finger on. there was something in the air around him that felt unnatural, and sickening, like the rot that surrounds a corpse in the morgue. you felt as though you were a mortician confronting a dead body.

- “my report is telling me you were arrested due to your involvement with a weapons trafficking bust. you look fairly young to be involved in that kind of business” eyeing the boy in front of you, you continued, “looking deeper into you, though. we found some interesting things.”

- attempts to illicit any sort of response from the seemingly unstable boy were proven to be futile. but your perseverance knew no bounds, and so you pushed further.

- “do you remember a fire that happened in 2011, in denver, colorado? you mustve been 17 at the time.” your hands folded softly over the beige file that held many documents.

- with one quick motion, his whole body jerked and he slammed his hand onto the table. the sudden sound nearly made you jump, and you would’ve been out of your seat if you weren’t as strong-hearted as you were. but resilient you stayed, just as you always have.

- “i dont know nothing about any fire” he spoke a bit louder this time, and raised his head very slightly, showing his eyes but not quite fixing his posture. though his head remained down, his eyes were now up as he stared at you through his thick eyebrows.

- tobys eyes were dark. his face was young and boyish, but you could see it in his eyes that he has witnessed things no 19 year old boy should have. those eyes were ripe with age beyond him. it felt as though you were looking at a veteran returning home from war, near shellshocked.

- as he continued to eat at his one hand, his other drummed rapidly on the tabletop. dirt was stuck under his chewed up nails, and they were stained with violence. you wondered to yourself for a minute what kinds of things those hands have done, what horrors they have committed.

- sliding the file in front of you, your hand rested on top of it. “do you know whats in here?”

- “a bunch of horseshit.” he muttered, glancing away as he cussed, not taking his hand away from his mouth.

- “this is a documentation of what happened the night of that fire. and information on you as well. the police out there have their own story. now i want to hear yours.”

- toby only shook his head quickly in reply, as to brush you off like dirt on his shoulder. “there is no story, there’s nothing.”

- “amuse me a little bit here toby.”

- his brooding gaze hit the floor once again as his arms wrapped around himself as if he were giving himself a hug. closing him off from the world, and you. this proved to be more difficult than you initially expected. usually younger criminals are talkers, they don’t think things through before they start letting their ego run their mouth.

- “do.. do you not know how to fucking listen? i said there is no.. no story. none.” his words were slightly slurred caused by the deteriorating gash on his left cheek. the tone began to grow harsh, but quiet, like a spark building into a flame.

- with only the lights buzzing and the drilling of the ac spewing out cold air to break the tension that slowly rose between you two, you flipped open the folder and pulled out a photograph.

- “this here is a man named frank rogers, he was an unfortunate victim to the house fire. his son was initially believed to be another potential victim of the fire that spread across the neighborhood and forest as well. but no body was ever found.”

- slowly, he raised his head up. when the boy eyed the photograph, for a split second you swore you saw a hint of amusement form in the cracks of his mouth and eyes. regardless, he remained silent. only repeatedly shaking his head at your questions in desperate attempt brush you off.

- a small tickle grew in your throat as so did your frustration, and desperation. determination to get answers bubbled up inside of you like a sisyphus boulder being pushed eternally up hill. or icarus, making his way towards the sun. despite the chilly breeze flowing in the room, you felt yourself nearly breaking a feverous sweat.

- pulling at your shirt collar, you pulled out a written document and held it in your hands. “autopsy of franks body, as far as they could recover from the fire, showed proof of foul play”. you were lying through your teeth, there was no evidence here. you knew his body was burnt to a crisp, beyond what any autopsy could prove. but you did what you must to confirm the occurrences of that night. this was your job.

- “i guess that’s unfortunate for him then. shouldve learned to play nice” was the only reply toby gave you.

- suddenly a harsh cough shot through your lungs as you felt yourself become a bit dizzy. putting a finger up, you signalled for the younger to excuse you for a moment. it took a minute to collect yourself before you continued again. a quick smirk twisted itself onto the boys face as he kept his head down, trying to avoid your gaze.

- next, you pulled out a collection of old medical records. these were reports of hospital visits from toby’s early childhood, he was remarked as a very accident prone boy. many of the reports showed his body littered with bruises, contusions, and occasional sprains. they were described as accident-caused injuries at the hands of his CIPA disorder which prevented him from feeling pain.

- you knew better than anyone what those bruises were from, and you knew better than anyone it wasn’t any accident.

- “when your father hit you, did he-“ your sentence was cut off quickly.

- “you dont know anything about my father. you dont know shit about what he did”

- the conversation cut out for a moment like a box tv turning off, the immediate change of tone in his voice caught you off guard. he went from a stuttering, quiet boy to a firm, violent tone. it was if he was baring his teeth and growling like a feral hound.

- “tell me then. tell me about your father.” and this is where you win. this is where you get toby rogers to talk.

- “my old man was a mean fucker. he would always hurt my mom, and my sister.” now the hostility has slipped away, replaced with a tragic demeanour where he refused to look you in the eye. sorrow sunk deep into his face, his eyes, now visible once again, looked much more sad then they had just moments before.

- the sudden, volatile changes made you feel queasy, or maybe it was something that you ate. the aura of the boy was suffocating, it squeezed your lungs and scratched at them, forcing out another cough from you.

- through your building unease, you spoke still. “and you? was he the cause of all these injuries?”

- “oh, yeah. i guess. i guess thats why i killed him.”

- your heart dropped into your stomach so quickly it was comparable to a fair ride. did you just get a confession? your teeth bit the inside of your cheek to restrain a victorious smile. maybe this was going to be easier than you thought.

- “can you repeat that for me?”

- “i said,” toby crossed his arms atop the table and leaned in, looking you straight in the eye, “thats why i killed that piece of shit.”

- breath escaped you, and the world around you turned to static. this made your job significantly better, when the killer freely admits to the crime. but you wanted more, you wanted to grab a shovel and dig up the grave of the past. and so you threw yourself into the rabbit hole, and let the static consume anything that wasn’t this boy in this moment.

- “and how did you kill him?”

- “knife. good ol’ trusty kitchen knife.” he was talking so casually, as if it was an everyday event for him. office chatter at best.

- “what did you gain out of this? hurting him makes you just as bad, no?”

- no word from toby, there was an image of a blaring red alarm in your head. a line you shouldn’t cross, but you do, because you need more, and more, and more.

- his stare trickled down your face as he began to eye your nose, the boys expression scrunched into one of disgusted amusement, near sadistic. “your nose is bleeding”.

- tapping onto your upper lip, you felt a wet sensation as blood coated your finger. you were too focused on the confession, and there was that static in your head that drowned out the rest of the world. all that surrounded you was this boy, toby rogers.

- quickly, you get up from your seat and excuse yourself outside. the ambience of the exterior hallway in the station was in stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the questioning room. despite the time of day, the hallway was empty and quiet. it seemed much longer than you remembered.

- the hallway was quiet. the white tiled floors complimented the beige painted walls, and occasional grey metal door. the place that should’ve been filled with beeps, chatter, and police radio were now replaced with the soft buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights that seemed too bright. your head pounded, you felt sick and dizzy, like you were losing your mind in this place.

- making your way down in attempt to find a bathroom, you felt your heart beat in your chest, building its way up to your throat. you could start to taste the metallic blood on your lips as it slipped down from your nose. uneasiness choked another rough cough out of you as you stopped in your tracks. you realized you have been walking for a few too many minutes now. the hallway was never this long.

- you must’ve missed an exit, you turned around and tried to make your way back the same way you came. when you turned heel, your body began to weaken and you collapsed to the floor, a wave of disease plagued over you as it consumed your mind and body. you fell weak onto the floor, and when your body collided with the tile, your hands met dirt and grass.

- your head faced down as you violently coughed, a sharp pain filled your head and there was a violently loud ringing in your ears. blood splattered from your mouth as you dry-heaved in attempt to catch your escaping breath. collecting yourself was a cat and mouse chase.

- the world around you now was dark, and cold. fresh air of the outdoors whipped your lungs as your body began to shake. you look up through tears of pain in your eyes as you remain on your hands and knees and look up at the tall, slender trees that now surround you. this wasn’t the hallway you collapsed in. you don’t know how you got outside.

- you were swallowed whole by sickness and disorientation, you barely noticed the figure approaching.

- a man wearing orange goggles and a barred-smile grey mask approached you. you may have not been able to see his face, but you noticed the air that surrounded him immediately. you knew who this boy was.

- now wearing a sweater and jeans instead of the orange jumpsuit, he crouched down in front of you. hatchets sat loyal on the holster connected to his belt, you saw mud and what looked like to be blood coating his shoes.

- his rough hands grabbed a handful of your hair as he violently jerked your head up to meet his gaze. he silently tilted his head as to look at you in a different light.

- “you.. you wanna know something funny?”

- the boys low, taunting voice was familiar, you felt yourself taken over by adrenaline. you didn’t know if you should try to run, or obey. you stayed silent.

- jerking his arm, he slammed your head aggressively into the ground beneath you, and by your hair he lifted your head up again. yelps, whimpers and begging was all that escaped your bloody, trembling lips as your hands now wrapped around his arm in attempts to get him off of you.

- “i said, you wanna know something real fucking funny?” his voice was muffled by the mask, but boomed loudly almost to the point it echoed. you could hear the brutality leak off of his tongue. glancing at the woods that surrounded you two, you tried to think of an escape plan

- “what..?” your once confident voice was beat to only a quiet, desperate whimper. in these woods, he was in control.

- “you were wrong. im not as bad as my father…”

- as he spoke these words in a mumble, he gripped your hair tighter and got up, dragging you to your knees and forcing your head back to reveal your neck. he stood tall on his feet and looked down at you as if you were only scum under his shoe.

- you squirmed and screamed, you didn’t want to die in this place, not today. you couldve swore you saw something behind him, hidden in the trees. you couldnt make out its face. the ringing in your ears got worse.

- with a quick motion, he removed one of his hatchets from his belt and held it back, ready to swing at your exposed neck.

- “oh, im far worse.”

[meu-meu-kissy-ceutie]

Caught up with vermis malum qnd wanna do a quick theory post. So, with the latest video its been made clear that the game is actually a learning machine (the mentalfloss video and opening showing 'iteratioms' that ring similar to thos 'teach ai to play *blank* videos), arthur states it's a "potemkin village" a facade, and later even in its own words describes itself as a parody, but a parody of what? People of course. We can assume based on the poltergeist pdf that the game eats at the leftover data from deleted computer files to create the game facsimile, this the whole jumble of code types arthur mentions in electric sheep. Of course this is typical machine learning we can see in ai slop today, taking in as much as it can so that it can make something that looks convincing, but as stated above the game is just a facade. Vermis Malum is machine learning to make something as human like as possible, thats my best interpretation based on, a few things, specifically:

1. The rotting apple from ring 9 becoming a distorted mass of human flesh in ring 7, and that its literally being fed on

2. At the end of hungry ghosts when the player unlocks a "new skin" where the vermis malum symbol becomes prominent on the screen all of the food in all of the freezers become arms and flesh.

Maybe I'm misinterpreting but it seems like vermis malum as a game is just there to lure in its real goal, people to learn from, and to that the actual reason im making this post.

At the end of Random Walk the voice asks "do you think you'll be the one who finally wins?" And while we may immediately think this is talking about "the game" remember what arthur said "its not a game" their are only superficial mechanics and its likely there is no real win state... At least not for the player.

Bringing us back to the Mental Floss, during the section discussing the loss function, its stated that the loss function is the computers guiding star leading it closer to what it needs to be, and then states "you win the game by minimizing that loss function"

The voice is speaking not to the player but to this particular iteration of vermis malum, if this iteration thinks it will be the one to properly seem human.

What this precisely means, attempting to take over our players body or something else... Im not quite sure. Im not sure where or how the supernatural elements (in particular the ear aches multiple characters have stated having, or our player barfing at the end of hungry ghosts) mesh with this otherwise seemingly very technical premise, but we will see. Some last notes for the roads

1. I believe all of the phone voices are previous iterations of vermis malum, thus why (i would assume) lady lux is the one asking the question, why Big Gul P says "you people (i assume other iterations) all look weird and like fucked up and melted" before asking what it looks like, because the iterations arent good enough, they look like those early ai images with the extra eyes and fleshy tones melding body parts together in ways they shouldnt.

2. While Vermis Malum has an internet connection it seems to interact with the player through messaging systems. It seems pretty obvious Leo is vermis malum interacting with our poor victim, but also when the player interacts with the Sour Grapes the person speaking says "I didnt text you, i have no idea-" before it cuts off, again implying theres an impersonation here.

3. Probably pointed out, but in the high rollers suites asp, mamba, and copperhead are all snakes, this could be a reference to something being traitorous, or potentially a reference to the "Early Iterations" shown in the beginning of hungry ghosts where the representative is a snake not a worm.

The final note i will leave on is the picture drawn of the vermis malum symbol described as "Orphan". This is a trick. Vermis Malum is a program made to appear human by doing things that appear human and appealing to human emotions. Vermis Malum was likely abandoned by its creators, but to describe itself as an orphan is a tactic to appear alive and invoke sympathy, and that is the only reason it would do so, so it can win the game.

[pennzance]

"Your idiocy is truly astounding. I mean it, I have never in all of my years been confronted with someone who's capacity to small-mindedly twist like a snake to find the small gaps in between good, safe, sound logic and act so totally against its own interests has ever left me so agog. It isn't enough that you have been charged with multiple crimes, that the amount of evidence against you is so amazingly well detailed, meticulously cataloged and bountiful, or that you seem to go through lawyers at a rate that would astonish the NRA were you some sort of firearm. It isn't enough that your childish and very public antics have landed you before not one, not two, but three other courts BEFORE you were compelled by lawful indictment to appear before me, as if I were the most unlucky port available in a storm of literal feces that you yourself have set in motion. It isn't enough that your CURRENT counsel, whom I am intimately familiar with and have spoken at length about their degenerecy in the past on the record at every opportunity available to me and find myself excited at the chance to do so again, looks almost the paragon of virtue when standing in the same room as your odious form. It isn't even enough that in the time since this court was called to order, your demeanor and facial expressions betray you to be a man who frankly seems to believe that none of this matters and you will somehow prevail both here and in the court of public opinion, which assure you is such a far cry from possible in the reality I inhabit as to be a laughable notion that would aid you well in any insanity plea you may choose to file. No, none of that is enough. Because on top of it all, I know that whatever provisions for your release I may set down today, you will have violated them within the hour, and seeking monetary penalties for these assure infractions will not somehow bother you at all because your poor, susceptible and thoroughly duped fans will trip over themselves to help you pay your legal fees. So I shall make this quick, if only for fear that your particular style of brain rotting stupidity is infectious, and I wish to spare even the defense counsel of such an ignominious, embarassing fate."

"Your honor, that may be the nicest thing you've ever said about me."

"Defense counsel is advised to keep his big mouth shut for the rest of the arraignment."

"Yes, your honor."

[the-wolf-emoji]

Tombstone

☆☆☆☆☆ Vanguard

Operator Record

Basic File

Code Name: Tombstone

Gender: Female

Combat Experience: 8 years

Place of Birth: Columbia

Date of Birth: Jan 9

Race: Lupo

Height: 1.68m

Infection Status: Infected status Confirmed by Medical Report

Physical Exam

Physical Strength: Standard

Mobility: Excellent

Physical Resilience: Standard

Tactical Acumen: Excellent

Combat Skill: Standard

Originium Arts Assimilation: Poor

Profile

A mysterious gravedigger with a checkered past, Mariana is a mobile and versatile combatant who isn't afraid of developing techniques on the fly.

She joined Rhodes Island after seeking treatment for her oripathy, though her motives are unclear.

Clinical Analysis

Increase Trust to 25.

Imaging test for this Operator showed blurry outline of internal organs with visible unusual dark spots. Unusually high concentration of Originium particles were present in her circulation, indicating signs of infection and confirming her as infected at this stage.

[Cell-Originium Assimilation] 11%

Mariana showed a concerning amount of crystal formation, including visible crystals on her skin.

[Blood Originium-Crystal Density] 0.18u/L

Strict monitoring of Mariana's condition is required.

The immediate concern regarding Mariana is her diet. The initial infection vector was a hollow point originium bullet taken to the abdomen. As a result, the largest crystals disrupt her intestines, limiting the foods she is able to eat while simultaneously putting her at high risk of malnutrition.

- Medical Operator Silence

Archive File 1

Increase trust to 50.

Mariana tends to keep to herself, but has rarely been spotted drinking with Outcast at Rafaela's bar. However, just because she prefers to be alone doesn't mean that she's not able to socialize.

Any who talk to her feel stunned by her ability to take control of the conversation, deftly maneuvering through uncomfortable inquiries. Only those who pay close attention even realize that Mariana has evaded confrontation, the rest happy to walk away feeling as though their question has been answered.

Archive File 2

Increase trust to 100.

"When Mariana first arrived at Rhodes Island, her medical condition was dire. She had barely eaten in weeks due to severe oripathy flare-ups and had dangerous amounts of internal bleeding. The fact that she could speak through the pain and dehydration was a miracle, though it was hard to make out her words. The only thing I could make out consistently was a name, Melodia. When she woke from surgery, she denied ever having said it."

- Medical Operator Gavial

Archive File 3

Increase trust to 150.

"There's a legend in Mansfield, about a conman so slick that he convinced Death itself to hold onto his life for a moment. They say that he let himself die to escape the prison, then swindled back his soul once he was out. Not a mark on him, 'cept for an ear burnt off by the cremator. I doubt there's any truth in it; Mansfield buries its dead, not burns them."

- Operator Kafka

Archive File 4

Increase trust to 200.

"What about my ear? Has Kafka been telling ghost stories again? I lost this in an underground bare fist boxing match; some idiot had to be told not to use teeth. Don't worry, he only got desperate because I was winnin'. The burn scar? We had to cauterize it after, so it didn't rot. That's the way it was with Mel, she'd get you into more trouble than you could handle and then just as soon as you thought you were a goner, she'd haul you back out just as quick.

Who was she? Mm, just forget I said anything. Barkeep, another brandy double please!"

Promotion Record

Promote to Elite 2 Level 1.

Despite her questionable past, Mariana has become a daring and flexible elite operator, protecting the front line and exposing hidden threats. Whether or not they trust her in day to day life, it's clear that on the battlefield, Operator Tombstone has no intention of burying any of her comrades.

Combat Profile

Stats

Stats listed at E2 Lv 1

HP 1575

ATK 410

DEF 325

RES 5

RDP 35

DPC 10

BLK 1

ASI 1.03

Traits

Agent

Can used ranged attacks. Reduced Redeployment time.

Talents

Silver Tongue

Killing an enemy grants 2 (4) SP

From Dust to Dust

Unlocked at Elite 2 Level 1.

Refunds additional 30% of DP cost when retreated

Skills

Last Rites

Offensive Recovery | Auto ⚡15-10

The next attack deals 130-200% ATK, stunning the target for 8s and obtaining 12 DP

Shallow Grave

Auto Recovery | Manual ⚡24-16 ⏱️ 14s

Instantly deals 200-250% of ATK as Arts damage in an AOE, revealing invisible units for the duration. Gradually obtains 10-16 DP over the duration.

Potential Item

Tombstone's Token

A well-worn brown canvas duster, warm enough to protect oneself from cold desert nights but lose enough to wear in the sun.

Potential 1

Deployment cost -1

Potential 2

Redeployment Cooldown -4

Potential 3

HP +100

Potential 4

Increase SP granted by first talent.

Potential 5

Deployment cost -1

Module

Musical Locket

A locket with a music box built into the hinge. The picture is a long faded image of a woman and her two daughters.

"Every conman needs a partner— for cleanup if nothing else. Melodia was mine, from the day our mama died until I got locked away, we could put one over on the best of them. We could have walked out of the palace with the Victorian crown jewels if we had half a mind to. But skill falls by the wayside when you're double-crossed, and I had to choose between saving Mel or saving myself.

Maybe she's out there now, sittin' pretty in a rich man's house, gettin' more spoiled by the day. Maybe she was in one of the coffins I buried. All I can do is keep lookin' and keep hopin'."

Changes second talent as follows: Refunds an additional 50% of the DP cost when retreated.

[revenant-dumpster-fire]

Mask (Revenant x Reader)

[Click here to go to this chapter on AO3]

Theme: At the behest of an old nurse, Revenant goes looking for books when he realizes he can't hold a one-sided conversation so easily, leading him to The Collector's Den and its masked caretaker and her handler.

Warnings: References to drug use, references to human trafficking, domineering male figures, tragedy.

Reader's Notes: Lore expansion for my main Revenant (Apex Legends) fanfiction (Leaves One Cold), this should be read after the first book (Just a Volunteer). No romance/fluff in this file. Treat it as world-building and a character piece, for those who enjoy the main storyline and want more context on things to come.

Writing Notes: I had so much fun mixing things up a bit and writing something different in a different style than before. I feel renewed.

Navigation:

(This is the first File) | Next File

"Just A Volunteer" (Book 1) | "The Lost Files" (Book 1.5)

---------

The Collector's Den is neither wholly a bookstore, nor wholly a club. It lands somewhere between both worlds, and Rosé is the only one who doesn't belong in either one, and her mask marks her as such.

It's morning. There's no driving through the city for her, so Rosé walks the whole way from her meager apartment on the grimey south side to the richer north side. It doesn't matter how much of a target she would normally be with her petite and beautiful figure: with her personal bodyguard--Husk--at her side, nobody dares encroach on her space.

Her life is the same everyday. Wake up, sometimes with Husk, sometimes without. Shower and put on makeup. Clean dishes. Put on the black velvet dress with white silk collars on the neck and sleeves. Put on black panty hose and the shined leather flats. Brush out her wavy, nearly-black hair. Finally, put on the mask.

The mask is a kitsune mask--the image of a white fox with red lines adorning the face. Rosé picked it herself when her master demanded she hide her face. It looks happy, but something about the colors gives a profound aura of sorrow and mystery. She feels comfortable behind it, even when her true emotions cannot show through. Her master insisted, saying someone might recognize her and try to take her away, but she knows better. It's been nearly fifteen years. No one will find her. No one is looking for her. She was proclaimed dead in the hearts and minds of her family long ago.

As Rosé carefully opens the coffee shop door, the attached bells barely make a sound. It doesn't matter though, they know she's here, and they already know her order. She doesn't even pay until the end of the week, because she has never failed to show up every day, on time, with the same order, and pay fully. She wouldn't want to be a poor example of her status under her master. A poor reflection on her is a poor reflection on him, which he doesn't take kindly to. She takes her order from the counter, handing one of the two cups to Husk. Husk never asks for coffee, but he always receives it and drinks it anyway.

The smell of roasting coffee is always welcome compared to the scent of rotting, flaking paper. Rosé does not always choose to enjoy her coffee in the shop, but this morning is particularly unique. Her order is wrong. She can taste it, but she doesn't care. It tastes better, in a way. One of the baristas is new, so it's unsurprising. She only laments to herself that she cannot order this coffee in the future, since mistakes cannot be allowed to repeat more than once. Husk haphazardly sips his coffee, making an uncouth noise while doing so. Rosé is silent in comparison, since excess and fruitless noise is merely a mistake upon the sanctity of silence. It's a miracle Rosé and Husk serve the same man.

Rosé finishes her coffee and leaves without a word, ensuring the bells stay as silent as possible as the door swings open and closed. Husk follows after her with none of the same care. The bells clang as they hit the door behind him. The bells are the only sound they make to one another, at least this morning. They aren't in sync today, but they usually aren't anyway. It's just a bit more extreme than usual this morning. Any other day, Rosé would open the door softly and Husk would close it haphazardly, like opposite sides of the same coin.

The remainder of the walk to The Collector's Den is easy. The morning sun shines a shameful light on the litter, dirt, and sins of the night before. Sidewalks are full with living corpses, slowly coming down from highs that could kill. Some moan and gasp for air trying to breach sobriety, while others drool on the ground and snore as they drift back. The ones who are up and about are the dealers, secretly looking out for their best customers while they return from the brink. Rosé pays them no mind, but Husk feels the need to glare at every dealer he walks by as if they might offer Rosé a sample. Rosé would never accept such a trap, as addiction and desperation would reflect poorly on her.

Rosé keeps her hands in her dress's pockets, her stature slouched, her mask strapped tight. Husk stands tall--very tall--but twitches his head around as he looks for potential threats despite his large and somewhat overweight frame. Rosé makes turns like she's walked this path millions of times before, whereas Husk almost seems to forget the way every time, stumbling when Rosé turns unexpectedly. Rosé sighs regularly and openly, perhaps lost in thought about her life and what could have been, or perhaps only mourning the mundane. Husk huffs like a bull, both as a threat and out of exhaustion from the walk, few other thoughts on his mind.

Finally, Rosé makes her way to a set of stairs that descend deeper into the concrete hell, below one of the high rises. As she descends into the dim concrete catacomb unfazed, Husk pulls out a flashlight on his phone and lights her way for her. She doesn't acknowledge him or his light, simply reaching for the door she's unlocked countless times before. The old fashioned bronze doorknob is darkened with oxidation and dirt. The windows are all blacked out completely--light can damage the papers. There's a wrought iron sign above the door, reading 'The Collector's Den' in ornate lettering with a wooden backing. It is truly an alluring and mysterious oasis, surrounded by concrete oppressors.

Rosé unlocks the door with an old skeleton key, swinging it wide open and being hit with the cool, musky air of The Den. The smell of old leather, paper, and ink is a unique one. It's musky, but not offensive. Rosé walks in, making her way to the old fashioned register right near the entrance while Husk guards the door.

The entire place feels like an ancient library from earth. Bookshelves that run all the way to the ceiling are placed efficiently in rows and against all the walls, filled to the brim with the old ways of learning. They are all alphabetized properly, per Rosé's exacting standards. Large and thick books are placed next to small and thin books, each leather cover sporting a slightly different hue of faded dye. No two books were the same. Every copy is a masterpiece, and a valuable one at that.

The red velvet couches line a small sitting area to the side, which are normally filled with the bourgeoisie of the modern era, drinking wine of unfathomable value while they speak about their priceless, leather-bound artifacts. Alcohol is served and sold by Rosé, who keeps a counter and wet bar behind the cashier desk. She serves only liquors, wines, and a rare Irish coffee. Anything more would be too complicated.

The dark wood panelling lining the walls gives the entire store a Earth circa-1940's vibe. Rosé's favorite reading experiences come from the lesser-valued books from that era, describing mob bosses dressed in fine clothing, a giant war for control of major areas of earth, and legends of a country that had everything, even if only for a few decades. She feels as if she lives in a snapshot of that era, serving the mob-elite from her humble, carved countertop. She likes it, but has become quite accustomed to it to the near point of mundane drabble.

As Rosé finishes up her morning opening routine, the first customer comes early. He is new, wearing an unusual garb. He flashes his bank account at Husk to prove his worth, and he's let in. As the only customer, Rosé takes a rare moment to address him in her monotone hum.

"Good morning sir. Please let me know how to assist you." She states dryly, refusing to phrase anything as a question out of an elevated sense of dignified servitude.

He is tall, wearing a long pair of black pinstripe slacks and a nice pair of leather shoes with two tones of color. He wears a black, long-sleeve dress shirt with a waistcoat on top. The waistcoat is a deep red with vertical pinstripes, gold triangular buttons, and a gold-colored, silk rimmed pocket on the left breast where an ancient pocket watch might go. Strangely enough, he wears a matching cowl with it in the same deep red. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and his stature implies he is hunting.

Upon hearing Rosé address him, he turns to her.

He too is wearing a mask of sorts. It is a bony thing, but missing any lower jaw. Red streaks pool under his eyes and drip downward, accented by glowing yellow eyes with a predatory glint. His chin appears to be red leather, or perhaps plastic. It is difficult to tell, but he is for certain a simulacrum, and an older, more unique model at that.

Rosé meets his gaze with her own, no flinch to be had. She wears her mask and he wears his. He might look scary to most, but Rosé is unfazed. If anything, Rosé sees some kind of desperate confusion in his body language, but as a fellow mask-wearer, she will never tell a soul.

He walks over to the counter with Rosé, never losing eye contact with her. Rosé doesn't seem taken aback by this, the silence still hanging in the air.

"I need a book. Any book, but something decent." He says demandingly, the unsure nature of his request still ringing through. His voice modulator is gravelly and deep, but Rosé has heard worse.

"You've come to the right place. What kind of investment are you looking to make? Or do you have any preferences on rarity, content, or artwork?" Rosé's voice is light and wispy, the pure opposite of Revenant's. Her tone remains unfaltering and monotonous, as if she was a mere doll following orders.

"Something to read." He says, rolling his optics from under his mask. He doesn't seem to realize that books are now relics of a bygone era, only read genuinely by a rare few.

"Ah, that is truly a rare request, sir. May I ask what you want to read?" Rosé doesn't hesitate, nor responds to his apparent impatience.

For a moment, he is silent, unsure of how to answer. Usually his pushy demands would lead people to ask less questions, but this tiny cashier is unshaken.

"I don't know, a classic or something. Just something to start with." He finally answers.

"Ah, do you have a budget?" Rosé asks plainly.

"No, sky's the limit. Give me your best."

Rosé reaches under her to a locked cabinet in the cashier counter, pulling a hardback book out from a darkened humidor.

"This is one of the oldest and rarest we have. It was required reading hundreds of years ago on Earth. Few copies survived the censors, even fewer made it off Earth." Rosé explains, placing the book in front of Revenant on the counter. "It's one of the most valuable, ancient, and sought-after books. Its story is considered a classic. I believe this will give you the thrill of reading a piece of ancient history as it dissolves between your fingers."

Rosé keeps her eyes on Revenant's, which brighten at the thought of her words. The destruction of something sacred; how cruel and detestable, but perfect for him.

"How much do I owe you for it?"

Rosé doesn't answer, but pulls out an ancient invoice pad, writing down the name of the book and a number with an excessive number of digits. "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" is the name, and the price could practically buy a whole block in the right area of the city. She hands it to him.

"Fine." He huffs as he pulls out a cellular device from his pocket, punching in some numbers. Soon after, a chime can be heard from a small computer screen under Rosé's watch.

"Thank you very much sir. Nine more books and you will be a VIP. Please enjoy your new book." Rosé remains monotonous, making it almost sound like sarcasm.

Revenant grumbles, pulling the hardback artifact from the countertop and walking out the door in a huff. Rosé watches, fully expecting to never see him again. Most first time customers never return, and she can admit to herself she wouldn't either. Too bad she isn't a customer.

• • • •

The following day the routine begins again. No different than any other day, and as silent as always. Husk is more in sync with Rosé today, the news of one of the supplier nodes of the gang being brutally slaughtered days ago must be beginning to fade in his mind. Rosé doesn't care in the slightest, but Husk seemed truly shaken at first. Rosé almost felt compelled to comfort him. Almost.

Rosé avoids speaking unless it's necessary, and Husk has come to understand that. His job is to protect, gatekeep, and call the boss if necessary. Rosé shows him only the coldest forms of acknowledgment: an extra coffee, a plate of dinner, and hiding behind his frame on the rare occasion a customer has gotten rough. She is not affectionate to Husk, she simply ensures he remains loyal enough to follow orders to the fullest extent. It reflects well on her status that she is both cold but worthy of the loyalty of her master's other subordinates. She may have been bought, but Husk was being paid.

The morning is early in The Collector's Den. Husk guards the door like he always does, and Rosé begins polishing the serving glasses. The books generate an unspeakable amount of dust. It's especially bad since some books are opened and read by the boldest of patrons, releasing their captured dust to float freely. The patrons will do this often as they sit in the parlor and flirt with each other openly over money and alcohol. It's important for Rosé to keep the glasses clean from any dust that might affect the flavor of such expensive wines and specialized bourbons. Rosé doesn't drink much beyond her namesake and her sister's, but she recognizes the value in pristine standards for her clients. After all, it's her attention to detail that makes her such a valuable woman to spare from a life of unspeakable use.

After polishing the glasses, all the wood panelling and mahogany counters get a fresh oil polish to clean and preserve their shine. The oil smells like a soft Meyer lemon, bringing a new and welcome element to the smell of the shop. The slickness of the rag keeps the job moving quickly, wrapping up before any morning clientele arrive.

Finally, Rosé slowly makes her way back to her register counter where an ancient but well-maintained record player with vinyls of classical and fine music sit. Normally she would only begin to play music after the first client arrives, but she is compelled to listen for her own pleasure today. The master owns this ancient and valuable gramophone, so maintaining it is of the utmost importance. He values it so much, only Rosé can touch its delicate and ancient parts. He's well aware of its fragility, so "only equally fragile hands can respect it". The only time something on it broke, he was not upset with Rosé at all. Replacements and repairs were completed within mere days.

As Rosé starts the player on a vinyl labelled as the best works of Joe Hisaishi, the sound of a piano begins to echo amongst the book stacks. This is one of Rosé's favorite songs, although she doesn't play it very often. It stands out as very different and out of place from the other music by classical composers from ancient Earth. Even so, she finds it suits her better than the others do, and if no client is around to hear it, their immersion into the ritzy bookstore cannot be broken. Despite that, Rosé believes this song fits the mysterious shop better than any other song she has in her collection.

Not too soon after starting the song, yet another strangely early client is let in by Husk, who holds the door open for his familiar frame. Anyone Husk recognizes as a client is given the door-opening treatment, and it gives Rosé a heads-up to treat the customer as a welcomed regular. The system works well, except today, as there is an unexpected loophole. Husk won't forget a mask he saw just yesterday, even if he isn't truly a well-established client yet. Rosé sees the simulacrum lurk in and towards her counter. For once, she feels a moment of anxiety.

"Good morning, it is good to see you again. Was there some kind of issue with the book I sold you yesterday morning?" Rosé's monotone voice does not betray her, as it remains firm and emotionless like that of a doll.

"No, not at all, I'm here for another." His voice indicates he is bothered by the question, as if it is simply normal to have a client buy two expensive artifacts on back-to-back days.

"Ah, my apologies. We do not usually see customers return so quickly to purchase additional books." Rosé explains herself simply and plainly.

"Whatever. That book wasn't enough. I guess it was a decent story, but hard to relate to. Ancient Earth stopped making sense to people centuries ago." He huffs angrily. "I need something more interesting."

For the first time in a long time, Rosé's interest is piqued, and she loses her cold demeanor for a moment.

"You truly read the whole book between then and now?" Rosé's much softer and curious voice dances in the air with the sound of the music.

Revenant notices her sudden interest and awe, choosing to bask in it rather than shoo it away.

"Aloud, even. To an audience of one. It's not hard if you keep at it." Revenant sees a glimmer in the holes of the kitsune's eyes, something of curious intrigue. "Unfortunately, it wasn't good enough for my audience. I need another."

"Ah, your audience must be comprised of a very eloquent individual." Rosé says, adjusting her posture to regain an elegant and professional stance. "Perhaps we should try something else? I have an idea."

"Sure, whatever it is, just get it for me." He seems compelled to get his book and leave quickly. He must be in a rush.

Rosé motions him over to a section deep in the stacks, eventually coming across a small group of copies of "Pride and Prejudice", each in different sizes, conditions, and covers. She pulls the finest specimen from the shelf daintily to not rough up its hard backing any more than time already has.

"I believe this book may impress such a dignified audience far better than the last one." She states, holding the book in her open palms, showing Revenant the cover.

His eyes glean over the plain cover quickly, but there's no valuable information to derive from the cover alone. He looks into the kitsune mask next, but meets the same wall of protective shroud. Rosé cannot glean his thoughts either, his face protected by his mask and mechanical stasis, spare for his eyes. After a few moments of silence and failed espionage between their walled cities, Revenant relents.

"I'll take it."

Rosé leads him back to the register, now fully expecting to see him again the next day. His audience must be quite dignified, and they will likely not be satiated by just two books.

• • • •

It is noon the following day. It's been a very uneventful day so far, but there's a group of clients in the parlor area discussing their stock market evaluations, how much each inherited from their parents, and bragging over their material wealth jovially. Rosé has happily served them alcohol per their preference. They are all regulars and generally come as a group on a regular schedule. Rosé has overheard tons of insider information on their companies from them, although usually she simply relays it to her master with no idea of how it can be used. She knows they have connections in all these companies, perhaps for blackmail or embezzlement. Either way, it doesn't concern Rosé. She just passes on interesting tidbits of information.

Husk lets in a familiar customer in as Rosé returns to her counter from serving a particularly drunk patron another serving of whisky. As predicted, the simulacrum with the mask is back. He shoots a glare at the disinterested crowd in the parlor before walking over to the counter again. They don't acknowledge or even seem to see him, as they're busy in their own conversations.

"Any luck, sir?" Rosé asks politely.

"Nothing yet. I need something else. Maybe something fantastical and wild will get her attention." He grumbles. Rosé suspects that special request is more of a personal preference than one for his audience, but she says nothing.

"Of course, I have a classic for you that fits your request. Two in fact, if you're able to read them so quickly." Rosé offers.

"Show me." Once again, he keeps it curt and quick, clearly in some kind of a rush. Thankfully, Rosé knows exactly what she is looking for and where it should be.

Rosé leads him to the far back corner of the shelves where the dust is at its thickest. She pulls a set of books from a shelf at eye level.

"Would you like the top quality available again, sir?" Rosé asks plainly, checking which copy was the highest rated in condition.

"Yes."

"As you wish." Rosé carefully places the lower quality copies on the shelf before leading Revenant to another aisle of books.

Again, she pulls down a small group of books, choosing the highest quality copy, and replacing the others. She shows the two books to Revenant.

"Are these to your satisfaction, sir?"

Revenant scans the covers again. "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" and "Through the Looking-Glass" are fading on both covers. There was once colorful art on the covers, but much of the ink has faded into a sullen, muted color palette instead. Revenant takes one of the books, carefully opening it with his metal fingers. The text is intact and not faded, even if the pages themselves have tanned with time. He doesn't look for long before carefully closing it again, letting the book spine crinkle as it adjusts.

He briefly looks through the eye holes of the kitsune mask, seeing a set of blue eyes underneath, staring back at him. The eyes are soft and relaxed, no panic or expectation in them. He can't read much further than that. Rosé catches on to his curiosity, but refuses to acknowledge why she wears the mask, choosing to shift his attention back to the books.

"These were children's books from ancient Earth, but beloved by adults as well for their whimsical and creative nature. You will want to read this one first," she motions to "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland", "and then then that one." She motions to "Through the Looking Glass" in Revenant's hands.

"I'm not so sure a book for a child will work." Revenant grumbles, handing the book back to Rosé.

"I can find an alternative for you, but I promise you that these books were long-standing favorites for good reason."

Revenant grunts to himself, not willing to spend any more time here than he already has. The drunken banter from the other side of the store is annoying enough as is, but he also has somewhere he would rather be.

"Fine, I'll take them both. These better be good." He relents begrudgingly.

"You will not be disappointed, I am sure." Rosé's confidence sounds like she may be happy, but she stifles as much emotion in her voice as possible.

After ringing him up and carefully bagging his books, the simulacrum disappears through the door. If he is able to read a book per day, then it should be two days before he returns.

• • • •

It's been over a week. The simulacrum with the mask comes back every day, but at different times each day. No client has ever spent this much money this quickly. He's reached his ninth book. If he purchases a tenth today, he'll be a permanent VIP. Rosé has never been so interested and confused by a client before. She wants to see beyond the mask, but the only way she could see such a thing is to remove her own, which is a sin.

Every time he returns, he has news of his mysterious audience, and whether they liked or disliked the most recent book. He is a being of few words, much like Rosé. However, Rosé secretly wished she could know more. He's rich. Filthy rich. Yet entirely uninterested in flaunting it. He acts like he serves someone else, and Rosé wants to know who. Is this person anything like her master? Does this person also demand he wear a mask?

He seems unusually cordial today. He accepts Husk opening the door for him and doesn't shoot any dirty looks at the other patrons who have also become curious of him. He simply walks up to the counter as always. Rosé feels comfortable enough to open the conversation.

"How was 'Odyssey'?" Her voice is monotone, as always.

"Not much of a reaction, maybe a little too long and too old fashioned. Hard to relate to." He is in an unusually talkative mood. Something good must have happened recently, but Rosé cannot ask what.

"If it is alright with you, I have already prepared your tenth book for you." Rosé kneels behind the counter to pull out a curiously small book.

"Not going to try to fulfill any vague request I give you? Fair enough. My ideas haven't gotten me the results I want anyway." Very unusually talkative. "Why this one?"

Rosé pauses, feeling her kitsune mask slip a little on her face. She quickly moves to correct it, ensuring it remains tight to hide her face, playing her slip up off with a weak cough.

"My apologies. It's one of my only favorites. I thought you might enjoy it, and if you enjoy it, perhaps your audience will." Rosé tries to hide the emotion behind her voice, to some success. "An impassioned reader always makes for a better story."

Revenant stays silent for a moment, considering what that might mean. The pause is long and a little awkward.

"This is also your tenth book. If you choose, after this purchase you are free to send any servants you might employ to pick up books for you." Rosé breaks the silence herself, hoping to hide the tiny bit of herself she revealed a moment ago.

Revenant remains silent for a few moments longer.

"Yeah, I think you're right. I'll take it, and tomorrow I'll send someone else to pick up a book for me." He lets his eyes drift away from her mask and around the shop.

Rosé gives a tiny bow and begins wrapping the book in some protective paper.

"What book is it, by the way?" He asks as her mask remains downcast towards her wrapping process.

"It's called 'The Great Gatsby'. I don't know why I like it so much, but it reminds me of what it's like to try to capture a life you can never have again." Rosé almost whispers, hoping no other clients can hear her.

Revenant doesn't comment further.

Rosé pulls out a card, handing it to Revenant carefully.

"This card will allow anyone of your choosing to come and pick up and purchase books for you. We have your account on file now, so we can charge as needed. Please ensure it doesn't fall into the hands of anyone who might abuse it." Rosé instructs.

Revenant twirls the card in his fingers for a moment, perhaps admiring the golden sparkle adorning the edges, or the embossed text, or the thick paper stock. Rosé hands the book to him, and he slips the card in the carefully folded wrapping paper.

"Thanks." He turns and leaves as Rosé stands in shock.

He's never thanked her before.

• • • •

The next day, Rosé is serving some of the drunken clients arguing over stock options. Rosé begins offering more watered down drinks, hoping they will soon be chauffeured home before the sun sets too far. Husk opens the door, giving Rosé the indication to pay attention.

Rosé quickly pulls away from the seating area, turning to meet eyes with a ghost. Rosé has nothing to drop, thankfully, otherwise she would.

Sherry looks around, clearly feeling out of place, but holding the card given to Revenant the day before. She stands in the doorway, unsure of exactly how to approach her situation.

Rosé struggles to regain herself, shaking as she approaches Sherry. She gives a small bow to greet her, not speaking a single word.

"Oh, hi, uh... cool mask. I'm supposed to pick up a book for Revenant?" Sherry sounds deeply unsure of herself as she tries to make sense of her surroundings.

Rosé struggles for a moment longer, waving Sherry over to her counter before carefully allowing herself to speak to the phantom in front of her.

"Thank you for coming. Did you come with any special requests?" Rosé's voice quivers a bit, quieter than normal and notably an octave lower.

"Oh, uh, no. Was I supposed to have one?" Sherry still isn't quite sure what is necessarily being asked of her.

"I'm sorry, did the simulacrum's audience respond well to the last book?" Rosé keeps her voice low.

Sherry stares blankly into the eyes showing through the mask, a bit dumbfounded.

"Did that dumb robot not even tell you that his audience has been comatose for days...?" Sherry mumbles sadly, clearly upset at the situation.

Rosé stands there, in shock at this news, but now far too curious not to begin digging.

"...what happened?" Rosé breaks her stoic character, unable to hold onto it any longer.

"Kidnapping. You know, the usual. Probably were gonna sell her to the highest bidder, but apparently he took a liking to her, hunted her down, killed a bunch of guys, and got her back and to a hospital." Sherry sounds sullen in her attempt to flippantly explain things as quickly as possible.

"When?" Rosé has to know. Has she been selling books to the one who slaughtered the suppliers?

"Almost two weeks ago at this point..." Sherry shrugs.

She has. It was him. That's the creature that left multiple human bodies torn into ribbons, splintered into fragments, and divided into chunks of meat and flesh. Rosé holds her breath. This was all happening at once, too fast, too much.

Thank goodness Sherry didn't recognize her through her mask. It's been almost fifteen years, so it's unreasonable to expect Sherry to recognize her from behind a mask and an altered voice. But how on earth did Sherry end up working for a creature like him? And how did these two powerful factions accidentally step on each other's toes so easily?

Rosé's mind races. If she passes on this information, she knows her master will retaliate harshly and potentially put Sherry and anyone she may have in her life in peril. However, if Rosé doesn't say anything, it is possible this simulacrum will strike first and hard, expecting the retaliation, which may put her own life on the line too. The best possible outcome is if neither side rears back for a second strike, but that's not the behavior of apex predators in the Outlands.

"Uh, are you okay? Was someone you knew also kidnapped at some point?" Sherry asks empathetically, not realizing the irony of her question.

Rosé comes to, her demeanor shifting back to a professional, stoic servant as she determines her next steps.

"Sort of, I apologize, I lost my composure for a moment." Rosé bows apologetically. "I am very sorry to hear about the state of your colleague. I hope you will not be offended if I offer a suggestion for a book. It's a play, actually."

"Oh, sure, I can get back faster that way, I don't mind. I didn't really know what to pick anyway." Sherry perks up a little.

Rosé flutters across the shop to a section, pulling one of many copies of "Hamlet". She grabs the nicest copy, knowing the simulacrum would prefer it. Sherry didn't follow, so Rosé makes her way back to the register quickly.

Rosé wraps the book as Sherry watches with minor interest, quickly pulling a special box from beneath the counter. She opens the box, makes her way to the alcohol cabinet, careful to hide the bottle labels as she packs them in the box with the book. She closes the box and wraps it well, sealing it shut with strong packing tape. Sherry seems a bit confused, but patiently waits until she is finished.

"Please accept this gift with the book as our condolences for your colleague. I'm sure both you and the simulacrum can appreciate these bottles from our collection." Rosé states as she hands the box to Sherry. "The alcohol is on the house, of course, and I will charge the book to his account. Do you need anything else?"

"No, but thank you so much." Sherry smiles for a moment before making her way out the door, Husk opening it for her. As soon as Sherry is out of sight, Rosé motions Husk away from the door and towards her.

Husk gives a confused look as he makes his way over to Rosé, leaving the door unguarded for a few moments.

"Everything okay?" He mutters under his breath.

"Of course, but I need you to set up a rotation with the master while I take care of these clients. It needs to be immediate." Rosé whispers, letting the sound of the arguing drunkards drown her voice to everyone except Husk.

"That serious?" Husk asks a bit worriedly. After all, just recently there was a massacre.

"No, it's a precaution for my identity. Nothing very serious at all, but I prefer to be thorough in covering my tracks. Set it up. We will talk on the way to The Cigar House." Rosé whispers, unconcerned with Husk's fears.

"You want that one specifically?"

"If available, but I'll take what I can get. I know you like it there anyway." Rosé turns back to the clients, ready to start calling them rides as their speech slurs beyond comprehension. Husk lets a smile slip before returning to the door, pulling out his phone and making calls.

• • • •

The limo hums along as Husk and Rosé sit on opposite sides of the bench, quietly. It's been a few minutes, and Rosé stares out the window, contemplating what mask she will want to try next. She will miss the kitsune mask, its reflection staring back at her in the window glare. Her body language is not its usual, she is actually sad.

"You've got to tell me what happened." Husk finally says aloud, hoping that for a moment he will get to know the woman he's been guarding and keeping for so long.

Rosé sighs, her breath fogging the window for a mere moment before it evaporates away.

She reaches behind her, pulling off her mask. She's worn it for so many years, certain no one would come looking for her, and never expecting anyone to stumble upon her. She was certain she had no family left, no detectives on the case, and certainly no God looking out for her. She looks into it. It looks like the simulacrum's, the one who slaughtered the thugs who supply the trade. She likes it all the more, now. Even though they weren't the ones who took her, they were no better.

"That girl who came in to pick up the book..." Rosé trails off, fighting back the first tears she has felt since the day she was taken.

"Yeah?" Husk's voice softens, a promise not to tell if she lets down her guard for a moment. Husk was fond of Rosé, despite her cold nature. Something about her resonates with him.

"She was my sister." Rosé's voice cracks, a few tears hitting the kitsune mask in her lap. "I haven't seen her since I was taken, and I'll probably never see her again now." Her tears dry up quickly as she retains her composure. "Please do not tell anyone what happened."

Husk sits silently for a moment, wishing he could hug her. He's like the warden with a soft spot for his prisoner. Deep down he would sometimes fantasize about rescuing her, getting her out, but he knew better. The best he could do was keep her safe from anyone other than the boss. She belongs to him, and as long as she can keep the boss happy, he can take care of the rest.

"I won't tell anyone." Husk pauses as Rosé's tension melts. "But I hope you're wrong and you do see your sister again. Do you think she knows it was you?"

"Of course not. Otherwise you would have had to pry her off of me." Rosé stares into the limo floor, watching the glitter embedded in the carpet glimmer. "I'm just glad she has a friend."

"You like that simulacrum guy?" Husk asks, a little surprised.

"Yeah, I'm a bit of a fan. I guess he reads to someone in the hospital." Rosé is careful not to over explain, worried of the consequences of revealing he may be the culprit behind the massacre.

"Oh, well, shit. I had him figured all wrong." Husk slouches back in his chair, a bit embarrassed by his previous distaste for Revenant.

"I want my next mask to look like his. I want the skull with the red tear drops." Rosé sits back up, crossing her legs in a sudden and newfound energy.

"Heh, good call. I'll make sure it's done." Husk chuckles, glad to see Rosé has not fallen to despair.

[chaoticpuff17]

Endgame

ADG Tae fic

Masterlist

Warnings: reference to non con. yandere behavior

hello my darlings! A little later than intended. blame my computer problems. But here it is! the next ADG oneshot! love you all, I’m off to go rewrite everything I lost on the Yoongi chapter. I’ve been avoiding it.--- Chaotic puff. 

Taehyung watched the screen a vicious smirk playing across his lips as he watched her run through the alleyway. His poor little bird, always running. She had to know by now that she couldn’t escape him. How many years had they been playing this game? She had to know by now that she couldn’t win, but it was cute to see her try.

She hated him. That was okay though. She just needed a little push in the right direction. He was tired of watching from a distance. He was tired of watching her and only seeing her face to face a few times a year. They’d been playing their game for so long now, she had to be tired as well. His sweet Aerie was an excellent opponent, but she had to know that it would all come to an end eventually.

He could remember the first time he had seen her. They’d been so young then. They’d both been on the train. Taehyung had been exhausted after a night of hacking, and she had been immersed in something on her own computer. Her glasses had slipped down her nose in the most enchanting way. Her hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head with strands falling down all around her face, though she didn’t seem to notice or care, and he couldn’t help but wonder what kept her so immersed. He’d pulled out his own computer and set to work finding her among the other people doing work on the train.

He’d found her easily enough, and the cause of the little furrow between her brow became evident enough. It was a paper for school, a literary analysis for an English literature class. Her face was all scrunched up as she looked over The Picture of Dorian Gray. She was intensely focused on it, and a little digging into her files and schedule had told him that the paper was due in a few days. He found her concentration, the way she poured over each line, endearing. He loved the way she chewed on her inner cheek as she thought over paragraph. She was just adorable.

A little digging into her computer had given Taehyung access to her life. He knew exactly how to go about finding her. He knew what school she went to, her major, where she lived, and he pursued her with enthusiasm. The only hitch in his pursuit was her continued rejection, something Taehyung had not anticipated. Why would he have? No one had ever rejected him before. She couldn’t have done better. Even if she tried, Taehyung wouldn’t have allowed it. She was his from the first moment he saw her on that train.

Aerie may have looked sweet, but she was a snappish creature by nature. She rejected every bouquet, every invitation to dinner. She’d rejected his affection at every turn, rejected his every effort, until she’d taken matters into her own hands and begun their little game. He’d gone to offer her the world, only to find her gone. Her apartment was empty. A quick search revealed that she had even dropped out of school. She’d simply vanished.

Taehyung’s first instinct had been panic and rage. How could she leave him like that? How could she reject him? And then there came a new feeling. Excitement. If she wanted a chase, he would give her one. It had been no trouble at all for him to track her down. She’d changed cities and was doing her best to keep a low profile, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. The look of shock on her face when he’d appeared on her doorstep had been so satisfying, so adorable. The frying pan she’d taken to the side of his head, was less adorable.

Taehyung had become smarter after that. His little bird was so prone to flight that he had to be more careful in his approach or risk another frying pan to the head something he had no intention of repeating. She’d been easy enough to find again though. She was never really out of his reach not with all the resources he had at his fingertips. He’d cornered her just a few hours later in a bus station a few towns over, succeeding in knocking her out and taking her to a hotel to wait for her to wake up again. He wanted her calm when he made his offer again, a life by his side.

She had not been calm though. She had fought him tooth and nail to get out of that room and had laughed in his face when he’d made her the offer, and it was something he couldn’t understand. How could she refuse him? He was handsome. He was young. He was wealthy, and he had chosen her. Out of every woman that had thrown themselves at his feet, he had chosen her. None of that seemed to matter though. She looked at him as though he had a second head, as if he was the most vile being on the planet.

It had been the beginning of a longstanding game between them. He would chase, and she would run. Sometimes he would let months elapse before he took her again. He loved the look of shock and horror on her face when he showed up again. It was something he would never get tired of.

The next time he decided to take her, he brought her to what the boys had dubbed as his play house. The house was situated in the middle of nowhere. Even if she was able to make it out of the house, there was nowhere she could go. He had designed it especially for her after all.

The area surrounding the house was made up of a series of mazes designed to keep her in, and most paths led back to the house, back to him.

The games were fun, but Taehyung was craving more now. Everyone was settling down. Namjoon had Y/N even if she had engaged him in a chase of their own. Hoseok had Iyla. Jin had taken his patient as his own, and Yoongi had sired a kid with one of Jimin’s girls. It was time to settle down himself, but that required nailing down his little bird.

He’d indulged her long enough. He’d given her plenty of chances to end this on her own, plenty of chances to surrender, to come to him of her own will. He let her believe that she’d managed to escape him, but she was never truly out of his grasp. He always knew where she was, always. A few sneakily placed tracking devices on her body ensured that.

She was a smart little devil. He’d give her that. His first few attempts at trackers had been foiled by her throwing out her phone each time she came in contact with him. He had quickly learned that he couldn’t place trackers in any of her devices. So when he’d switched to placing chips on her person, he’d errored on the side of caution and placed several in assorted spots. She’d never be able to get rid of them all. Of that, he was confidant. She was smart, but not smart enough to find all five trackers, and they ensured that Taehyung had no problem tracking her down for the endgame.

Taehyung stood up from his chair with a leisurely stretch. It was time to fetch his little bird.

Aerie woke up in a house she was horribly horribly familiar with. She’d been there more times than she’d like to admit over the years. She knew that within its walls lurked the psycho that had been nipping at her heels for years. Every time he tracked her down, he brought her to this horrible place. The house was like its own circle of hell with Taehyung ruling over it. Each time she was there, there was some new horror awaiting her. There had always been a way out, but it came at the price of playing his twisted games. She’d learned early on that Taehyung never did anything out of the goodness of his heart. Nothing was free, and she’d given up more than she’d ever wanted to admit over the years. He’d slowly taken everything from her.

In the beginning, he’d only been a stalker, the creep she kept rejection. She’d thought that if she moved away, if she laid low for a while, he’d forget about her and find a new obsession, and she would be free to enroll in a new school and live her life free of him. That hadn’t been the case though. He’d followed her wherever she went.

She knew he was toying with her. She knew he was letting her escape. He’d made that clear, made it clear that she had no power in their relationship. As much as she hated to use that word to describe them, it was the best fit. Twisted and horrid as it was, it was still a relationship, and Taehyung had made his affection for her more than evident even if she had done the same with her hatred for him. That never seemed to bother him too much though. He wasn’t delusional. She knew that he understood her hatred of him, he simply didn’t care. He seemed to think that time would reverse her contempt. It had not, and as much as she hated to admit it, this was not the first time she had woken up in the house tied down and practically naked.

Her hands were bound by leather cuffs to a bed that looked more like a bird’s cage than it did a bed. It was a glaring reminder of his degrading little nickname for her, his little bird. She hated that nickname as much as she hated him. The bed didn’t just look like a cage, it functioned like one as well. If Taehyung wished he could lock her behind the elaborate bars to rot. It was degrading, but so were most of the things he did to her. This time even her legs were restrained held apart by a spreader. It was only the beginning of her humiliation. Taehyung hadn’t even made his appearance yet.

She took a moment to shake off the last vestiges of grogginess caused by whatever drug Taehyung had used to knock her out his time. His more violent methods didn’t leave her with a lingering feeling of nausea, but they did cause more bumps and bruises. It was hard to say which one was worse, but she supposed that it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if Taehyung gave her a choice in how he captured her.

Once she didn’t feel like her head was spinning and her stomach wasn’t about to heave its contents all over the red bedding, Aerie took a look around to see where her tormentor was. She couldn’t see him through the intricate bars of the bed, but that didn’t mean much. He could be lurking somewhere just out of sight. What she did notice was the set of skimpy lingerie that clung to her body. She should have been used to it by now, but seeing his selections still made her skin crawl. There was no such thing as modesty when it came to Taehyung.

This particular set was black, lacy, and strappy. It didn’t cover much though. Much to her annoyance it was lacking in two distinct areas. There was no material where the cups of the bra should have been, there was nothing. Strips of lace curved up around the top of her breasts, but the majority of her chest was left exposed to the room. Her panties were lacking as well in the fact that the lace was missing one vital component, the crotch. In its place were two silky straps that curved down between her thighs and back up around her ass leaving everything but the area right above her center exposed. His lingerie choices were typically risqué, but they usually covered a bit more.

As much as she hated the lace wrapped around her body, what was worse was the collar fixed around her throat. This was an item she was intimately familiar with. The collar was made of a thick leather that was wrapped in a sumptuous black lace. The front of the collar was decorated by a single silver ring that Taehyung took full advantage of in his escapades. As his “little bird”, Aerie was nothing more than a pet to him, and the collar staked his claim in a blatantly obvious way.

She was ashamed to say that Taehyung had been her first, though it hadn’t been her choice. She could still remember that horrible day vividly. It had been a little over two years ago. She’d been particularly resistant to him that night, sick of him and his games. Her sharp tongue had been her undoing. She’d pushed Taehyung too far, refused him one too many times. Granted it was bound to happen eventually, but that didn’t make the result any less traumatizing.

Aerie woke up groggy doing her best to shake off the remnants of a drug induced sleep. It was like swimming through a fog. When she finally shook it off, she wished that she hadn’t. Her hands were bound above her head by leather cuffs, and she was dressed in a set of skimpy lace lingerie that certainly wasn’t hers. She couldn’t recognize the room, but she did recognize the man pacing around the room like a caged animal even if she wished that she didn’t.

Everything came rushing back at the sight of him.

Aerie hadn’t been on a date in a long time. Her stalker had put a damper on love life. Moving around from place to place in an effort to avoid him didn’t leave much time for dating, but she was excited. She’d even taken the time to do her makeup with what little skill she had and curl her hair all in preparation of her date with Minho. She’d met him at the store she’d been working at to make ends meet while she tried to hide from the man who had been making her life a living hell. He was sweet, and she enjoyed talking with him. One date couldn’t hurt especially not with someone has lovely has Minho.

The grin that had stretched across her face had been there all day that is until she saw the man of her nightmares stalking into the restaurant practically radiating fury. She stared at him like a deer in the head lights as he paused by the first few tables. The world stopped for a moment only to start again with the sound of bullets.

Taehyung released a volley of shots into the air sending the entire restaurant into a panic, a cacophony of screams filling the air.

“Everybody out!” He growled eyes fixated on where she sat across from Minho, and the patrons scrambled to obey him.

Minho reached across the table grabbing her hand as he stood up to flee the restaurant with the rest of the customers.

“Not you.” Taehyung growled stalking towards them pulling up a seat and taking a seat beside Aerie.

“We don’t want any trouble.” Miho stuttered eyes wide and frightened eyes his gaze flitted between Taehyung and the door.

“Don’t want any trouble?” Taehyung laughed arching one perfectly manicured brow as he draped an arm across Aerie’s shoulders keeping her in place. “You should have thought of that before you took out my girl. Isn’t that right, little bird?” He purred leaning in and brushing his nose over her neck in a motion that was far too intimate for what the two of them shared.

“Look man, I didn’t know she was taken!” Minho gulped raising his hands in a motion of surrender.

“Didn’t know?” Taehyung laughed moving his hand so that it was curled around the back of her neck one finger twirling a strand of her curled hair. “That makes it all better then.”

Without any warning, Taehyung drew his gun again and fired three shots directly into the other man’s head as Aerie screamed in horror beside him. His hand fisted cruelly in her hair dragging her back against her seat stopping her from running as she so wanted to do.

“Aerie, Aerie, Aerie.” He cooed his grin vicious as he gazed down at her. “You’ve been a very bad girl, little bird.”

There was a sharp prick, and then everything went dark.

That brought her back to the present where Taehyung had only just noticed that her eyes were open.

“You’re awake.” He grinned coming to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “I thought that I’d given you too much of the sedative for a minute there. How are you feeling, little bird?” He cooed moving up the bed so that he was sitting next to her hips, trailing a finger across her clavicle.

“Fuck off.” She growled trying to squirm away from him without much luck as the cuffs dug into her wrists keeping her in place.

“None of that, little bird.” He growled pressing down to keep her from wiggling away. “If you wanted my attention, you could have said something. I would have been by your side in a heartbeat.”

“Fuck off.” She repeated kicking wildly in the hope of landing a hit. She was almost successful, landing a hit to his upper thigh, but it was just shy of where she need it to land, and only served to piss him off.

Taehyung was quick to straddle her hips keeping her pinned down as he wrapped a long fingered hand around her throat.

“If you’re going to act like a whore, little bird, I’ll have to treat you like a whore.” He growled grinding his hips against hers.

“Get off!” She shrieked trying to buck him off without much success.

“If you’re going to be a whore,” He snarled moving down the bed and binding her legs so that they were spread apart. “You should at least by my whore, don’t you think?”

“Get off of me!” She shrieked again tears brimming in her eyes as the panic began to settle in.

“Such a shrill voice.” He hissed moving off the bed to grab something. He returned much to quickly. “If you can’t be sweet for me, you should remain silent.”

There wasn’t anything she could do as he wrenched her jaw open shoving a ball gag between her teeth and fastening it behind her head with practiced ease. “There.” He purred moving back so that he was settled between her spread legs. “Much better.”

She thrashed against her bindings as the monster tore off the skimpy underwear. Tears burned her eyes as he shoved a finger into her cunt. She wasn’t ready for the intrusion, but Taehyung didn’t seem to care as he pushed forward. He only paused as he was met with a resistance he hadn’t expected.

He pulled back a slow smile spreading across his features. “Little bird.” He cooed gently brushing the tears from her eyes. “Such a good girl, saving herself for daddy.” He pressed kisses down against her throat trailing them down towards the lace that covered her breasts before he savagely tore that from her body just as he had the panties.

“Don’t worry, baby. Daddy can be gentle.” He promised pressing a kiss to her nipple that had pebbled from the cool air. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to punish you for letting that leach put his hands all over you.” She whimpered her pleas coming out as a garbled mess against the gag.

She’d always thought her first time would be, well maybe not romantic, but at least nice and with someone she chose. Having that choice ripped away while being violated by the man who had made her life a living hell had made the blow all the worse. It had taken her a long time to recover from the trauma of being raped by her stalker, and that time had been made even longer considering that every time he came back to torment her, he had no problem with repeating the process over and over again. It was horrible, but she expected it now. It was just one more thing to get over with before he put her through whatever game he had prepared for them this time around.

“Hello, little bird.” His deep voice washed over her filling her with deep seated dread. “Did you miss me?” He cooed entering the cage like bed and perching himself on the edge of the mattress as he grinned down at her.

“Fuck off, Taehyung.” She growled pulling on the restraints that kept her arms in place. She knew better than to pull of the leg spreader. If she pulled on it, it would only make her predicament worse.

“Aerie, Aerie, Aerie.” He tutted one of his long fingers slowly trailing up her bare leg. “Why must you always be so rude, little bird? Haven’t you missed me at all? I’ve missed you.”

She grinned viciously as she jerked at her arm restraints trying to lunge at him. “What do you want, you fucking psychopath? Can’t you find another girl whose life you can ruin?”

He laughed showcasing that box shaped grin that would have been endearing on anyone else. “Why would I do that when I have you?” He cooed trailing his finger up to her thigh.

“What do you want?” She growled again.

“I have a proposition for you, little bird, but why don’t we have some fun first?” He hummed slowly crawling on top of her while she glared up at him.

“Or you could just tell me.” She grumbled wishing that any of her limbs were free so that she could smack him.

“And what would be the fun in that?” He chuckled placing a kiss on the soft skin of her belly. “I’ve missed you so much, little bird. It’s been so long.” He purred trailing kisses up towards her exposed chest.

“Get off of me!” She growled bucking her hips up in an attempts to throw him off thought he motion only seemed to encourage him.

“And if I don’t want to?” He asked smirking against her skin as before nipping at her exposed nipple eliciting a yelp from her. If there was one thing that Taehyung loved about his little bird, it was how sensitive she was. Her reactions were just as adorable as that first night.

“Fuck you.” She hissed doing her best to wiggle away from him despite her restraints.

“Oh, you will.” His grin was positively devious as he dove down to attack the sliver of her neck that was left uncovered by the collar.

He loved that collar. He loved the way the lace looked against her skin and how easy the loop made it to manhandle and restrain her. He’d more than once attached the matching lace covered leather leash to that little loop. Seeing her in that collar always got him fired up. Once he brought her home he’d have an array of collars for her, but this one would always be his favorite.

“Get off!” She shrieked wishing not for the first time that she could torment him just as much as he tormented her.

“Hush, little bird.” He cooed lifting his head so he could brush his nose against hers affectionately. “Let me make you feel good.”

It was a source of never ending shame for her that Taehyung was in fact an excellent lover. He pulled her pleasure from her by force with the persistence of a dog with a bone. Even if she resisted, he would make sure that she came for him, more than once. It was a matter of pride for him that he could make his little bird writhe with pleasure beneath him despite her protests.

“Stop!” She shrieked taking the opportunity to head butt him forcing him back much to his displeasure.

He hissed placing an elegant hand against his throbbing nose as he glared down at her. She was still feisty no matter how many times he played with her. He loved it.

“That wasn’t very nice, little bird.”

“That makes two of us.” She snarled relieved that he had backed away for the moment. “What proposition did you have?” She asked hoping to distract him.

“Eager aren’t we?” He cooed sitting back so that he was settled on top of her thighs.

“Just tell me, you sick fuck.” She huffed glaring up at him.

“This is something best discussed over dinner. Though I’d love to keep you just as you are.” He purred his eyes trailing over her form.

“Then let’s have dinner.” She’d do anything to avoid his more amorous attentions even if it meant sitting down to dinner with him.

With a sigh Taehyung set to work undoing the restraints at her ankles before unclipping the chain that kept her attached to the bed, though he left the cuffs on.

“Let’s get you dressed, little bird.”

She didn’t fight him as he pulled her up from the bed or when left her standing in the middle of the room her hands still cuffed together. He knew better than to leave her completely unrestrained. This wasn’t their first rodeo. She’d be more than happy to take off down the twisting halls of the house if he gave her the chance, but it was harder to escape from him if she was still bound, and it was better to see what he wanted before she made her escape. Taehyung would eventually start a game that would lead to her eventual freedom. He liked games.

He returned moments later with a long black dress in hand.

She didn’t argue or fight when he uncuffed her handed or when he stripped her of the strap of cloth he called a bra. Even if the dress was revealing, it had to be better than the lingerie he had provided.

She was right. The dress was revealing, but so were most of the clothes that Taehyung had forced her into over the years. This dress wasn’t the worst of them. The material was soft and silky against her skin leaving her back completely left exposed to the air. The top wrapped around her neck before diving down into a deep v ending just before her belly button. Not even her legs were left covered. There was a slit up the side leaving the entirety of her left leg exposed. But overall it was still better than the lingerie. Anything was better than the lingerie.

What surprised her was that Taehyung had removed the collar. He loved that collar almost to the point that she would call it a fixation, but she supposed that it didn’t match the aesthetic of the evening gown.

She allowed him to seat her on a long ottoman as he pulled her hair back in a sleek pony tail, and gave her a pair of earrings to match. They trailed down from her lobes in a line of stones that ended just at her jaw. She was dressed far too nicely for dinner with her worst enemy, but what choice did she have? It was always best to cooperate until he made his intentions for the evening clear.

He led her through the twisting halls of the house until they came to the overly ornate dining room. She never understood why the house was so sumptuously decorated. She’d seen it during the many times she had run through the halls in many failed attempts to get away from the psychopath that made her life hell. It wasn’t as though he lived in the house. She’d figured that out pretty quickly. The house was completely unlived in. She didn’t know where he lived, but it wasn’t here.

He seated her at the table before going out to get the meal he had had prepared for them. Taehyung wasn’t much for cooking, but he found that the staff at Namjoon’s estate were more than willing to work with him, and they did a far better job of it than he could. He would have asked Jin to do it knowing that his hyung was an excellent cook, but Jin had been busy preparing for the journey to go and retrieve Namjoon’s wife. She’d finally been located in some dingy little village in Italy. More than that, she’d been found in the final stages of a pregnancy that could only have been Namjoon’s doing. His hyung was as ecstatic as he was angry to find her. He knew that Namjoon had always wanted to be a father, but it had to hurt knowing that his wife had run off with one of his enemies and was peacefully playing house with them. It didn’t matter though. Namjoon would have her and the baby home in no time just like Taehyung would have Aerie home where she belonged at long last.

They both remained silent for the beginning of the meal as they both cut into the steaks that Namjoon’s chef had prepared, but eventually, she couldn’t take the anticipation anymore, though she hated being the first one to crack.

“Why am I here?” She asked setting aside her cutlery as she stared him down from across the table.

“Can’t I just miss you?” He teased setting aside his own utensils. He chuckled seeing the completely unamused expression on her face. “No. You wouldn’t believe that would you? I have a proposition for you.”

“So you’ve said.” She grumbled crossing her arms under her breasts.

“I’ve enjoyed our games, baby. I really have, but I’ve grown tired of them.” He drawled leaning back dramatically with a long suffering sigh. “I want to put an end to them.”

He could see her brighten up at that staring at him with interest. “You’re going to let me go?”

He laughed at that finding her suggestion amusing. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I want to play one last game. If you win, I’ll let you go, for good.”

“And if I lose?” She asked her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“You come with me willingly. You surrender, be mine.” As she stiffened her mouth set in a thin line of dread, Taehyung couldn’t help but smile. “No more running. No more games. As simple as that.”

“And why would I agree to that?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You don’t really have a choice. I could always take you by force.”  

“Like you haven’t before?” She scoffed her gaze taking on a hard, bitter edge.

“One last game.” He assured her even though he didn’t have any intention of playing fair. She didn’t need to know that though.

She eyed him weighing her options. On the one hand, he could be lying, but on the slim chance that he was telling the truth, she would be free of him. She’d never have to worry about him lurking in the shadows at every moment. She couldn’t remember the last time that she had been free of him. It would be like the sun coming out of months of rain, but there was a much greater chance that Taehyung was lying. It could just be another twisted part of his games, one designed to crush her hopes.  But on the off chance that he was actually telling the truth, that the offer was genuine, she had to take it.

“Fine.” She agreed reluctantly. “What kind of game do you have in mind?” She asked even as she began to wonder if this was the right move after all. She knew better than to underestimate him. She even had a few small scars as a reminder of that. 

A feral grin spread across his face as he registered her agreement. She didn’t trust that grin. It never preceded anything good. It was too manic as was the light in his eyes. They always shone too bright whenever he got excited, but his excitement always brought her pain. Even though his eyes were shining with that disconcerting glee, they were dark. It was like two black holes staring back at her ready to suck her into his madness. 

“You remember the mazes. Don’t you, little bird?”

A grimace spread across her features, but she nodded. She had extensive experience with the mazes that surrounded the house. They were Taehyung’s favorite game. He’d set her loose in them to run like a scared rabbit. Each time they were different, and she hated them more than anything. They were as dehumanizing as they were unfair. They changed even as she was in them. The walls moved at their master’s bidding, confusing and turning her around through the endless halls of greenery. 

“I remember.” 

“You’re aware by now that there is more than one maze.” He began leaning forward gleefully. Of course she knew. She had tried more than once to slip through the gates that separated the different parts of the labyrinth. “All three sections will be available to you tonight. I’ll give you a twenty minute head start before I follow you in.” 

That caught her attention in the worst sort of way. Taehyung hardly ever entered the maze. She could only recall him doing it once before when she’d fallen and twisted her ankle rather badly after trying to scale one of the hedges. He preferred to watch and taunt from the cameras and speakers hidden throughout the infernal maze. 

Her new found hesitance didn’t seem to deter him though. He continued with just as much enthusiasm as before. “If you can make it out of the maze before dawn, you win,” His grin got even wider excitement coursing through his veins. “But if you fail to solve the maze or I catch you before your time is over, you’re mine.” 

It seemed simple enough, but nothing was ever simple when it came to Taehyung, and this would be the first time that he had actively hunted her through the maze. While she would have the whole of the labyrinth at her disposal, Taehyung still held an unfair advantage. They were his mazes. He knew them far better than she did despite the many times she had run through the mazes. He made sure to change them before she ran a particular section again. She had no idea how large the full Maze would actually be or what sort of traps he had laid for her within it. 

“As simple as that?” She asked slowly, skeptically. 

In the past, if she could complete or beat his game, she was free to go. He would even have some faceless driver take her back to the city where she would run as far as she could as fast as she could even though she knew he would find her again. She had no more desilusiones of being able to hide from him permanently. It was the whole reason she had decided to agree to this despite the unfair odds. It was a chance for complete freedom. 

“As simple as that, little bird.” He purred dark eyes boring into her. “Shall we?” 

He was more than eager to begin. The sooner they started, the sooner she would be in his arms. He had everything prepared for her. 

He’d moved into the house that Namjoon had provided in the vicinity of the main estate. With Hoseok, Jin, Yoongi, and Namjoon all starting families of their own, Namjoon had formed a sort of gated community surrounding the main estate. There was a house for each of them. Hoseok had taken Iyla from the main estate to settle her into her new home before Namjoon and Jin returned with Y/N. Yoongi and his little family had moved into their designated house as well. Sen was thrilled with the space for their son to run around in, and Taehyung could hardly wait to fill his own house with little ones. They’d have to start right away once he took her home. He wanted a big family after all. They’d have to start soon if they were going to meet his goals. 

She nodded stiffly standing up from her chair. It was better to get it over with whether she was going to win or lose. If she won, it was all the better to have her freedom sooner. If she lost, it was better not to have her hopes up for too long. It would only prolong her heartache.

She was quick to leave the heels that had been foisted on her at the door. They would do her no good in the maze. Heels never worked well on the soft ground and the grass. They would only slow her down. If she was going to fail, she preferred it be because she had failed to solve the maze than give Taehyung the added satisfaction of catching her himself.

She was about to head into the maze through the entrance Taehyung had led her to when he pulled her back by the wrist. The jolt sent her flying back into his chest much to his delight.

“I’m giving you your head start, but I’ll see you soon.” She was going to bite back with an acerbic response, but Taehyung cut her off with a searing kiss, one she wanted to immediately wipe away, but that would have only served to make him angry, and she had no time to waste.

Without a word to him, she hiked up her skirts, disappearing into the maze.  Twenty minutes wasn’t a long time, and she had to make the best of it or regret it later.

She had never had the entirety of the maze open to her, and it made her apprehensive. Even one section of the maze was hard enough to master, let alone all three of them. Trick walls and dead ends littered the halls, and Taehyung always made sure that each time she entered the hedges that she’d find them just as difficult.

She rushed through the paths cursing the dress that Taehyung had dressed her up in. The slit at least provided her with free movement, but only the demon that was Kim Taehyung would force her to run a maze in an evening gown. He was over dramatic like that.

Another thing to curse was the abundance of dead ends that thwarted her at seemingly every turn. They forced her to back track far more often than she would have liked or was prudent. No matter where she turned, it seemed like she was only going in circles. As much as she hated him, she had to admit that he had pulled out all the stops for their final game.  

Taehyung had retreated into the house to wait out the twenty minutes before he could follow his little bird into the maze. Logically, he knew it wasn’t long to wait, but the anticipation made the minutes stretch on into eternity. He passed the time watching her on his phone. The cameras gave him an unfair advantage, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was more than happy to watch her wear herself out. He had always kept the maze at least somewhat fair, but he wasn’t willing to give her that advantage this time. He had promised her that if she could escape the labyrinth before dawn, she would be free, but there was no escape. The only exits lead straight back to the house, and making it back to the house did not count as solving the maze.

He knew it was unfair, but it didn’t matter. He was tired of waiting, and she would be his whether she liked it or not. This at least gave her the illusion of a chance. There would be no escaper for her.

When the twenty minutes had past, Taehyung took to the maze, leisurely strolling down its paths as he trailed after his prize. He had the advantage of his little spies and the trick walls. He could herd her however he liked with those. He had the entire labyrinth at his fingertips, and she would never even know. Or perhaps she would. She was a clever little bird, and he wouldn’t put it past her to have figured it out. It was one of the many things he loved about his little bird.

With every step he was brought closet to her, he made sure of it. Doors were strategically closed guiding her towards dead ends and herding her back towards him. There was no need for him to strain himself. His poor Aerie was going to be exhausted before the evening was over, but that wouldn’t stop her from putting up a fight. He expected he’d have to carry her back to the house whether it was because she refused to come or from sheer exhaustion. It didn’t matter to him. She’d be in his arms either way.

It was easy to catch up to her with how much backtracking his meddling had forced her to do, but Taehyung wasn’t finished playing yet.

“Give up, little bird!” He called out knowing she was just on the other side of the hedge. “I’m going to find you!” A grin spread across his features as he heard the sound of her taking off further into the maze.

Perfect. She was headed directly to the center of the maze. He’d catch her there, and even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be long until he caught her, not when he could see her every move.

“Come out, come out where ever you are!” He trilled out turning a corner and catching the faintest glimpse of her ankle as she ran around a different corner.

“Wouldn’t it be so much easier just to give up?” He cooed driving her further into the maze. It would be easier to subdue her when she was tired, and with the way she had been running around, she was bound to be exhausted. “I know you’re tired, little bird.” He sang catching another glimpse of her turning a corner. “You’ve done so well, but it’s time to go home. Don’t you want to go home, little bird?”

Her heart was pounding against her chest as she ran further into the maze. Taehyung’s words hounded her every step pushing her forward as panic coursed through her veins. Even if she was going to lose, she wasn’t going to go willingly. He’d have to drag her back. And with every step she was regretting her decision to run the maze. It felt less like a chance and more as if he was toying with her. He was always toying with her.

“Come on, little bird!” He called again drawing nearer excitement coursing through him as he pushed her towards the end game.

She burst through the path and into what had to be the center of the maze. There was a fountain there and two other paths leading out, but just as she made to run towards one of them, a gate slammed shut. She made for the other path only for the same thing to happen. There was only one way out, and she could hear Taehyung coming down that path calling out to her.

“No!” She shrieked pulling at the wrought iron of the gate trying to force it open, but it was no use. The door wouldn’t budge.

“Awww,” she could hear her tormenters deep voice coo, far too close by for comfort. “It looks like you’re trapped, little bird.”

She whirled around to face him eyes wide and chest heaving. “You cheated.” She hissed hands gripping the bars behind her as though to stabilize herself.

“I never said I wouldn’t.” He shrugged strolling towards her. “Game over.”

“You cheated!” She snarled again though her back was pressed against the bars in the hope that she’d somehow slip through them A foolish hope. He wouldn’t allow her to escape, not now.

He held out a hand to her smiling brightly as he beckoned her forward. “Come along, little bird. It’s time to go home.”

[ditttiii]

Enchanted To Meet You || 03.

SERIES MASTER-LIST (NEXT CHAPTER)

This chapter:- no warnings except teeth rotting fluff~

Summary: No one ever told you that you had a soulmate or—soulmates, for that matter. Humans don't have soulmates, but shapeshifters do. What are you supposed to do when the seven members of the worlds biggest boy band turn out to be your soulmates—only for you to realise that they aren't even human.

BTS is on a hiatus and ARMY thinks they are completing their mandatory military service. You believe that too, at least you did, until you realised that you had adopted them and that one way or another they were gonna live with you—as Hybrids because apparently you all are soulmates.

SOULMATE AU // HYBRID AU // IDOL AU  

banner by: @thebannershop​

You slam shut the door to your apartment behind you with the heel of your shoe, your hands preoccupied with holding a basket and supplies that you had bought on your way home. The basket was currently housing your new pet. The top of it perforated to let the air in, but still closed enough to make sure that your bunny couldn't just hop out and run away. While you were surprised by how calm and friendly he seemed after barely knowing you for an hour, you still weren't about to risk yourself a runaway bunny.

You put the basket down on your center table before you move to the kitchen to store away your supplies. You need to sort your head and home before you open them both to another being. And so for the next 30 minutes, you think back to all your experiences as a previous rabbit owner and turn your house into a rabbit friendly abode. You hide all the sharp things away in cupboards and tape the old jagged edges of your bed to make sure that your new roommate doesn't accidentally cut himself while jumping over. Sooner or later, you know it was going to happen. 

You stop once you are done "bunny-proofing" the house and take a look around. You try to find any more potential injury-inducing spots and breathe out a relieved sigh once you can't find any. 

Right! Time to get the little baby out now, you think, but you don't make any move to go to the basket. Your hands, for some reason, are clammy and uncomfortably wet. Your pulse is higher than usual. All of these textbook signs of nervousness, you know. 

'This is ridiculous. Why do I feel nervous about having a bunny? I should be excited, dammit!' You think to yourself as you huff out a breath and plop your body on the sofa. You know you should open the basket and let the bunny out. He probably feels stuffed sitting in there. But for some reason, you have this feeling deep in the pit of your stomach that's making you feel like you are missing something. 

'But what?' you question yourself. You furrow your brows and bury your hands in your hair. Pulling at the strands in frustration, you groan out loud. You feel confused, anxious—scared, and you don't understand why. And that was driving you up the wall. 

'And what was that little episode earlier?' A voice inside your head questions and you sink further into your couch. You still don't understand why you almost fainted like that. 

'And what was that pain?' You shift your hands and wrap them around yourself. You had to go to the doctors to get checked too. There was no way in hell that you were going to ignore something like that. As a med-student, you knew better by now. You look up to the box as you hear your bunny scratching at the inside of it. 'I hope he doesn't scratch me like my last one did,' you muse to yourself as you stand and move closer to the basket. 

Once you reach it, you quickly pick up the basket and transfer it to your couch. Just in case your bunny has lost its unexplainable affection for you. Then you settle down beside it and carefully open the lid of the basket, gently, as to not startle the little bunny. No sooner had you opened the lid than he poked his head out, staring at you.

You stop and look at him as he looks at you, the look in his eyes something that you could only describe as overtly curious. You keep your eyes locked onto him as he pushes his head even further out the basket, his front paws making an appearance as he stands and puts them on the edge of it. You slowly inch back a little, knowing from your experience, that it was a sign that he was going to jump out. However, to your growing surprise, he does no such thing. He continues to stand there, with his two front paws on the edge of the basket, his head hovering between them as he keeps looking back at you, making no move to jump out. His ears, soft and white with the tips covered with faint soft brown fur, stand straight, twitching now and then. 

You move closer, fascinated by how different he was than what you had been expecting. And as if reading your actions as a sign to come closer, he pushes his head out further—closer to you. The edge of the basket straining, bending under his weight as he pushes all his body weight on it to push himself closer. 

You gasp as he reaches further than you had expected him to, still not jumping out, and you go cross-eyed as you try to keep your eyes on him. Before you can push yourself back, he closes the last few inches between your faces and nuzzles his nose below your lower lip. You stay frozen as you feel tiny huffs of warm breath hit your sensitive skin. His soft, long white whiskers tickle your lips and you try to scoot back a little, in case you end up sneezing on the poor bunny but before you can scoot back more than an inch, he hops out. 

You squeal like a teenage girl and almost topple off of the couch, as you try to save your face from the very sharp claws of your bunny. 'Need to get them cut or at least filed,' you think and watch as your bunny uses the distraction to make himself comfortable on your lap. Curling his paws under him until you could no longer see them and putting his head on your thigh, he nuzzles the covered skin of your jean-clad thigh. 

You sigh as you watch him get comfortable before a smile breaks out on your face. He was weirdly affectionate towards you, and you don't understand why that is but you would be lying if you said that you didn't like it. A laugh breaks out of you as you hear your bunny huff and scratch at your jeans, probably not very fond of the material. But you also weren't going bare around him until you could get his nails filed, past experiences had taught you that it would be a very bad idea.

And so you spend the next hour lounging on your couch, petting your new bunny. His fur feels like silk as you run your hands through it. Every now and then he would also raise his head and nudge your fingers, stroking and pressing his face into them almost as if he was kissing them. You coo and bring him up to your chest, settling him there, before sprawling on the couch comfortably and turning on your TV. You continue caressing him as you mindlessly watch and surf through channels, losing track of time.

It's only a couple of hours later when the sun has gone down and your apartment is dark—the living room illuminated only by the light from the television, that you realise how long you have been acting like a couch potato. Your bunny is asleep, still very much on top of you, soft purrs that almost sound like snores reaching your ears. You resist the urge to hug him close and instead softly pick him up, careful to not wake him before you place him back on the couch, and silently make your way to the kitchen to get your dinner started. 

You dice a carrot and a cucumber before mixing them both with some herbs you had got on your way, making a salad of sorts. You need to go shopping soon to get veggies that would suit his diet more on a daily basis, but for tonight it would do. 

Done with his meal, you opt for instant ramen for yourself, too tired after the long day to bother with anything more nutritious. Once you have your ramen served, you pick up both bowls and make your way back to the living room, switching on the lights with a hit of your elbow.

"Upsie daisy bugzayy~" you call out as you place the bowls on the center-table, and plant yourself right back onto the couch. 

"Come on you lazy butt, time to eat!" You call out again and run your hands softly over his ears, playing with them. "I should give you a name, eh?" 

At that, he finally looks up, his eyes glitter with interest, or so you assume, before he bobs his head, almost as if he's nodding?

‘You really should go to the doctors to get checked, something is probably wrong with you if you think your rabbit is nodding and understanding your language,’ some part of your brain whispers and you can’t help but agree. You have been acting a bit spazzy all day and it would probably be a good idea to get checked, maybe you should schedule a psychologist visit too.

"Alright big guy, how about Bugz?" you suggest but the way his bunny ears immediately drop at hearing that, makes you retract your suggestion. 

"Alright, that's fine. No Bugz, uhh" you pause before continuing "okay how about Kookie?" you throw out, it wasn't exactly a secret how much you loved K-pop. You are sure if your classmates knew you had a new pet, they would assume that you'd name it after some K-pop singer and they wouldn't be wrong, and if the sudden rise of your bunnies ears is any indication, he loves the name too. You giggle as he does a happy hop before you push his food bowl closer to him. With one last glance his way, seeing him happily munch away at his dinner, you at last tuck into yours.  

A/N: Finallyy! This is roughly 2k words of nothing but bunny kookiexOC interaction and *phew* I am so glad it’s done. Scene building is my forte, interactions? not so much. But I’m pretty happy with how it turned out :) 

Hope you all have been enjoying the frequent uploads! I know how much quarantine sucks and so I’ve been trying really hard to push out updates and requests as fast as I can. 

If you like my work please drop a like. Feedback is also VERY much appreciated- whether as a comment or ask. The poll is still open. And for anyone who hasn’t voted–Go Vote for whoever you want me to introduce next!

Thank-you so much for taking the time to read my work. I also really reallyyy appreciate all the people who have left comments or asks or re-blogs with their feedback :’) I would not be writing this story rn if it wasn’t for the support that it receives. So Thank you and I love you!

[heyitsjay03]

Aeipathy: Chapter Two

Disclaimer: i don’t (unfortunately) own Marvel or any of their characters, plot points, etc. so all right are to them and their our overlord Disney

AN: yeahhhh this one’s a shorty but i promise the next one will be longer and filled with plot and angst and shit so prepare yourselves <3

Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: angst, mentions of torture, mentions of murder/arson, HYDRA collectively is a prick

Chapter One is available here!

   Gnawing. 

   It claws through my body on all fours. Tearing, ripping, hacking, burning. 

   Monstrous fangs that sink into the deepest parts of muscle- I can feel it in my bones, the burning. 

  There is no noise, just the sound of whirring and the unholy screeching of demons in my ears. Faceless demons, demons whose faces have too much detail, demons that stare, demons that scream. Demons, demons, demons. 

   I have fallen. Fallen from grace. Fallen from…

   No, no. 

   I am falling. 

   Something catches me. A savior in blue. Scarlet red smeared across their chest. Blood. My blood- the blood of sinners and saints and bystanders. Of children and ancients and of rich and poor. 

   There’s white streaked between the red. Piety. Purity. Righteousness. Desperately, I cling to the stark white stripes. Indecipherable mumbles pass my lips as I stare at the white. I beg for purity, to be clean again.

   Every time I wake up, it’s always the same. 

   The immovable weight in my body. The unceasing shivering. The bite of frost. The writhing of filth in my veins. In my nerves. In every fiber of my being. Festering. Growing. Rotting. Corrupting. Remembering. 

   But why can’t I remember?

   All I can remember are the demons. Faceless, nameless but never silent. Always screaming.

   Screaming, screaming, screaming. 

   I cling to the white. The righteousness of my savior. Solidity in turbulence. Silence in cacophony. Purity. Cleanliness. Life. 

   I cling to life. 

   But life burns under my fingertips. It shrieks and squirms under my touch- tries to escape. Repelled by my presence, it retracts away from my grasp.

   Color retracts into shapes as I take in my surroundings. An almost completely empty room completely made of concrete. A single contraption behind me made of metal. Icy fog slithers out of the open door, hissing and flicking at my ankles. 

   Words, however, remain blurred. The savior holds me upright- pulls me to my feet. Everything burns and aches. I’m so incredibly cold. Frosted water paints my skin, coats my clothes to my body. A puddle gathers beneath the writhing fog. 

   This seems familiar. 

   My eyes turn up towards my savior. The blood-stained guardian. Words fall from their lips, landing on deaf ears. 

   My body trembles as the cold becomes more vicious with its fangs. The savior turns away and says something. Everything is muffled- faraway and distant and like someone has their hands clamped down over my ears. 

   “Why am I awake?” I ask, straightening up. Every inch of me quivers while every part of me wishes to stop. 

   But I was awoken for a purpose. My mission.

   And I’ll complete it. 

   Hail HYDRA.

Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters

Date: 2012

   “Woah, easy, ________,” I mutter, holding her upright. Her eyes wide, they flick around the room. Her hands grip my chest as she shakes violently. 

   She’s here. She’s alive. 

   She… she died. Died on that table- how is this…

   “Steve,” Tony mutters, holding out a blanket. I take it and start to wrap it around her shoulders. 

   As her glazed eyes lock with mine, I look over her face. She’s drained of color- blue and white. Her chapped blue lips open and close violently.

   Hoarsely, she starts to speak. 

   But not anything I can understand. 

   Over and over, she repeats questions with her eyes wide and wary of every moment and movement. My eyes dart over to Tony- who watches ________, his eyebrows furrowed. 

   Russian. 

   That’s what she’s speaking. Russian. And fluently. Extremely well. Why… Why is she…?

   “She didn’t… usually speak like this, did she?” Tony asks, gesturing vaguely to her as she continues to shake in my arms. Broken words off a stolen tongue hiss past her lips. She furrows her eyebrows as she looks between the two of us. 

   “Her files told me she was-” Tony continues. 

   “She’s… she’s never spoken this before,” I mutter, adjusting my grip under her arms. “Raised in Brooklyn for most’a her life- I dunno why-”

   “V chem... moya missiya?” ________ hisses, her voice shaking. I look down and watch her straighten up on unsteady legs. “V chem moya missiya?” 

   “...why is she…?” Tony mutters, stepping in front of her. He lets his head fall back with a sigh as he taps his leg with his finger. “It’s been a long time, let’s see if I can do this.” Rolling his shoulders back and snapping his neck, he focuses back on ________. “Kto ty?”

   ________’s head tilts to the side slightly. Her eyebrows furrow further as she glares at him through them. “...Hetaerae. V chem moya missiya?”

   Tony sighs and closes his eyes as he speaks. “Ch… chto… ty. Chto ty?”

   Her eyes glaze over as she stops shaking, standing upright. “Ya HYDRA.”

   “...she’s… She died, Tony. I don’t… I don’t know what else to tell you,” I mutter, looking up from the desk. “She… she died before I even got the serum. I hadn’t even seen Doctor Erskine- Bucky… he hadn’t been shipped off to Europe yet.”

   “I may be able to help explain that,” Tony says as he gets to his feet. In his hand is a thick folder filled with papers and photos and notes and scraps of paper. He places it in front of me with a thud. “Apologies- I would opt for the digital version but, uh… you… don’t even know what... that… is.”

   “Tony,” I say sharply as I open the folder. He just shrugs and sits down across the table again. The top paper is mostly blacked-out with a few words left untouched. ________’s name. Her age. Her parents and their causes and dates of death. And other words that… don’t make sense. ‘Mistress’. ‘Replication’. ‘Improvement’. ‘Rejected’. ‘Baroness’. ‘Salbei’.

   ‘Hetaerae’. 

   Repeated over and over throughout the sea of black streaks is that word. ‘Hetaerae’. At the very bottom of the page in tiny letters are the words ‘Project Samsara- Hetaerae’. In the corner is a skull with tentacles writhing beneath it. ‘HYDRA’ is written along the curve of the skull. 

   My stomach churns. If HYDRA really is behind this then...

   I start tearing into the folder. Photos of the various angles of the steel container from when I woke up. Under it is a handwritten note. ‘Cryo-container; Vrsn: Hetaerae’. 

   Another photo- this one of a chair. On the armrests and legs are cuffs, along with another one on the back of the chair. Something metal comes around the chair. It juts off the side of a machine and looms over it like an archway. A note is written over the photo. ‘Neck brace may prematurely terminate subject. Issue logged during first programming session’.

   Another blacked-out stack of papers. The same words are repeated over and over again. ‘Hetaerae’, ‘Baroness’, ‘Samsara’, ‘Salbei’, ‘HYDRA’. My fists clench the papers before tossing them to the side. Tony watches in silence. 

   What the Hell is this? What were they doing- what did ________ have to do with it? 

   My eyebrows furrow as I manically flip through the papers. Papers fly to the side as I tear through the folder. I can feel myself getting rigid as I near the end. 

   Nothing. I’ve learned nothing. Not a single goddamn thing. There’s nothing here- 

   My hands stop as my eyes rest on the last few items. A file not blacked out. It’s completely intact. Nothing scratched, no scribbles, no hasty lines cutting through words. I snatch it and start reading. 

Project Samsara; Hetaerae

Subject Name: ________ Bishop

Subject Age: 26

Subject Info:

Daughter of Leon Bishop (deceased) and Catherine Chambers (deceased)

Resident of Brooklyn, NY

Military background

Non-combatant medic

Attempted pilot training

Worked under Doctor Akin Nachtnebel- HYDRA researcher

Personal friend of Captain Steven G. Rogers, Sergeant James B. Barnes, political activist Odessa Lily Mae Ababio

Official status: Deceased

Simplified Process Log (see file 178953 for detailed logs):

Day 1: 

Body retrieved by HYDRA. 

Blood and tissue samples taken. 

Heart/respiration rates taken. 

Note: Hetaerae seems to be semi-lucid. May require sedation. 

Day 13:

Serum incubation complete. 

Visible changes in body structure internal and external. 

Bone density increased slightly, muscle mass increased, other changes to be tested.

Day 23:

Regen. abilities test positive

Enhanced reflexes test positive

Body modifications test optimal

Note: Hetaerae seemed to negatively respond to pain. Possible weakness. Must train to not respond.

Day 68:

First programming session prematurely terminated. Hetaerae reacted negatively to programming.

Admitted to medical wing. 

Near strangulation and bruised trachea. 

Removing neck cuff on programming station and attempting again tomorrow. 

Day 100:

Programming temporarily successful. 

Hetaerae could not recall set of numbers given pre-programming for forty minutes. 

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Day 173:

Hetaerae admitted to medical wing for treatment. 

Major vocal cord damage. 

Damage not irreversible. 

Memory wipe testing will continue.

Note: Hetaerae begged for ‘Steve’ and ‘Bucky’ repeatedly during memory wipe. More research needed.

Day 234:

Three guards admitted to medical wing. 

Hetaerae had clawed at their eyes, noses, ears, and mouths

Broken nails were taken from guards’ faces.

Admitted samples for research.

Extra-long memory wipe testing done. 

Hetaerae will be allowed a day to rest after strenuous session. Cannot allow for subject’s termination.

Day 250:

Near disaster.

Hetaerae attempted escape.

Four guards killed. Two more seriously injured.

Must increase security.

Note: Hetaerae lethal before combat training. A promising candidate. Akin, in his paranoia, chose well.

Day 276:

Hetaerae broke free of restraints during memory wipe.

Too exhausted to attempt escape. 

Memory wipe has prevented Hetaerae from remembering subject name.

Will begin codeword implantation process tomorrow. 

Day 342:  

Hetaerae begins Samsara training tomorrow. 

Complete memory wipe achieved. 

Hetaerae is the only thing within subject.

Day 3658:

Samsara training complete.

Winter Soldier co-training complete.

Complete memory wipe complete.

Codeword implantation complete. 

Hetaerae to be placed in cryo to await orders.

Hail HYDRA. 

HYDRA status: Active. Ready for use.

   “Look at her track record,” Tony mutters, sliding a thick wad of papers over to me. Turning away, I shake my head. “...fine. I’ll read it for you.” He huffs, flipping through the various pages. “Uh… her first mission was to…” he scoffs, “To take out a mid-level politician that had apparently laid his eyes on something he shouldn’t have. ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’.”

   “Tony…” I warn quietly, my shoulders getting tenser with each word. 

   “A few missions later, she’s retrieving lab samples and… and destroying the lab... Fourteen people killed. ‘Mission: success, targets: terminated’.”

   “Tony.”

   “I’m skimmin’ here, Cap, but listen- an orphanage in Saint Petersburg, a… a couple in Prague, a woman in Athens, a man in Cairo...” Tony continues skimming through the pages. “‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’, ‘Mission: success, target: terminated’-”

   “Enough!” I snap, turning to look at him. 

   Tony sighs and puts the papers down. Running a hand down his face, he purses his lips. “Dunno how else t’tell ya this, Cap- she’s dangerous. She has killed hundreds of people. She can speak seven languages, she can infiltrate a political atmosphere and topple it, she can... camouflage in any… social situation, she has a perfect kill record... Whoever she was before-”

   “She’s still in there,” I cut in. “She’s still in there.”

   Tony rolls his eyes. “Are… are you not... hearing what I’m telling you?” He gestures to the original folder. “They laid into her for… ten years. Subjected her to torture. Wiped her slate clean. Whatever was in there, pal, it’s long gone.”

   A huff leaves my lips. “...you don’t know what she was like,” I mumble coldly, reminiscing over what it was like to live with her, to live with her at my side like I was at hers. “She was… the most... hard-headed… stubborn dame I’d ever met. And strong, too.”

   “Rogers-”

   “She’s still in there, Tony,” I snap, my eyes flicking up to him. “She’s strong.”

   “Good morning.” I say, waving at ________ as she sits on the chair. Her breathing is steady, eyes trained on the opposite side of the room. Her wrists are handcuffed to the armests- the same with her ankles. They clink slightly as she breathes. 

   The room is completely empty except for another chair across from hers. My shield lays against the chair- ‘a precaution’ Fury called it. 

   ‘A threat’ is what I would call it. 

   I step further into the room and sit down on the chair. With glazed eyes, she watches me. “Are… those too tight?” I ask, gesturing to the cuffs. 

   She says nothing. Only blinks in response. 

   She… she looks so empty. 

   Her face was always glowing, her smile illuminating the clinic when Buck and I would walk in to bring her lunch or just to bug her. Letters would flood in every now and then from past patients or their families, thanking her for her patience and kindness. She would keep them all in a shoebox under her bed.

   And her hands. She would wrap bandages around my wounds with care. She’d always tell me to not get it in my head to fight again… and then ask where the punks lived so she could ‘pay them a visit’. Her hands were always feather-soft when checking every injury’s progress. 

   Now they look… darker. Not in color but just… darker. 

   Stained.  

   Did she know what she was doing when she killed those people?

   ________ shifts slightly, the sound of the handcuffs pulling me out of my head. I clear my throat and straighten up. “...do you know who I am?” I ask quietly. 

   No response. 

   “Do you know who you are?”

   “Haetarae.” She answers, eyes still glazed. 

   “Do you… do you know who you actually are?”

   ________’s eyes narrow for just a moment. “...HYDRA.”

   “No. No,” I mutter, pointing to my chest. “...do you know who I am?”

   ...nothing. 

   “Steve. I’m Stevie. We… we grew up in Brooklyn together. With Bucky. We, um… Buck ‘nd I, we helped you out of a fight when you were thirteen. That’s how we met… you… remember that…?”

   She blinks, eyes scanning over me. 

   Getting up from my seat, I reach into my pocket and tug a photo of the three of us out of my pocket. It was taken after she had gotten her nursing credentials. We had gone out dancing, just the three of us. We found someone willing to take our photo. A smile crosses my lips as I look down at it. 

   Colors start to fade into the black and white photo. Every detail is so crisp. ________’s chin is resting on my head as she stands behind me- a bright, red-lipped smile on her face. Her arms are wrapped around my chest as she leans over. Her hair is done perfectly- up with roses in her hair. Neat and tidy like she practiced. The skirt of her dress is the same shade of red as her lips. Black dots pattern the fabric of the skirt. The bodice was black- matching her heels. Hooked through her elbows was a creme-colored fur boa. 

   Bucky’s got his arm around her waist and he ducks down to my level. He holds a pressed black suit, wearing a red undershirt. His suit jacket is hung over his shoulder with his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up. I remember him shining his shoes that day while ________ meticulously placed roses in her hair. Bucky had sewn and hemmed my pants with pride. ‘It’s a special day, punk’, he mumbled with the needle between his lips, ‘can’t have ya trippin’ on your pant legs.’ 

   She shifts again and I’m pulled right back into now. ________ sits in front of me. No smile, no roses, no brightness. And Bucky… Bucky’s dead and gone. Lost a long, long time ago. Slowly, I hold out the photo. “...see?” I mumble, “That’s me… before I… had a growth spurt. And that’s Buck.”

   I look up to her. She’s focused on the photo, eyes slightly squinted and head tilted to the side just barely. “...Buck ‘nd you,” I laugh quietly. “He… he was… so crazy about you. He just… never realised it.”

   The door behind us cracks open. Her body snaps tightly, eyes back to glazed. Tony peeks his head into the room and tilts it back. “Eyepatch wants you.”

   I sigh. Looking back at ________, I tuck the photo into her hand. Slowly, her fingers wrap around it delicately. I nod once and start out of the room. As the door swings shut, I spare one last look. ________ looks down at the photo, her head slightly tilting once more.

   “It may be our only option,” Fury sighs. “She’s unpredictable at best.”

   “She’s still in there- if I can just… keep talking with her-”

   “That is out of the question,” he says firmly, eye flicking up to me. “...you’re too close on this one, Rogers. I’m making the executive decision to-”

   Lights start to flash overhead- red and screaming. A wailing buzz rips out of the hallway as the red light bathes us in scarlet. The door slams open, Tony standing in the doorway, panting. Fury slowly gets out of his seat, eye wide. 

   “She… She got out,” Tony mutters, gesturing outside.

   My body launches forward as I run into the hallway. People are running, an anxious chatter swarming around them as they pass just in front of me. As I push into the main hallway, elbows and chests are thrown into me. Flicking to each person, my eyes catch the room where ________ was held. The door is almost completely torn off the hinges- the wood cracked at the handle. 

   I start to push through the sea of people. Like water, they throw themselves against me- eager to leave the building and get the hell out of harm’s way. But as I make my way to the door and push out the other side of the tempest, I can see the dangling cuffs still hanging around the armrests. 

   My fingers graze the splintering wood door, tracing the ridges of where her fingers had dug into the wood- leaving grooves in the shape of her hand. The hinges look relatively new as they hang lifelessly off the wall. The debris littering the floor is kicked around, leaving a partial trail down the hallway. I follow with a solid grip on my shield. 

   “________?” I hiss, looking around the empty hallway. Everything is dimmed by the red lights and the screaming of the alarms haven’t stopped. “________!” 

   I round a corner and every adrenaline-fueled tension melts away. At the very end of the hallway is a floor-to-ceiling window. Broken glass lays at the base of a gaping hole. 

   She’s gone. 

[thepetulantpen]

Two Librarians in Armageddon

(Day 5 of @shadowgastweek! Only had time for one fic this week, but after I read this prompt my brain said Pacific Rim AU and would not leave me alone until I wrote this. It’s pretty long, so here’s the ao3 link.)

(Pacific Rim AU, featuring the wizards as scientists!)

Caleb would not say he’s fond of working with others, let alone sharing his lab.

Solitary work is more in his nature, but after years of sharing close-quarters with Veth- and after getting adjusted to Jester, in general- he’s learned to tolerate, even enjoy, having company while he’s working. His friends have more than prepared him for anyone else he’ll have to work with; they’ve ensured that he’ll be hanging onto his habits of keeping anything important secured, in the event of an unexpected explosion, and of guarding his coffee with his life, in the event of poorly-timed pranks.

He does not think his new lab partner will be bringing any unstable explosives, or sugary abominations to replace his coffee with.

From what he’s been told, the new addition to their little pre-apocalypse team is a physicist working on tech for a competing company, someone far outside Caleb’s scope. The fact that they still have competing companies of mech-developers while there are aliens bursting from the sea to eat them is a nightmare all its own, but the writhing horrors of capitalism are a beast that science, and the Kaiju guts strewn across the table before him, has proved ineffective against.

The truce between them, in the interest of allowing powerful Jaegers to work together, is an uneasy and temporary one. Caleb, personally, doesn’t think it’ll last beyond one or two failures. He just hopes they won’t fall back into the slew of sabotages that plagued them at the beginning of their downward spiral, before everyone realized the world may actually be ending.  

The rather small detail of imminent Armageddon has made his preference, or lack thereof, for company inconsequential. In the long run- or short, if they don’t manage a major breakthrough soon- his opinions as an introvert are insignificant.

It’s not all bad- as an innately curious person, the opportunity to meet someone just as experienced as him in the field of Kaiju is fascinating. Particularly considering that their specialization is so different; he’s almost looking forward to the new insight. He’d even be excited if it wasn’t for the subject matter.

It can be challenging to be enthusiastic about the driving force of the apocalypse.

He digs deeper into the partially collapsed chunk of Kaiju ribcage in front of him, no longer bothered by his poor choice of distraction. It’s a misnomer to call it a ribcage, given that the Kaiju do not have bones in the classical sense, but it’s close enough in location to approximate. He’d rather have a brain to work with, though he’ll settle for what he can get. Storing Kaiju is difficult, with their accelerated rate of rot once exposed to the air- if he’s not careful, his work could be reduced to ash in an hour.

He needs to catalogue the differences between this corpse and the last, pinpointing patterns in organ placement. The work is dull, while still requiring his full concentration to avoid puncturing any of the many, many inexplicably acidic organs. If he wasn’t already good friends with the base’s medics, he would’ve been taken off this job long ago.

Once he’s elbow-deep in a Kaiju, he stops paying attention to the door. He does not notice the knocking, nor the quiet greeting, nor the faint whir of machinery as his new colleague hovers through the doorway.

“Should you be touching that? It looks toxic.”

Caleb jumps at the voice beside him and the scalpel in his hand jerks, cutting into the mystery organ he’d been considering removing. Something vaguely liquid hits his wrist above the glove and he waits two seconds to see if it’ll burn, before deciding he probably doesn’t need to run screaming to the nearest med station.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, partially in response and partially to himself. “I know what I’m doing.”

He looks down, towards his new colleague, who, at first glance, is thoroughly unimpressed at that lie.

He sits in a wheelchair- minus the wheels, as it hovers gently off the ground, coming to about the same height the wheels would give it. Clearly a new model- hovering technology aside- it’s a sleek, minimalist white, matching his equally sleek, swept back white hair. The high turtleneck and overly formal coat allow Caleb to immediately peg him as somewhat uptight. Near-apocalypse has made formality rare.

Caleb hurries to wash his hands, finding the nearby sink labelled for nasty, potentially lethal chemical disposal. “I was told you’d arrive today, but,” he glances up at the dingy lab clock, the glass cracked from Veth’s last visit, “I didn’t imagine it’d be so soon. It’s, uh, a bit of a mess.”

“I’ve seen worse,” he says, unconvincingly, and changes track, “That desk is mine, yes?”

There’s only one other desk in the room, moved there sometime yesterday after Caleb, under threat from his superiors, managed to shift away some of the boxes that line the walls. It’s only a small space, but it’s the cleanest part of the room.

The question, he reasons, is rhetorical, but Caleb nods anyway. He considers that answer enough- though the other man doesn’t move, staring at him expectantly. He’s oddly expressive, his attempts to keep a completely straight face only making any slipups, like the annoyed twitch of his eyebrow, more obvious.

It makes it easy to see the exact moment his patience runs out.

“I’m sure you were informed, but,” here, he looks to the side, dodging Caleb’s returning attention, “for the sake of introductions, I am Essek Thelyss.”

Ah, so that’s what he’d forgotten. Caleb thinks it’s unfair that he had to fail miserably at one of the last introductions he will have made before the end of the world- surely, he could’ve had just one go smoothly.

“Oh- I’m Caleb,” he reaches out a hand, meeting Essek’s already extended one for a brief shake- his hands may be clean now, but Essek doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect of touching Kaiju guts, even  indirectly, “Caleb Widogast.”

Something unidentifiable passes over Essek’s expression- disappointment or judgement, perhaps, at not recognizing the name. Widogast is not printed on any books, nor is it associated with anything high-profile like Thelyss; strictly, it doesn’t exist at all.

That, or the smell of the rotting Kaiju getting to him.

As he watches Essek pause halfway across the room to clear his path, and again to widen the space around his desk, Caleb is hit with the vivid realization that this isn’t going to be an enlightening, academic experience, nor an uncomfortable few days of socialization. It’s going to be more than a bump in the alien-fueled crisis that is his current existence.

This is going to be a disaster.

…

“Widogast, do you have any idea where my notebook’s gone?”

It has only taken Caleb three days to be able to identify the various tones for annoyed in Essek’s voice. There’s this is a minor inconvenience and this is a major inconvenience and this is one of many annoying things I haven’t pointed out yet today, including, but not limited to, the ever-present stench of Kaiju flesh.

He can say, with relative confidence, that this falls into the latest category.

“Have you tried all your desk drawers?” he calls over his shoulder, knowing the question is unnecessary but stalling for time as he heaves the last of the Kaiju parts- partially burned and fragmented limbs, today- onto his work table.

Essek, unlike Caleb, is meticulously organized, never misplaces anything and files according to system that escapes Caleb, no matter how many times he tries to decode it. From Essek’s perspective, the rest of the lab is a dangerous no man’s land of abject chaos- though Caleb has never lost anything. He knows, precisely, where everything is, no piece of preserved alien fading from his memory. An organization system is pointless, when one has a photographic memory.

That is, until one has to share a lab with someone who bothers to keep track of their belongings.

He doesn’t wait for a response, already able to picture Essek behind him, sitting with his arms crossed and looking deeply disappointed by Caleb’s suggestion, which amounts to did you turn it on and off again? Leaving the still sealed Kaiju parts where they are, he turns back to his own desk.

After exonerating himself and Essek, the list of suspects for meddling with their desks is very short. The base, these days, is not the hub of activity it used to be, back when there were far more Jaeger pilots alive and far better morale. Their lab is typically empty, aside from Caleb and Essek, as few people are inclined towards the smell of dead Kaiju. Even the corporals, some of the rare higher-ups with clearance, can’t be bothered to visit more frequently than their mandatory check-ins.

He can only think of two people who clearance would not be an issue for.

“Is he handsome, Caleb?”

“I don’t think it would be professional—”

“He definitely is, Jessie.”

Before today, he’d thought that Jester and Veth hadn’t gotten around to the visit they’d been threatening; clearly, they’d taken the liberty while he wasn’t in. Veth knows better than to steal notebooks- she wouldn’t be interested in them, anyway- and Jester isn’t in the habit of taking things, only misplacing them.

Caleb hardly ever uses his own desk, preferring to leave his notebooks scattered over the lab tables, in easier reach. Only the older ones are still perched on his desk, in a precariously tall pile- but one notebook stands out from the rest, not quite as ratty and overstuffed as his own.

“Ah, here it is,” he holds it up, gesturing Essek over and trying not to look too sheepish- it is not, after all, his fault. As he hands it over, and quickly turns back to his work, he can only hope that Jester hasn’t doodled anything too embarrassing inside. “Jester must have misplaced it, while exploring the lab.”

“Jester?” Essek asks, eyebrows furrowing in something that would be irritation, if his expression wasn’t trained to be so stoic, “Is she supposed to have clearance here?”

“The medical staff have free reign, in case of incidents with hazardous material.” He glances back at Essek, who still looks confused, and remembers that not everyone is on a first-name basis with the medics. “Jester Lavorre. You might know Caduceus- that is, Mr. Clay- better. He’s the more… healing inclined, of the two.”

“Jester Lavorre,” Essek starts, slowly as he unpacks his own question, “regularly comes here to… explore? What, she just, rifles through your things?”

He is not sure how to explain the idea of Jester to someone who doesn’t know her.

Essek already looks delightfully confounded- a considerable a departure from his typical stern concentration. Caleb almost wants to thank Jester for pulling Essek away from the handheld chalkboards he spends his days bent over, lines of nearly indecipherable equations appearing and disappearing with only the smudge of chalk on Essek’s hands as evidence of their existence. Distracting Essek has proved to be a challenge- even the sounds of saws and the number of other unpleasant devices involved in Kaiju dissection don’t get Caleb so much as a glance.

He does not try to explain Jester, opting to shrug, instead. “She knows she can find me here, so she stays until I show up. Sometimes she gets bored.” It occurs to him that other people haven’t been prepped for company in the same way he has. It occurs to him that it is abnormal to brace for a scavenger hunt every time he enters the lab. “I suggest you leave your important documents in a locked drawer.”

He refrains from telling Essek that Veth can pick locks and that Jester has broken open desk drawers before (there was an incident involving a prank war, smuggling, and increasingly desperate hiding places). None of it seems particularly reassuring.

Essek gives him a strange look, but nods. “I will keep that in mind.”

“You might also find things that aren’t yours by your desk.” Caleb looks over his shoulder to see Essek still watching him. “Consider them gifts.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Caleb pauses, realizing that none of the things he was about to list are work-appropriate, “Well, it could be anything.”

Caleb’s starting to worry that he might end up causing the rift between companies that leads to the end of the world- with his terrible first impression, and equally bad secondary impressions- but when a parasol shows up at Essek’s desk a day later, he does not ask Caleb where it came from.

He does, however, quietly ask Caleb to send along his thanks to Jester.

…

“I am not imagining that it smells particularly bad today, yes?”

Caleb has acquired, in part thanks to Veth, partial halves of two Kaiju hearts. Partial is the best they could manage, on account of the massive holes blown in the beasts’ chests. Nonetheless, he’s ecstatic- an opportunity like this, for a direct comparison, is rare.

Kaiju barbecue, as it turns out, does not smell very appetizing. It is what he would think a bucket of cleaning supplies set on fire would smell like, though it leaves the air with the unpleasant aftertaste of cheap fruit snacks.

“They’re a little charred,” he says, hiding a smile- they are far more than a little charred, “Veth’s testing out different chemical combinations for the Jaeger ammunition. I don’t think she’s quite nailed it yet.”

Essek scoffs, cautiously approaching the table with one hand over his nose and mouth, the other resting on the chair’s controls. “How many people of wildly different departments are you on a first-name basis with?”

“Just a few.” Thoroughly distracted with cutting away the burnt pieces, Caleb doesn’t look up. “There’s also, uh, Fjord. He captains one of the boats, works on deployment.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” A soft whir, as Essek hovers a few inches higher, putting him at a better height to peer over the table with Caleb. “Do you need any help?”

Caleb blinks, surprised, and almost drops the scalpel he was sanitizing. “Aren’t you busy?”

Essek, with his old-fashioned chalkboards in the place of far more convenient holograms, never leaves his desk, never so much as turns around to bounce a theory off of Caleb. It seems like there’s a new pack of chalk and fresh notebook on his desk every other day- clearly he’s making progress, but the bubble of focus around Essek is too intimidating for Caleb to investigate.

“I’ve reached a stopping point,” Essek frowns when Caleb looks at him, waiting for him to elaborate, and sighs, “I’m stuck on the particle displacement we’ve detected at the mouth of the rifts, which only seems to effect the Kaiju, not the pilots. It’s- I don’t think you’d be interested. I need something else to do, while I brainstorm.”

Caleb manages to bite back his disappointment at not getting to hear the rest and points towards the sink- the one safe for normal use, that doesn’t currently have corrosion scars from caustic acids. “I can definitely give you that.”

Essek, unsurprisingly, is incredibly helpful. He might not fully understand the process, but he’s precise in following Caleb’s instructions and doesn’t complain when he has to touch the gross, slimy parts. He generously interprets Caleb’s just put them over there to mean place them very carefully in straight lines. It only takes him a few minutes to get the hang of it, effortlessly following Caleb’s lead as they work in parallel on their respective halves of the hearts.

“I can’t say I understand the appeal,” Essek starts, after many minutes of silence, “but there’s certainly something to working with the actual thing, rather than theory.”

Caleb is working at a particularly tough piece- the Kaiju are, if nothing else, heavily armored, inside and out- the exposure to oxygen making everything harder to pull apart, to cut up and catalogue. He doesn’t look up at Essek’s words, but finds his attention easily split.

“It’s all about,” Caleb pushes down, again, and the muscles finally give, “manipulating the body, finding what makes it tick. From there, we can change it.”

“Like,” Essek pauses, hesitating, “change it from living to dead, you mean.”

Caleb huffs, almost under his breath, “In this circumstance, perhaps.”

To his side, he sees Essek’s hands still, briefly, and feels eyes on him as Essek looks up. Essek has this way of looking at him, like he’s waiting for something, until an invisible tell gives him away. He feels both studied and seen through.

Caleb can’t say he hates it.

“You don’t sound as happy about that as I’d expect. Normally, people are thrilled at the thought of dead Kaiju,” Essek gestures, with one gloved hand, over the table, “More for you.”

Caleb looks firmly down at the heart, imagining the many cross-sections and pieces still unmapped, in the burned away absence. “I just think that more can be done.”

“I suppose that’s one thing we can agree on.” Essek is already looking at him when Caleb looks up, so their eyes meet, “The other side of the rifts are far more interesting. There’s no telling what we could find, how we could progress- but we need those doors closed, if we’re going to be alive to enjoy that progress.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as leaving them open or closed.”

Essek leans back over the heart, having found what he was looking for in Caleb’s expression, and mutters, almost to himself, “You might be right about that.”

Caleb doesn’t say anything else, just watches as Essek finishes with his portion of the heart. Essek’s hands, even with the borrowed plastic gloves, do not look like they belong amongst the controlled carnage of the lab table. Made for spinning chalk between fingers, and gliding across the holograms.

He lines up the scalpel again, just a bit off-target, just a bit too close to the arteries. “Ah, don’t—”

Caleb grabs Essek’s hand, stopping him before he pierces something he shouldn’t- the faint burns on his own hands are proof of this lesson learned. Essek freezes, startled by the contact, and grips the scalpel a little tighter before he catches up to what’s happened and pulls back.

Caleb lets him go, with some reluctance. “The blood is, uh, acidic. You have to cut around carefully, or it– you get the picture.”

“It’s good that you were watching, then,” Essek doesn’t smile, but his face suggests that he might have, if he possessed less self-control, “I owe you one, Widogast.”

Caleb does not possess that same control- he’s not sure what Essek hears in his voice as he says, “It’s no trouble.”

He thinks, in the end, he may have been more successful in distracting himself from his work, than he was in distracting Essek.

…

Caleb has reached the point where the crick in his neck from leaning over his work, the pages and pages of pieced together neural pathways and conflicting experiments, is threatening to make the hunch of his shoulders permanent. Essek cannot be in a much better place- Caleb glances over to catch him with his head in his hands, again, a half-filled chalkboard laying forlornly on his desk.

Caleb stands with no warning, letting his pen clatter on the table and pushing his chair away with more force than necessary. Essek looks up, alarmed and- unless Caleb’s imagining it- intrigued.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Which is how they’ve found themselves on the steel catwalk above the Jaegers, high up in the hanger and out of sight of people who know they shouldn’t be here. Neither of them are stealthy enough to pull this off for long- the equivalent of two librarians, tiny amongst the massive machines that represent their only hope against Armageddon.

“It’s always weird to see them from up here.” The giant, unpiloted mechs seem to stare back at Caleb as they’re shifted into place. Empty eyes, visors with no life behind them. “Feels like we shouldn’t be looking at them eye-to-eye.”

Essek hums, and leans forward slightly, as close to the rails as he dares. “I’m more used to seeing them in diagrams.”

Caleb had known, in theory, that there must be a tangled web of physics behind the engineering of the Jaegers, but it’s different to know that Essek holds those secrets. He’d love nothing more than to pick his brain about it, even if it’s far outside his field. It’s a shame the hanger feels like an inappropriate place to host a high-detail physics lecture.

“It must be interesting, working with us. Thelyss has been, uh,” he hesitates, unsure if this is rude to point out, “forgive me for saying, rather at odds with Dwendalian interests.”

Essek is quiet for a moment, almost long enough for Caleb to pull the ripcord and apologize, before responding, “It has been interesting. It is… an opportunity, for me, to work for something greater than I have in the past.”

“In the past?”

“We have not been as,” he pauses, searching for the word, “kind as we should have, in sharing our designs. Many have failed to consider the state of the world in our quest for progress.”

Corporate sabotage in the race for mechs is something of a well-known secret. The extent of it is hidden, mostly, behind the veil of the destruction that it coincided with. Trading the right secrets to the wrong person could take you far- it just might mean leaving burning cities in your wake.

Essek, overlooking the last of the Jaegers, the vestiges of hope for the world, suddenly looks so tired, older than Caleb had seen him before now. It reminds of Caleb of his own reflection, at night when the manic layer of end of the world is wiped away to reveal exhaustion. Essek’s formality, the organized face he presents, functions as just another mask.

“I have made many mistakes. I am hoping-” Essek shakes his head, correcting himself, “All I can do is try again. To be better.”

Caleb cannot absolve him, cannot lift the weight of things unsaid, guilt anchored deeply. He can only stand there, at Essek’s side, and carry his own guilt.

“Leave it to the end of the world to show us that we can only move forward, until we run out of road.” Caleb tries for a smile, one Essek doesn’t match. “Sometimes, I’m not sure there’s still road. Feel like I’m drifting over the dirt, these days.”

Essek’s response, agreement or disagreement, is drowned out as they start shifting another of the Jaegers, the dragging of metal and old supports strained to their limits forming a din that has passerby covering their ears. Caleb watches its pilots stare up at it, unflinching in the noise.

He finds himself talking as the noise stops, filling the vacuum of silence, “I was almost one of them, you know.”

After he says it, he immediately regrets it. In one moment, it feels like the thing to do- share something personal, after Essek had taken the first step- and in the next, it feels like an entirely unnecessary can of worms. Because, of course, the next question is-

“Under who?”

Caleb swallows and considers lying. He could do it. He could keep it vague- he should, it should stay buried like his name. He’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t want to.

“Ikithon.”

He sees it, the second he says it. He sees the recognition, the surprise, the fear. Essek knows that name, more than anyone in passing knows that name. To Essek, he is not simply an unpleasant teacher.

He doesn’t want to see Essek as someone who worked with Ikithon- he doesn’t want to know what it means that he would forgive Essek, in a heartbeat, but can’t do same for himself.

“I wasn’t able to drift,” Caleb continues, and almost believes that’s the whole truth, the entire, uncomplicated reason, “Dropped out of the Academy.” Not before the damage was done.

Essek looks down, studying the grimy floor beneath them. “Probably for the best.”

“I’m starting to think we should’ve put our funding into time machines, instead of Jaegers.” Caleb sighs, and feels a part of himself leave with his breath. He looks to his side, where Essek remains silent. “Should’ve gone into physics, I guess.”

People rush around below them, preparing for another Jaeger to enter. The gate is cleared, the runway lights up, and various maintenance teams stand at the ready. Caleb wonders how they can stand this, how they can keep going through the motions every day, even as less and less pilots return.

He supposes he could say the same about himself, about anyone still coming to work on this base. For the first time in a long time, they’re all working towards the same thing. They’re all looking to the pilots, spending what’s left of their lives to stack the deck in their favor.

“I know a few of them,” Caleb pauses, and clarifies, “The pilots, I mean.”

“You failed to mention that, in your list of people you know.” Essek tries to laugh, though it doesn’t quite come out right, and looks back up at Caleb, “Which ones?”

“I’m not sure you know them.” People in their position don’t generally interact with the pilots, directly. Caleb would say it’s strange for him to have friends in the Academy, but it’s not the weirdest connection he’s made recently. “Yasha and Beau on the Cobalt line. They’re only just out of the Academy.”

Only just out and making a formidable reputation for themselves. He’s only skimmed the statistics, but if there was a leaderboard, he’d say they’re pulling ahead. Knowing Beau, that’s greater motivation than the potential for saving the world.

Essek’s façade falls away completely, showing his surprise. “The two terrifying women in the Expositor?”

“Those are the ones,” Caleb leans against the railing, out of the shadows. A little more bold, now that most of the people below are distracted. A massive Jaeger, with chipping blue paint and massive jets affixed to its back, steps in through the gate, tracking in water around its heels. “Speak of the devil.”

He can imagine Beau and Yasha working in tandem, seamlessly, to bring the mech into the hanger, ducking its head slightly to make it under the doorway. One hand is occupied, clenched around a scaly leg, metal fingers dug into the fallen Kaiju’s flesh. It’s oddly small, not the fully grown beasts Caleb is used to seeing them drag through.

“Is that-“ Essek doesn’t finish his question, perhaps because he can see the answer in Caleb’s expression.

The Kaiju’s head is entirely intact, its skull spared at the expense of a hole in its chest. A full brain, no shrapnel or missing pieces. Exactly what Caleb has been waiting for, exactly what he’s been trying to piece together.

Essek follows at his heels as Caleb dashes for the stairs, stealth forgotten altogether.

…

The whirring of saws and grim, grinding sounds of bone being cut come to an end, at long last. There’s a tube prepped, filled with foul-smelling chemicals intended to preserve and suspend alien flesh. The sound, as the brain is deposited, is somehow worse than the grinding noise.

Essek looks at him, watching silently for a long moment. It is difficult, to feel his eyes on him and not look back, but Caleb manages it, keeping his gaze focused on the mass of nerves before him.

“I understand the temptation.”

Caleb laughs, with no humor. “Do you?”

The headset is light, almost flimsy, in his hands. He passes it between them, running his hands over the familiar metal and wires. It looks like it might fall apart any second now, not at all like it’s made of expensive, stolen equipment. Not all like Caleb’s been thinking about it for months, like it could save them all- if he can pull this off.

The Kaiju’s brain floats in the container in front of him, wires trailing off of it. Essek sits beside it, the filtered green light through the tube casting harsh shadows over his face. He’s not supposed to be here, but Caleb should’ve known that Essek wouldn’t stick to his scheduled breaks.

“I know more about temptation than you, Caleb.”

It’s rare to hear Essek angry- figures that he chooses a time like this to finally call Caleb by his first name.

“Then you should know that I can’t pass up this opportunity.” Caleb clicks the final pieces into place, watching the lights on the headset start to glow. He loses the fight against another temptation and glances over to Essek, who looks to be fighting fiercely not for a neutral expression, but to keep back tears. “I will not have more lives on my conscience. If this could win us the fight, I have to do it.”

He reaches for the control panel, lifting the headset with his other hand. He has to get this over with before he loses his nerve, before Essek decides to find someone who might actually be able to stop him, before Jester or Veth or anyone else stumble upon him

Essek grabs his wrist, stopping him. His eyes are wide, a little surprised at himself, but he meets Caleb’s stare dead-on.

“I don’t want to lose you to this,” he clears his throat, and looks down, away, “We all still need you.”

Even now, they can’t help but lie to themselves.

“I have to do this.”

Essek looks back at him and for once, seems frustrated to be unable to peer behind Caleb’s eyes, to get the answers he always does. He looks to the side with a heavy sigh, and Caleb thinks for a moment that he’s given up, that he’s going to agree, when Essek lets go of his hand to reach behind them, to the lab table still covered in wires and abandoned tech.

Many drafts of the headset sit amongst the wreckage, the results of late nights spent working with a collection born of Veth’s sticky fingers and Caleb’s hoarding. Essek grabs one, easily picking out the most functional of the bunch, and presses it into Caleb’s free hand.

“Fine,” his face sets, not in the neutral that Caleb’s come to expect, but in a determination that feels almost dangerous, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Essek’s eyes are a dare, waiting for Caleb to find a reason to deny him. He knows, as well as Caleb, that two of them would increase their chances of surviving this. He also knows, maybe better than Caleb, that none of that matters. Caleb would always rather take the brunt of it, than allow his friends to hurt.

This feels, distinctly, like an argument Caleb can’t win. Essek looks a few seconds away from hooking it up himself.

Caleb sighs, a faint smile escaping him. “Didn’t think you’d be repaying that favor so soon.”

Essek only pushes the headset more firmly into his hands, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s safe-guarding against Caleb losing his nerve, or losing his own nerve.

Caleb puts Essek’s headset on first, taking longer than necessary to adjust its fit, before putting on his own. They sit across from each other, in the distorted shadow of the brain. Essek’s gaze, fixed on Caleb, doesn’t waver and just before Caleb hits the switch, he holds out his hand.

Caleb takes it and turns on the machine.

The drift hits him immediately, like a weight falling on his brain as something too big climbs into his skull and pushes his mind out to the edges, pressed against bone. Everything else, outside of his mind and Essek’s mind and this new intrusion, disappears entirely. Sensation, apart from a terrible, sourceless pain, leaves him.

Essek’s mind bursts into focus like a searing light in the abyss, a star far above him. Caleb reaches for it, as the mind of the Kaiju, oppressive and all-consuming, threatens to swallow him up.

He feels their connection like entwined hands, before they collapse into each other, blurring into one. Warm and cool colors mix together in threads that wind and wind around until they are one inseparable string. Shared pain is conducted through it, a wire of strange electricity.

He is hearing a city on fire, screaming, and imagines he can pick out familiar voices in the chaos.

He is shaking a hand like a corpse, bony and terrible as its fingernails dig into his skin.

He is on a cold tile floor, aware that he is alone, alone, alone—

Somewhere, outside of himself, he squeezes Essek���s hand.

The Kaiju bears down on both of them and he finds himself standing beside Essek on a destroyed city street, its features a mashed together version of Caleb and Essek’s childhoods. It is too much for either of them, even standing together, but when he looks down at Essek, he sees only his smile, sharp and confident.

Everything begins to dissolve as the mind- the many minds- of the Kaiju falls over them.

…

Waking up is not fun.

Once, in grad school, Caleb stayed up for 52 hours, subsisting on diabolical combinations of energy drinks and pure spite for his professors. After turning in his last assignments, including a paper that served as a major breakthrough in his field but was so manic it was incomprehensible to anyone except Caleb, he crashed hard and did not wake for another day, when Veth checked to see if he was still alive.

He could’ve sworn, at the time, that the headache he felt upon seeing light for the first time that day was the worst he’d ever experience.

This headache easily doubles it.

The lights are, mercifully, left completely off, with only the dim sunlight leaking out from under the blinds turning the infirmary room a dull grey. He’s sat, partially upright, on the thin mattress of the hospital bed, a place he knows well. Outside the room, he can just make out the quiet, constant noise of their busy med station, conversation and machines overlapping.

To his right, similarly propped up, is Essek.

He wakes at the same moment as Caleb and they both turn, surprise mirrored in their faces. At seeing each other, at being alive at all- it’s anybody’s guess.

Objectively, Caleb is sure they both look absolutely terrible, but he can only see the light in Essek’s eyes and his tired smile. There’s a drowsy kind of comfort between the two of them, relief of tension being let go. They lived- they both lived.

“This is not the warm welcome to the land of the living I was hoping for.”

Caleb laughs, even if it hurts, a little. “This feels less like a welcome party, and more like breaking a window and climbing back in.”

There’s no connection between them anymore, no wires or drifts, but he still feels it faintly, a buzzing at the back of his head. Essek’s pain feels like an echo of his own, and his warmth is still there, as if he’s still holding his hand. It’s stable, an anchor to new wakefulness.

“They should’ve known better than to put two of us in the same lab.” Essek shakes his head, and winces at the movement. “It could only ever have ended in disaster.”

Caleb grins and is pleased to see Essek do the same, just as unguarded as he was in the drift.

They only have a few minutes before Jester comes in to yell at him for being stupid- possibly, the whole crew is lined up somewhere outside, lists of grievances in hand. Shortly following that, he assumes there will be a small battalion of military personnel waiting to hear what they’ve discovered.

Until then, he has time to do more stupid things, mostly unsupervised.

He drags himself out of the bed, pretending that he doesn’t nearly collapse as soon as his feet hit the floor, and wheels the bed closer to Essek’s, carefully maneuvering the wires still attached to his chest and arms. Once they’re an arm’s length away, Caleb stops and climbs back in.

This time, he holds his hand out first and knows, without a doubt, that Essek will take it.

[lupismaris]

Hello ! 1) I love your icon, Toby/James is gorgeous like this 2) Ficlet prompt : Flintham, modern AU, “Ah, the puppy dog face. Check mate, huh?”

hi there! I genuinely think this is my fav icon so far 💖 and thank you for this prompt! i love writing soft sappy tooth rotting fluff for Flintham, I really don't do it enough.

set early in the general modern au before silver turns up. the boat mentioned is the S&S30, a modern build based on a 1935 weekender sailing yacht (a personal favorite of mine if a poor kid can have favorite yachts, which might be a new level of pretentious for me, oops) I hope you like it!

__________

“No.”

“Oh come on.”

Thomas felt the bed shift, dipping with the weight of his husband climbing back into bed with him, and opened his eyes. James crawled across the bed and settled himself across Thomas’ hips, leaning down to try and steal a kiss.

The two of them had woken up late that morning, a rare hazy summer Monday in which neither of them had anything to do. Thomas wasn’t scheduled for any lectures and his firm was running smoother than a waxing salon lately, so he was left with nothing to do but dote on his husband and catch up on much needed sleep. James had been lovingly banned from the bar by Gates, who had called Thomas to tell him that if Flint tried coming in to work within the next seven days, he was going to lock him in the liquor cellar amontillado style.

And so there they were, James back from his blasphemous five am morning run, freshly showered, gloriously nude, and with coffee in hand just as Thomas was starting to properly regain consciousness.

“Its not like we’ve anything better to do,” James said. He was holding Thomas’ favorite coffee mug, stolen from a cafe in Paris some years back, like a bribe. The smell of perfectly pressed Espresso with a touch of cream made Thomas’ stomach growl, his head clearing just enough to fix James with an exasperated expression.

“There’s a million things we could do today, beloved. What about the museum, you’ve been talking for weeks now about seeing the Alice Neel exhibit, why don’t we go have brunch and then spend some time there?”

“It’s going to be ninety seven degrees tomorrow,” James argued, so incredibly gently, “The perfect weather for being inside. But today is the only day this week where it’s going to be tolerable enough to be outside in the sun. I don’t think it’s going to even break eighty, Thomas.”

James set the mug on Thomas’s night stand, Thomas watching the way his torso twisted with a touch of hunger. God they needed to get breakfast or they’d never leave bed. Which, Thomas would admit, was also a positive alternative to charting a yacht for the day, which James was desperately trying to convince him to agree to. It wasn’t even that Thomas didn’t like the idea, or boats he loved the idea of boats and of watching his husband sail one, but he just- he’d only been on a boat a few times, before he had met James, and none of them had gone particularly well. Though thats just what happened when you let a bunch of oxford prats borrow their father’s boat for a weekend rager. James would of course be a much better captain, and the weather did sound like it would be rather perfect for it. But Thomas wasn’t convinced.

“It would be the perfect chance for us to get a bit of sun, a bit of fresh air,” James was saying, sitting back on Thomas’ hips. His hair hung loose around his face, a warm copper in the morning sun, his shoulders lost to the summer freckles that returned each year like wildflowers. “It’d be just us. Not one of those tours or group excursions, I promise. Its a small little thing, I can handle it entirely by myself all you have to do is sit there in one of your linen suits and look like Cary Grant for a few hours.”

Thomas watched as James traced idle shapes into his chest, his calloused fingers gentle along Thomas’ stomach, catching faintly in the dusting of blond hair across his pecs.

“Is that all I am to you, then, pretty arm candy? A trophy wife?” Thomas teased, relishing in the way James laughed. He never used to laugh so easily, Thomas counted it as one of the many little miracles their time together had brought about.

“I think by all accounts I’m the trophy wife in this marriage, “ James said frankly, leaning in to leave a trail of kisses along Thomas’ sternum. “Think of it more as, I get to be your loyal valet for the day, and you get to relax on the deck of a yacht that sailed right out of to catch a thief-”

“Oh don’t you dare use Grace Kelly like some kind of bartering chip.”

“I wouldn’t use Her if it didn’t work every time Cary Grant failed.” James bit at Thomas’ collarbone, his smile full of mischief, eyes bright. “Hate to say it, but you’re awfully predictable in your tastes.”

With a scoff Thomas sat up, heaving James off him and pining him to the bed. “My god have you always been this insufferable?”

James beamed up at him, as if being pinned had all been part of the plan. “Only for you.”

Thomas stared down at him, taking in his soft seawater eyes and raised brows, his smile gentling into something coy and hopeful. As if James ever had to really try and get Thomas to agree with him, as if he ever had to do anything more than smile and bat his eye lashes and wait patiently for Thomas to crumble.

“Oh not the puppy eyes,” Thomas said with a groan. James laughed again, reaching up so he could pull Thomas down into a kiss, which Thomas gave him, turning it ever so hungry as he licked into his mouth. They got distracted for a moment or two, as Thomas pressed James down into the bed and kissed him until the initial hunger was satiated. When he pulled back, James’ face was flushed, lips a bit swollen but still smiling that same soft lazy smile that he reserved for his husband.

“I suppose thats check mate then, hm?” Thomas asked.

Whatever weak and ridiculous threats he’d planned to make after that were interrupted by James sitting up quickly and kissing him hard, before scrambling from the bed to get his phone from the bathroom where he’d left it. Thomas watched him, sitting back against the headboard to finally enjoy his coffee, letting the wave of fondness overwhelm him.

“But so help me god if I end up in the Hudson I’m filing for divorce-” he called, his husband’s laughter filling the bedroom like sunlight.

[kyonetsu]

Okay: A Yugioh Fanfic

A/N: This is an old fan fic I wrote back in 2014 based on some real life experiences. I’ll probably be posting more of these later; hopefully no one minds! It’d be nice to get into a groove for writing these again, but for now I’m just gonna reread them and try not to cringe.

Warning: Depicts anxiety, depression, poor self talk

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Hints at Seto x Katsuya

I won't break. I can't let that happen—not now, not ever.

Seto Kaiba stared down at his shaking hand and quickly stifled the tremor with a sudden grip to the wrist. There were so many emotions reeling through his mind and body, and he didn't know how to deal with them. You have to beat it. You have to, he thought to himself as he stared hollowly at his laptop screen. Familiar voices wafted into his ears and the trembling in his hand threatened to return.

I just have to make it through the day. Then and only then can I deal with this stupid... So stupid. Why am I being like this? I'm so stupid.

The brunet leaned forward to hide his face behind the screen as his eyes tried to focus, eyelashes fluttering and eyebrows tensing.

It hurts. Why does it hurt so much?

More students filed into the classroom where Seto sat in the very back. His eyes darted to the bottom of the monitor, noting that the teacher would begin the lesson in only a few minutes. That meant...

"Oh, man. I thought I was gonna be late," a grumbling and somewhat out-of-breath Katsuya murmured as he took his seat, a seat right next to the teen CEO.

Please don't look over. I don't want anyone to see me like this. No one can see. Only me. I don't even want to see this. I don't want to be this person anymore. I just want to be okay. I just want to be okay.

"'Ey, Kaiba. Ya got a pencil I can borrow?"

Seto's eyes widened at the sudden query and his mouth went dry. He pretended to be reading something on his laptop to avoid answering, but of course that would not work on the persistent blond.

"What, ya got cotton in yer ears? Hello?"

Seto gathered all the strength he could muster and turned his head to glare at the teen to his right. "Does it look like I have a pencil, Mutt?" he whispered harshly in return and went back to looking at his screen.

Good. That was good. Good and convincing.

Katsuya rolled his eyes and continued. "Okay, do ya have a pen? I bet all you big wigs have fancy pens."

The brunet scowled. "Fine, if it'll shut you up..." He reached down to his briefcase and pulled out a ballpoint pen, tossing it over to his classmate. Just as the object entered the air, his hand began shaking again. Instantly he slammed it down onto the desk with his other hand and mentally prayed that the other boy hadn't noticed.

"Thanks, man," Katsuya replied with a smile. The smile slowly melted into a slight frown and a hand reached out for the CEO. "Kaiba, what's wrong? Are ya okay?"

That question... Why did you ask me that question?

Seto visibly stiffened as the question swirled around in his mind. His eyes were wide with fright because he knew what was going to happen. He looked over at Katsuya as a single tear slipped down his cheek.

The blond stared dumbly at the sight. "Are you..." Before he could finish his question, Seto roughly pulled his arm away and wiped at his face.

Why did he have to ask me that? Why? Can't he see that I'm not?

The taller teen froze as a new thought occurred to him.

Can everyone see that I'm not?

A strange fear filled Seto Kaiba's chest as he abruptly slammed his laptop closed and shoved it into his briefcase. I can't let them see me like this, his mind screamed. I can't.

Faces turned in confusion as the young businessman rushed out of the classroom, the door rattling as it closed from the sheer force of its opening. Hush filled the room; the only sound that remained was the tick of the clock on the wall.

Katsuya blinked at the classroom door. "What just happened?"

What's wrong with me? Why am I like this? How did this happen to me? Why me? I don't want to be like this. I just want to be okay.

Seto raked his hands through his hair as he slid down the wall of the bathroom stall, more tears spilling down his face. He lowered his arms to his lap and stared blankly at the metal partition. His right hand shook as both rage and terror coursed through his veins and his fingers involuntarily curled to form a fist over and over again.

Why won't it stop? Why won't it go away? Please make it go away. I just want to be okay. Please.

"Kaiba? Kaiba, are ya in here?" Katsuya's concerned voice echoed through the men's restroom. He noticed that the very end stall door was closed and he could see what looked like someone sitting on the floor. The blond rushed over to the metal door, crouching down in front of it. "Kaiba, is that you?"

"Go away," Seto said roughly, his voice cracking and hoarse. "J-just leave me alone."

Katsuya knitted his brow, placing his hand on the stall door. "C'mon, ya know I can't do that," he replied. "Now how about ya unlock this thing and let me help ya?"

"No! No, just go!" the older boy shouted, his heart thumping louder in his chest than ever before.

Please, just go. Please. I can't let anyone see me like this—especially not you.

"Fine, then I guess I'll just hafta force my way in."

Seto's eyebrows lowered as he took in the other boy's statement. "What..?" His eyes darted to a sudden mop of golden hair inching in from underneath the stall door. "No! Get out of here, Jonouchi! Please, just go!"

"Nothin' doin'," Katsuya replied as he slowly pulled himself fully into the stall and sat up. His heart stopped as he took in his classmate's appearance. He was sitting with his knees up to his chest and his eyes were wide with fear. Even in the poorly lit stall, the blond could see the ruddy color blotched across Seto's face. He had been crying. "Kaiba..."

"N-n-no, stay back!" the young CEO pleaded, his hand shooting out as if to keep the other boy from approaching further.

"Kaiba, I'm not gonna hurt ya. I just wanna help," Katsuya reasoned and tried to get closer. "Just let me help ya."

The brunet quickly got to his feet and backed into the corner of the stall, his hand still outstretched. "You can't. You've done enough."

"What? What're ya talkin' about?" the younger teen asked, standing up as well. "What've I done?"

"Everything," Seto practically growled. "You... You did this to me. This is your fault! Your fault!" In one swift motion, he picked up his briefcase and hurled it across the stall, barely missing Katsuya's head. "Y-you... You did this..." he murmured as he slid down the wall once more, staring listlessly at the cowering boy across from him. "It was you. It's always been you."

Kaiba stared at the laptop screen as he typed out his thoughts. One of his therapists had mentioned stream of consciousness writing to help him sort out his feelings, and with much trepidation, he decided to try it. Words flew from his fingers and tears fell from his eyes as the thoughts he unleashed took hold of his heart.

"I gravitate toward him and I'm obsessed. He's there in my mind when I don't want him to be. I don't want him to get the wrong impression of me because that would be unfortunate. I want him to be my friend and I can't help flirting because he's so handsome. He's very manly and he's got this face that I'm drawn to. I can't quite put into words what it is but my eyes go to him. I think that he likes me and that's unfortunate, too. I don't want him to like me in any way more than friends but the idea of someone showing that interest in me is kind of invigorating. I'm still attractive. Why do I feel so ugly sometimes? I can't let anyone see me like this. I'm so ugly. My insides are rotting with these ugly thoughts. I don't want to die. I just want this to go away. I don't want to freak out anymore. I don't want to push anyone away anymore. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be happy. It's so scary out there and in here. Why doesn't anyone seem to understand? I just want to be okay. I just want to be okay. Why can't I be okay?"

Seto stared at his words with a newly found panic.

I'm not okay.

[palbabor-writes]

Yōkai

Hawks Week 2020 - Prompt: Horror Tales

Warnings: Ghosts, spirits, blood, gore, adult language, death, mentions of violent crime

Word Count: 9403

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye.

Notes: I went with a whodunit theme for this fic with some healthy ghosts and haunts thrown in. As this is pre-All Might’s retirement, Hawks is the #3 Hero.

Yōkai

Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters and spirits in Japanese folklore. The word 'yōkai' is made up of the kanji for "bewitching; attractive; calamity" and "spectre; apparition; mystery; suspicious."

The small island of Miyako is renowned for its turquoise waters, pristine coral sanctuaries, amusement parks, and sprawling mansions. All in all, it’s a trust fund tourist trap. Still, like most pristine and shiny things, there’s a seedier underbelly that’s scrapes against the rough, sandy bottom. Come at low tide and you’ll catch a whiff of decay and rot. 

Miyako Island is another example of that duality that exists within everything. No matter how pretty the water, there are always dark creatures that lurk in the shallow shoals and coves.

Hawks isn’t looking forward to his new assignment on the island. He’s been called in by the HPSC and Miyako’s police force. There’s been a string of unsolved murders and, with the onset of August, tourist season is in full swing. Homicide is bad publicity during the best of times. But, combine the discovery of freshly charred corpses popping up in various buildings, piers, and alleyways, with mass hysteria and you’re going to have a big problem on your hands. 

For eight open murder cases, there’s not much for Hawks to go on, and the data he does have is spotty. 

Hawks poured over the notes as soon as he got off the phone with the HSPC, the luster of the new assignment fresh in his mind. He swiped through the briefings and crime scene photos that were attached in the long email from Miyako’s chief of police. 

It looks like the trouble started in the poorer areas of town. No matter how bright the city lights shine, there’s always the common shadow of a downtrodden, overworked, and underpaid populous straining under the weight of “keeping up appearances.”  

Who else would do the nitty gritty jobs that ensured that the tourist season stayed afloat, and, most important of all, profitable? 

Sadly, it’s the blue collar areas that first experienced the horrors. The notes on these cases are borderline elitist, skirting close to xenophobic. The usual: ‘it was just something that happened when you crammed people in that close’. ‘What else did you expect’? ‘Most of the victims aren’t even from the island’. ‘They’re strangers, they’re not locals.’ ‘They’re not one of us’. 

The word immigrant pops up in the documentation frequently and it feels like a slur each time it appears. There’s a slinking, cloying animosity curling behind the looping words. 

It pisses Hawks off.

The only reason he’s been called is because the crimes have jumped over the poverty line. Now, two prominent members of Miyako society have been murdered. So, what’s the connection you ask? 

It’s the state of the bodies. 

All of the victims, rich or poor, have been mutilated. Something sharp was drawn across their skin, cutting and splicing, marring them, marking them. Then, as if to add insult to injury, they’d been set aflame. It must have been a scorching blaze. Something that leaves them so crisped and blackened that they’re more husk than human. In each case, it’s taken dental records to identify the deceased. 

The Miyako chief of police is doing a review of the known peculiars with Hawks. 

“They mirror the, uh, earlier crime scenes. As you can see, this one, she is, er, was a woman in her late 30’s-”

“She was 37,” Hawks supplies, his golden eyes running over the chart that the chief of police is showing him. He’s trying his best to hide his agitation, but his feathers still bristle, the red plumage flaring, refusing to lay against his back. 

“Uh, yeah, a bad age they say.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just, it’s supposed to be bad luck. You know?”

“I don’t. Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?” 

Hawks has to grit his teeth to keep his tone even. He’s really not liking the way these crime scenes are processed and he’s made his opinion known to the police chief and investigative team. Why now, he’d pressed, hours after flying in, sweat still clinging to his brow. Why didn’t the bodies matter when it was relegated to the lower socio-economic citizens? 

He’s also critical and skeptical of the motives of this police chief. There’s something about the whole thing that feels...off.

 But, now’s not the time to project that suspicion. He’s only just arrived, besides, he needs more information, more data. Despite his agitation, he gets why the HPSC sent him on this assignment. He’s known for doing things quickly. Plus, he’s usually calm, collected, and he’s got the clout to get things moving again. 

He’s also observant. The HPSC both loves and hates this particular skill of his, but it’s to their benefit in this instance. His sharp eyes might spot something that’s been missed, they’d said on the phone with him as they handed off his assignment. If he played his cards right, they said, he could pull these murders from unsolved to solved. Oh, and the commission is thinking these murders might involve some agents from the League of Villains. 

It’s not a confirmed connection. 

There’s nothing solid about it, besides the body mutilation and burned corpses. But both are known habits of two members of the League. They’re shadowy leads, more steeped in hearsay than fact. All the same, one is rumored to have a fascination with blood, and the other, has a proclivity for using a bright, blue flame. It’s a hot heat, perfect for cremation and these bodies have all been practically, well, cremated.

“Have you met the other heroes that will be assigned to work with you?” 

Hawks snaps out of his head and nods at the tall, balding police chief. “Amano and Matsuura? Yeah, we’re supposed to take a look at the first locations as soon as this...meeting...is concluded.” Hawks hopes the police chief can hear the air quotes he just put the word meeting in. 

“Good, good. I saw your additions on the later cases. I really feel that we should look a little harder into those. One was a member of the city council. He was beloved by the city and-”

“If I’m looking for a pattern, there’s a higher probability that the killer was sloppier in the earlier cases. New habits and all. I’ll get to the councilman when I get to the councilman. Again, this string of murders started in the lowlands. While I realize that doesn’t get you the most publicity, and I hear a re-election is coming up for your position as chief of police this fall, I’m not going to pick at certain elements of this and leave others by the wayside. 

You gotta’ problem with that, take it up the HPSC. But, listen, they’re a lot meaner than me and they’re not going to like that you’re obstructing my investigation. You asked the commission to send someone down, and, lucky you, you’ve gotten yourself stuck with me.” 

Hawks flashes the police chief a bright grin, his teeth gleaming as his eyes crinkle to crescents. The man stammers for a moment, his face flushing under Hawks’ false joviality, then he tosses a bulky manilla folder on the desk. 

“Why you...I heard you were an arrogant son of a...no, no.” The chief sputters, his teeth clenched, anger bared behind the grinding of his jaw. “You’re right, we’re so very grateful to the number three hero taking time out of his busy modeling schedule to lend us a hand with these murders.”

“Ooh, you saw that spread in the sports magazine? Nice use of color right? Loved that new set of watches I’m sponsoring.” 

Fucking prick. Hawks is used to this kind of irate reaction, hell, it’s pretty expected now. He’d heard it so many times he has it memorized. Yeah, yeah, he’s twenty one, a kid who’s too big for his boots. He has no idea, no real world experience. Did you hear how he talked to me? The audacity.  

Let this guy try to report his snarky attitude, it’s not going to get his low level wannabe bureaucratic ass anywhere.

“I’ll get my agency to send you a signed copy. I had no idea you were such a fan! Lemme grab these files, got some work to do. Catch you around, sir!” Hawks pantomimes a salute, a serious expression making his eyes narrow. Fuck this dude. He’s got bigger fish to fry.

Closing the door on the police chief’s mottled expression, he meanders down the stairs of the police precinct, his wings still arching and rustling his temper. You’d think this case didn’t matter to these buffoons. The sheer implication of Hawks’ presence should clue them in. The HPSC doesn’t do anything lightly. Nah, these killings could be related to the League. Plus, his background checks on the victims had revealed some startling discoveries. 

All of them, down to the nineteen year old restaurant hostess, were involved in minor villain activities. Some had smuggled drugs, some laundered money on the side, one was a known broker. They kept climbing the ladder of severity. It was worrisome. 

While the chances of the LOV’s involvement was low, the commission was still searching for their hideout. He’d caught wind of some of the activity revolving around that ongoing mission. He wasn’t assigned to it, but he liked to keep an ear to the ground. 

Association with the LOV or not, these homicides kept bothering him. There’s something he’s not seeing. He dislikes the sensation. It makes him tense, ill at ease. Once he steps outside the police headquarters he launches himself into the sleet grey skies. 

It looks like rain. 

If he’s wanting to glean as much as he can from those early crime scenes, he better hurry. Hawks doesn’t like rain. It makes his feathers feel bogged down and dampened. Unfortunately, it has the same effect on evidence. Rain can whisk the little details away, slicking and drifting as it washes down to the vast sea. It can easily snag vital clues on its meandering path, erasing as it goes. 

******

The first murder took place on the fourth floor of a shabby apartment. The victim lived in the 19th unit and was a 43 year old male. He was a well known loner. So, it was a shock to discover that he ran a pilfering ring. The ring wasn’t a small scale enterprise either. No, this went deep. It connected to three other islands and the Japanese mainland. There’s no way this guy was a simple recluse. If anything, he was nothing short of a criminal mastermind. 

His body had been left in an odd position. It was likely staged, purposeful.  

He was discovered by his landlord. Rent was due and it was unusual for him to be late with the payment. So, the landlord let himself into the 19th unit. It’s a small wonder no one reported the smell earlier. Apparently, it was putrid, acidic, gut churning. A mix of tarnished copper and old, rotten meat. 

In all likelihood, he was murdered elsewhere and dragged back to the unit. Nothing in the room, besides his corpse, was scorched. The victim was splayed on his small bed, but the placement was strange. His feet were resting on his ashen pillow, shoes still on his feet. Meanwhile, his head was at the foot of his bed, pointing northward. 

Hawks and one of the assigned heroes, a friendly guy named Amano, are going over the case file with two members of the forensic team. Apparently, one of the team members hadn’t been part of the original investigation clean up and bagging. As Hawks and Amano are sharing the crime scene photos, asking the forensic team questions, the taller of the two, gasps, clapping a hand over his lips. 

Hawks tilts his head at the man’s reaction, his feathers automatically feeling for his pulse. It’s elevated and the guy appears to be truly bothered. It’s an upsetting picture, to be sure, but this is his job. He cleans up blood and guts for a living. Surely, he’s seen worse.

“You ok?” Hawks’ asks, his amber eyes shifting over the man’s face. 

“F-fine. It’s just, well, look at him.” 

Hawks takes the photo back. Did he miss something? 

“What about him?”

“Look at the direction his head’s facing.” 

“Uh,” Hawks examines the position of the hazy sun that peeks through the rain clouds outside the window. “North?”

Now the other forensic team member gasps. What the hell? What does facing north have to do with anything? It’s a cardinal direction. What would they say if he was facing the West? Again, are these people deliberately trying to bog his investigation down?

“I don’t see what, uh, relevance that has.” Hawks tells the two, looking over to Amano. The hero doesn’t seem to be bothered by their outburst. He just shrugs at Hawks’ frank stare.

“It’s supposed to be bad luck, but yeah, there’s not-” Amano begins, finally placing some clarity on the forensic team's outburst of paranoia, but he’s interrupted by the taller, jumpier man. 

“Not just that. You collect iron in your blood if you sleep facing north. It brings death.”

The guy said death like it might summon the fearsome spector down on them at any moment. Amano coughs, his hand covering a badly concealed smile. “Yeah, sure. Facing north is bad luck, and, I guess it can bring death, too. Learn something new everyday...”

“Worked pretty well in this guys case,” Hawks muses, arching an eyebrow at the jittery forensic team. “You guys see anything else? Something a little more, I don’t know, pertinent?” 

They don’t get much further with that crime scene.

Amano tags along for Hawks’ review of the other two cases. His agency runs out of this area and he was one of the first responders. He’s not got a lot of extra information, but he knows the people and they know him. It takes the edge off, lets the locals open up a little more. 

The next case is in a home. Well, home feels generous, it’s more like a shack. Apparently, the victim liked to collect cat figurines. Like, really, really liked to collect cat figurines. There’s over sixty of them, they’re scattered around the place, tucked into nooks and crannies. It feels like a thousand little eyes are watching the two heroes as they canvas the space. It’s creepy.  Hawks dislikes the sensation. His feathers keep lifting, feeling, spreading out.

The woman had been found at her kitchen table. She was propped into a chair, sitting, like nothing in the world, save her crisp remains, was amiss. The only way you could achieve a staging of that caliber was to wait for the body to enter rigor mortis. 

That takes time. 

Full rigor sets in around 5 to 12 hours after death has occured. Whomever did this must have had time to spare. And they weren’t worried about being caught during that time. No, they were too busy planning out the dramatic effect of their crimes.  

Once again, he feels like he’s missing something. 

One body was left pushing a garden cart. Literally, the man was found, early in the morning with his hands tied to a wheelbarrow. He was posed mid task, his arm lifted, reaching for someone, or something. Trouble was, the guy didn’t work as a gardener. No, he was a low level broker. Someone darting under the criminal radar. He’d eluded the police and heroes for months. Looks like his luck ran out.

The eighth body, the congressman, was discovered at a popular wharf. This crime scene is still in the process of being cleaned up, so there’s a flurry of people bustling around. Amano, and the other hero, Matsuura, who’s also been assigned to Hawks’ investigation, are talking with witnesses, gathering information and scheduling interviews. This kind of hero work is never ending. Hawks is grateful they’re willing to take on the grunt work. 

As Hawks is kneeling, peering over the ledge of the pier, looking down on the blackened wood and debris, a loud cawing breaks out. It echoes on the wind, coiling and lifting. It’s a funny sound. Like it’s far away and dulled. It makes Hawks’ wings fan out, overstimulated and brittle. The heroes and crime scene investigators debate on the origin of the noise. It doesn’t help that there’s no bird that’s wheeling above them. No, the skies are dark and empty, with a light misting of rain starting to drip onto the lashing sea. 

“What is that?”

“Is it a gull?”

“It’s creepy. There’s nothing even flying around. But, it sounds so close.”

“I think it’s a seabird. It’s gotta be, sometimes they fly out here looking for fish.”

“I’ve never heard a seagull sound like that.”

“There are other birds besides seagulls, idiot. It could be a pelican-”

“It’s a crow,” Hawks’ supplies, standing and turning back to the clutch of people who are quickly gathering up their supplies, doing their best to get the important pieces of evidence protected from the rain. 

“Huh? Did he say a crow?”

“Oh, damn, that’s a sign of death.”

“No...I think it’s illness, not death.”

Hawks’ walks to Amano and Matsuura, he tells them he’ll meet them back at the police headquarters. He needs to start his interviews if he wants to even have a prayer of snagging a bite to eat. He’s been subsisting off coffee since he flew in and his stomach is rumbling, loudly. 

The investigators are still debating the meaning of the crow caws when he takes off. His wings beat powerfully beside his head and he lifts above the grey storm clouds, coasting high, past the skyline. 

The people here are strange. They’re a superstitious bunch for sure. Everything has an underlying reason. Don’t forget to toss salt over your shoulder when you walk into that crime scene, Hawks. It’s bad luck if you don’t. 

Despite the strange mannerisms that surround him, they are right about one thing: there’s more to these killings than meets the eye. 

Things feel off in every crime scene. Were their belongings really left that way? Or, have the details been staged? Plus, the murders keep escalating. The particulars are spreading out and deepening as they interweave. The major connecting thread is still the state of the bodies, but even that is starting to feel vague. Hawks shudders a bit of excess moisture from the tips of his wings. Fingers crossed, some of these witnesses and relatives of the victims will have a little more substance for him to chew on.

******

Oh, they have something alright. 

It’s more hushed rumors and strange folk tales. God, the sheer frightened gullibility of these islanders is wild. The whole place feels so backwoodsey, lost in a bygone era. There’s always a prayer or blessing that needs to be uttered. Or, some supernatural logic that he needs to look into. Did you consider the devil, Hawks? He hides in the details, you know? 

It’s fucking weird. 

Hawks is treading in unfamiliar waters with this tripe. He didn’t grow up with any of this. The HPSC certainly hadn't offered him a course on Japanese islander folk traditions during his childhood. Still, these people, for the most part, seem well off, educated, cultured even. Some aren’t even from this island. But, they seem to be infected with the same disease: ghosts, oni spirits, and bad omens. It’s a whirling circle of nonsense and Hawks’ wants off this ride.   

“I got a call from her.”

“From the victim, your sister?”

“Yeah, it came in at 4:49 am.”

“Ma’m, that’s not possible. The coroner noted that rigor mortis had set in by 2 am”

“She sounded faint. It was like she was underwater, but it was her. She screamed at me.”

“She screamed at you?”

“Yeah, it was this low scream. Kinda, like a gasp? Like she couldn’t breathe. It kept getting louder and louder and louder. It hurt my ears. They felt like they were ringing, pounding. Then, the line just went dead. I can still hear it, that scream. Every time I close my eyes, or whenever I least...I-I can still hear her.”

“Do you have your phone records?”

Hawks is trying to make sense of it all, but it’s like they’re talking to each other before they come into the interview room, telling each new interviewee to up the ante. 

See if you can spook the number three hero. Go on, it’ll be fun. 

There’s a slew of strange occurrences. Disembodied voices, knocking on windows, doors opening on their own, quiet voids of cold that they step into. Ghosts keep popping up.

Then, there’s the oni spirits. They have red faces and they lean in close, their fangs reaching, gnashing, grinding. One woman, who was married to one of the victims, burst into tears, her terrified sobbing turning into a frantic wail. 

She had seen an ogre in her back garden. It was pushing a cart and the cart was on fire. Hawks’ checked his notes as he patted the woman’s back, trying to help her move through a few breathing exercises. One of the victims was found propped, pushing a wheelbarrow, could it be…

No. It’s another dead end. 

This woman didn’t know that dead man, the one who was pushing the cart. She didn’t even live on the same side of town. Ugh, this is endless. It might be easier if he did apply these delusions to his investigation. At least that way he’ll feel sane. 

Some of the victims had been acting suspicious, paranoid, on edge before their deaths. One of them had gotten a phone call in the middle of the night and ran off. The next day she was found dead in her home, burnt and drifting into ash. 

“So, she got the call and just ran out the door?”

“Yes. But, she let it ring four times.”

“You said that already. I’m not sure-”

“She picked it up after the fourth ring.” The aunt of the victim is looking at Hawks expectantly, her blue eyes wide, starting. 

“I don’t-”

“You know what that means...don’t you?”

“The hidden significance of picking up a phone on the fourth ring? No, no I don’t.”

They never fully expand on their weird theories. They’re normal comments to them. He debates looking up the meaning of the number four on his phone, but he tamps down the urge. It doesn’t pertain to the case. It’s useless drivel, a waste of time. 

An adult man shows him this ugly, ugly drawing of a cat. It’s pulling a flaming cart. Hawks doesn’t even want to touch the paper. The man keeps pointing back at it as he goes over his neighbor’s timeline. 

This particular witness is connected to the city councilman. The one that was oh, so important to the police chief. It’s a high profile case and it’s being taken seriously. Yet, here’s this supposedly credible witness, flashing a childish scrawl up to his nose, asking him to look for the phenomena, like it’s a normal request to ask the number three hero to look for nonexistent demons. 

‘There’s gotta be more to this’, he tells Hawks, his voice broken, fervid. ‘Something, something has to be there, after all, the councilman was murdered for a reason’. 

The man with the drawing is right about that, at least. 

These are not random crimes. The MO is too similar. Every single victim was involved in some sort of villainous activity. Yeah, the guys correct on that one sane theory of his: ‘There’s gotta be something there’. But, whatever it is, it’s not this cat thing. 

Hawks calls a halt to their interview and glumly munches on his cold chicken sandwich as he waits for the next witness to be called in. His head is pounding and he’s praying for some new development to fall into his lap, at least that way he can conclude things and get the hell off this island. 

****** 

The 9th victim is an outlier. 

He’s high up in social circles and he was a popular man. He’s also been accused of money laundering, tax evasion and fraud. He was acquitted on all charges, but his past never did stop nipping at his heels. However, that’s not what makes him an outlier. 

No, that’s reserved for the state of his body. 

Most of the victims have been burned to a crisp, leaving nothing behind, save bone and gristle. You can still see this guy's face and defining features. He’s a little charred, but it’s almost like the flames stopped right before they got past his chin. 

They transport his body to the morgue and Hawks finishes the combing of the crime scene, setting up a new batch of interview times and creating witness reports. He leaves just as the sun is dipping under the horizon. 

******

It’s late now, and the cool sea breeze blows in through his open hotel windows, soothing across his crimson plumage. It’s his first evening off in over a week. He’s still working though, typing his reports into his laptop. 

He’s forgone his usual coffee this evening. He wants to try and see if he can catch a full eight hours tonight. God, what a fucking delicious treat that would be. Eight hours? That’s the real ghost here. 

He shuts off his laptop and flops himself across his bed, his wings tucking into his side, burrowing his shoulders into their reassuring warmth. 

He slips into the lull between realities, his mind whirring, the case resting heavily against the forefront of his thoughts. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he can’t distinguish between dream and actuality as he drifts off. 

There’s something there.

It keeps to the edge of his vision, a dark shadow that leeches the color from whatever it touches. He can feel it watching him. It shifts quickly when he cocks his head to get a better look, sliding across the blank expanse like quicksilver, fluid and slick. 

He looks away from the edges of his dreamscape and turns. He blinks in surprise. He’s at one of the crime scenes. It’s the one with the man in the wheelbarrow. There’s a crowd pressing around him and that dark figure is blotted toward the back, lurking, watching. The people around him murmur and whisper, too soft to hear. They don’t seem to notice him. They also don’t appear to have faces. They’re just blank voids, with soft notches where eyes, noses, and mouths should be. Unthinking, Hawks reaches for one of them and his hand slips through the air, weightless and heavy in the same motion. 

When he blinks again he’s in that lady’s shack, the one with all the cat figurines. That wraith is sitting at her kitchen table. It’s not moving and he doesn’t feel particularly threatened by its proximity. Still, he dislikes this whole thing. If he can touch it, maybe he’ll wake up.

He’s stepping forward when he hears a soft mewl. There’s a black cat on a shelf. It’s tiny and lithe. It jumps in front of him, a low purr rumbling from its chest. It looks up at him, orange eyes fastening on his amber ones. Odd, he thinks, that woman only had figures. No living cats were evident in the house. 

The cat chirps four times. It’s a light, high pitched sound that makes his ears ache. It almost sounds like a phone. The cat lifts its tail and turns, padding soundlessly into the next room. Intrigued, Hawks follows.

Now, he’s walking down a street. The cat is still in front of him, weaving in and out. That purr of it is loud and sharp as it vibrates around his ears. He keeps trying to get the feline’s attention. He pspsp’s at the dark cat, clicking his tongue, but it doesn’t respond. Hawks is distracted, not paying any mind to his surroundings, wholly focused on the feline. 

The voice startles him. 

It’s rasping and deep and it’s calling his name. Not his hero name, no, it’s saying his real name, over and over. 

KEIGO TAKAMI. 

Keigo Takami, he thinks, stumbling over words that make him, him. It sounds strange now, foreign. He hasn’t heard that name in such a long time.  How did…

The voice is coming from behind him now. He whirls around and is face to face with that man. The 9th victim, the one whose face you could still see. He’s charred and battered, and blood is dripping in long rivulets from his gaping skin, pooling onto the ashen sidewalk. 

His eyes are wide, searching but not seeing. The pupil and iris are both milky white, rolling around in the cavities of his sockets. Then, his mouth pops open. It’s horrifically wide, like it’s caught in a scream. His teeth are crumbling before Hawks’ eyes, black pearls that slide from the man’s lips and clatter around his feet. 

Hawks is stunned, unsure, but, fuck, he can’t move. He tries to flap his wings, knowing that they’ll tug him away from this horror that’s in front of him. Except, there’s no whoosh of air, no lift. There’s nothing. What? How... 

His hands bat at the emptiness along his back. Where are they? What is this? His fingertips press along his shoulders, searching, desperate. His quirk, it’s...it’s just gone. He’s frantic now and that makes him clumsy. His feet tangle under him and he falls. Grounded, his legs instinctively begin to push away from the shell of a man in front of him.

The figure moves with him. Hawks keeps scrabbling away, but the man is even closer now and his bare feet are disintegrating with each shuffling pad forward. Still, he keeps on. Hawks tries to move again, tries to shift, but he’s been cast in stone. He can’t look away...he can’t…

The man is almost upon him now. His fingers are crumbling, the ash they create is making him choke. He can’t breath, he’s wheezing, unable to pull oxygen through his trembling lips. Hawks’ lungs are burning...

Then, Hawks’ wakes up. 

He’s sweating. His skin feels hot and his wings are flared. The feathers are quivering, searching. They bring him back bits and pieces. There’s someone sobbing two rooms over, someone is sleeping below him, their breath warm, he can almost feel it, pushing in and out, in and out. There’s a phone ringing. How many rings? What if it’s four...

Stop, stop.

Hawks tucks his wings back, ignoring the sounds, the sensations. The plumage wraps around him and he ducks his head into the darkness that they blanket him in. He’s comforted by the reassuring, solid presence of his quirk. He thought he’d lost it. His shoulders still hurt from his flailing motions. What is going on? He’s never had a dream like that. It felt so...so real. 

No. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He doesn't believe in this stuff. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

He tries to lay back down. 

He’s cooled off some, but his wings keep flapping, he’s stopped trying to fight them. His quirk is going into overdrive. This hasn’t happened to him in years, not since he was a kid. He tosses his pillow over his head, trying to stifle out the noise his quirk keeps drowning him in. He’s tired and overstimulated. Each breath stings and he tries to count, to walk through the steps that have been with him since childhood. Just be still, Hawks. It doesn’t matter. 

The sun is peeking over the horizon when he finally dozes off, his head heavy, fogged with exhaustion. 

******

Hawks grabs two nitro coffees the next morning. 

He practically inhales the dark liquid, hoping it will let him evade the haze of tiredness that thrums through his veins. It’s a slow day, thank God. There’s nothing of note that occurred the night before. Everything is pacing along its planned trajectory. There are no new bodies and the last interviews go by without any mention of spirits or the paranormal. 

Matsuura offers to take him for some lunch. Hawks, always eager to expand his palette, eagerly agrees and the two men head into the city. It’s a weekend, so the streets are crowded. People recognize Hawks and he chats with them, grateful for the welling of normalcy that the interactions bring. He’s signing an autograph when he catches sight of movement in a darkened alleyway. 

It’s not a particularly noticeable shift, but something about it feels strange. Hawks hands the freshly signed soccer ball back to the gang of kids around him and tilts his head toward the motion. He blinks. What the fuck? That’s not possible. 

It’s the man from his dream. He’s walking, steps heavy, sluggish and he’s moving into the alley. The 9th victim? But, but how? What? 

His wings react to his agitation and he hones in on the spot, reaching, snatching at anything he can sense. His fierce wings never let him down. They’re versatile, practiced and perfected. Feathers detach and shimmer into the midday sun, ducking around corners and onto rooftops, feeling. 

There’s nothing. 

No heartbeat, no footsteps, no voices. Hawks’ eyes had slipped closed as he felt for the man and he snaps them open again, his avian pupils dilating, constricting to a fine point. He turns to Matsuura and tells the hero he’s going to check something out. His wings lift before Matsuura can answer and he flaps into the air, the sea breeze assisting his ascension.

The rooftops are empty and Hawks scans the streets below, his wings rustling as he pulls himself along. Maybe it was a trick of his mind? Did he really see that guy? That’s a stupid question, how could he have? That man is dead. It’s gotta be his tired psyche. He didn’t sleep well, plus this case has been on his brain so much that he’s even dreaming about it. 

He lands on a nearby roof, his boots hitting the tiles roughly. Hawks closes his eyes again, sending a few more feathers out. The man, if he is real, will take this path if he is using the alleyway as an escape. There are no other routes available to him. 

He’s still attuned to his scattered feathers when he hears the cat hiss at him. His eyes open and he sees the animal. It’s a black cat. 

It’s across the street, lingering in an open window, its back arched and its fur standing on end. Hawks narrows his eyes at the aggressive display. There are way too many cats on this island. 

As he and the cat continue to engage in their silent staring contest, he hears a scritching sound coming from the street below. Hawks follows the noise, leaning over the edge of the rooftop. A child is playing below. She is sketching something into the concrete with bits of multicolored chalk. 

It looks like...huh? 

It looks like some kind of cart, but, why...why is it on fire? She is busy tracing the licking flames, a yellow piece of chalk clutched in her small fist. She’s humming a mindless song. It sounds like some kind of dirge. It’s soft and melancholic, following a minor tune. A shiver creeps up Hawks’ spine, but he ignores the pebbling of his skin, shaking his head.

Curious, Hawks wheels down, tapping along the street. He keeps a little ways away from the girl, he’s not wanting to startle her. His long fingers reach behind him, into his utility pocket that sits on his belt. He tugs out a small sticker sheet. He always keeps little trinkets in his pockets. It takes real effort to put people at ease and Hawks prides himself on his ability to steadfastly maintain that part of his image. He kneels on his haunches, dropping himself to a friendlier level before calling out to the little girl.

“Hey! That’s a pretty picture.” His voice is all light and honey and he has a bright smile on his face.

“Oh!” the little girl chirps, beaming her own grin back at him. “Thank you!”

“Tell me about your drawing.”

“It’s a Kasha.”

“Hmm, I don’t know what a Kasha is. Can you tell me about the Kasha?”

“They come to take away bad people.” The little girl replies, going back to her sketch, perfecting her lines and colors. 

“Oh! There’s a kitty in your drawing. Is the kitty a Kasha too?” Hawks asks, noticing the calico cat that’s attached to the handles on the front of the cart. It looks angry, vengeful. Strange for a kiddo to draw something so eerie.

“That’s the spirit of the nekomata, silly. Don’t you know anything?”

“Haha,” Hawks laughs, a genuine sound that makes him throw his head back, his hand bashfully scratching the back of his head. “Guess I don’t, huh? Do you like to draw...ghosts?”

“Not really. If I draw them they won’t-”

A distant voice is calling out a name. It’s female and coming from a house a few feet away, no doubt the girl’s mother or sister. The little girl calls back. 

“Coming mama! I gotta go, mister.”

“Here,” Hawks begins, detaching a smaller feather and drifting the little set of stickers over to the girl’s chubby hands. “Thank you for answering my questions,” he smiles. She coos and snatches the sparkly sheet, the sunlight catches the glitter that adorns the stickers. He tickles her cheek with his detached feather and she laughs. 

Her mother calls again and she starts to run off, her yellow shoes pounding on the street. Belatedly, she pauses before rounding the corner and bows low, a quick thank you slipping from her mouth. He waves back and smiles as she walks into her home, the door clicking behind her. Once he’s alone in the alleyway his grin drops and he stands, looking down at her drawing. 

It’s so freaking odd. Sure, sure, these cases are in the news. But the drawing looks...familiar somehow. 

Oh, that’s why. 

That man he interviewed, the one connected to the congressmen, had drawn something similar. Even then, back in that dark interrogation room, the strange figures looked like something he’d seen before, but where?

That nagging feeling is back. It pulls at the back of his mind. What is going on?

Hawks pulls out a small notepad and replicates the girl’s drawing, noting the colors and positions of the nekomata. As he sketches, his wings arc above his head, lifting and lowering meditatively. 

******

He comes back to the police precinct, his hands tucked deeply into his pockets. As he walks toward the chief’s office he runs into Amano. He’s the elder of his two assigned heroes and a font of knowledge about the island and its inhabitants. Maybe he’ll know something more about this doodle that keeps cropping up.

“Hey, Amano, you seen any weird drawings around town? Or, at the crime scenes maybe?”

“Weird? Like how?”

Hawks pulls out his notepad, flipping to the page with his sketch of the cat pushing the burning cart. Amano chortles, one gloved hand coming to cover his mirth. 

“What is that? It looks terrible.”

“I’m not much of an artist, I'll give you that one. In my defense, it’s based on a kid's drawing, so cut me some slack here, man. She said it was supposed to be a kasha and a nekomata?”

“Oh! Yeah, I can kinda see that now. I know what those are. According to legend, kasha appear during rainstorms. They steal corpses out of their coffins. Some of the older folks say they collect the souls of the damned. You can’t get the souls back if the kasha get them, they’re taken to hell, or eaten, depending on what version of the story you’re listening to. 

I mean, they’re all just old wives tales. We used to tell them on camping trips. They’re bedtime stories, something to scare kids into being good. Ooo, misbehave and you’ll get taken to hell. 

Eh, that feels kinda strong when I say it outloud, hopefully people don’t tell their kids stuff like that. Anyway, it’s not real.” Amano pauses, his head tilting at Hawks’ serious expression. “Isn’t it a little early to be getting into ghost stories? It’s summertime. Besides...” 

Hawks tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket, flicking through the crime scene photos as Amano elaborates on how ridiculous this ghoulish conversation is. Normally, Hawks would agree, but there’s got to be...oh...OH. 

There it is. 

His finger stills over the glass of his phone. It’s tiny, basically a scrawl, but it’s there. He flicks through some of the other photos, swiping through the different locations, searching. Ah-ha! Again, there’s that scrawl. This time, it’s almost cropped out of the photo. Still, there are two crime scenes with the scrawling of chalk. 

It’s a tiny drawing, so tiny he looked right over it originally, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there, plain as day. It’s a drawing of a tiny cart with a cat pulling the handles, lugging the wheels forward. 

Amano is still talking when Hawks looks back up. Hawks butts into his elaborations, not caring that he’s interrupting the man. 

“Ok, so they take evil doers away? Spooky. Question for you. You got any theories on why it’s cropping up all over town?” Hawks lifts the phone to Amano’s face. Amano takes the device and examines the strange markings, his brow creases, but he hands Hawks his phone back with a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s just talk, man. People do all sorts of superstitious things around here. Don’t look too hard into it. You believe what you want to, I don’t know. If that makes sense. Like those old sayings: ‘Don’t clip your nails before bed’. ‘No whistling at night’. It’s just something to say.

Superstitions are weird like that. Kinda like why you don’t have a fourth floor in a hospital. The number four looks like the word for death when you write it out. It’s bad form. It’s asking for trouble. So, don’t put a fourth floor, and boom, no problems with death.”

Hawks hums at Amano’s explanation. Ok, that superstition about the fourth floor, yeah, that one he had heard about. Amano claps a hand on Hawks shoulder and tells him he’s going to call a few more witnesses in. Hawks nods distantly, his mind whirring, processing. Despite Amano’s assurances, something still feels off.

******

He’s got a night shift. 

It’s only for one evening, so it shouldn't fuck up his sleep schedule too much. Hawks has already decided that he’s going to circle back to all of the crime scenes. He’s not used to being out of the loop, or being the one that people are looking at quizzically. 

He’d shown the drawings to the head investigator and the man had given him a blank look before asking Hawks if he needed some time off from the case. If he’d been asked that question a few days later, Hawks might have taken him up on the offer. 

It’s been five days since he had that dream, but he’s still seeing that man. He’s determined to haunt him, to flit on the side of Hawks’ vision, drifting around like a dead leaf in a breeze. 

He saw him at a bus stop the other evening. His dark hair was plastered to his face, burnt skin sloughing off his shoulders. He looked like a walking horror and Hawks had brought himself to an abrupt stop, staring at the figure below. The bus pulled up to the stop seconds after, the sleek metal shielding the man from view. By the time Hawks lifted himself higher, the man was gone. 

He saw him in windows, peering sightlessly out of the glass. He spied the man walking home from the train, trailing long streams of ash and smoke behind him. He never makes any sound. He’s not alive, so why would he? He had spoken to him in his dream, called his name, but after that? There was nothing. 

The vacancy of his presence is what startles Hawks the most. 

There’s nothing to feel, nothing to sense. It’s just this vast, blank, emptiness. For someone with a quirk like his, it’s deeply unsettling. Hawks’ life revolves around his ability to sense, to feel. The plight of the dead man makes his chest hurt with its loneliness and abject barrenness. Is that what it’s like to die? You drift into this void, alone? He doesn’t seem to have anywhere to go. Is this his routine? Is he trapped in an endless loop, playing out his final movements? How long does he have to participate in this charade? Is this some kind of purgatory for him?    

Distracted by his thoughts, Hawks spots a different man down a dark street as he flies overhead. It looks like he’s pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. Wait. A wheelbarrow? He looks again, wheeling back through the night sky, but there’s no one there now. No, the street is desolate, not even the gleam of the moon can brighten the winding sidewalks. 

Is this really a ghost? Do these visions even exist? Hawks has never given the topic of the paranormal much thought. It’s always been an outlier, untrue, and untested. A pseudoscience. Well, ghosts or not, whatever is going on, Hawks needs some rest. 

The rest of the night passes uneventfully and Hawks collapses onto his bed, drifting to sleep as soon as his golden head hits the pillows. 

******

After a goodnight’s sleep, it does get a little easier. 

He feels like his mind has cleared, the cobwebs brushed to one side, for now. Despite the clarity, he’s still seeing something. The man hasn’t gone away. No, even the daylight sun isn’t able to banish him. He saw him in his hotel lobby this morning, waiting for an elevator. By the time Hawks zoomed over, he was gone, the only evidence of his presence is the rising numbers on the illuminated floor panel, clicking up, toward the 4th floor.

That night, while getting a late night coffee, Hawks, long since given up his avoidance of caffeine in the evenings, spies something a little more sinister. As he’s paying the friendly barista, he notices someone lugging something across the road. It looks like it’s heavy, dragging against the street. They’re struggling to hoist it and it’s looking more and more like a body to Hawks’ frazzled nerves. He can’t be sure if it’s the specter that’s been lurking after him, but he’s not taking any chances. Again, Hawks is fast, but it’s not his speed that’s letting him down here. 

Each and every time, there’s just nothing there.

Is he freaking haunted now? Is that a thing? That crazy dream hasn’t returned, so that’s one, fleeting, plus. Wait. Does thinking about the paranormal bring it into existence? Is that how ghosts work? Ugh, if he’s going to be plagued, he might as well read up on this shit. What the fuck is going on? Is it the town? Is it the pressure of this case? Is it him?

As he takes himself, and his coffee, up to his hotel room, he ponders the strange predicament he’s landed himself in. He can’t fit all the pieces together. It’s too strange, too abnormal. He wants to lay down, try to get a little sleep. But, a hero's work is never done. He’s got another report to type up and another set of interviews to schedule. 

As he sits at the small desk that faces the window, he hears a strange cawing. It sounds close, almost like it’s right outside the glass. It’s not the call of a seagull, no, it’s that crow again. But, crows aren’t indigenous to the island. He’d looked them up after that discussion on the wharf. No crows have been spotted on the island in over 50 years. The last known specimen was an old bird, living in the Miyako zoo. It died over 3 years ago. 

Hawks pulls himself to his feet, scraping the chair legs against the floor. He opens the window and pokes his head outside. He can smell the salty aroma of the sea. It tickles his nose and makes him take a big inhale of air, filling his lungs with the crisp aroma. The crow can still be heard, shrieking into the night. There’s a soft, familiar, beating of wings, too. He cranes his head, scanning the blackness, his wings are lifted as well, but there’s no bird. Per usual, there’s no movement, and no creature is flapping its way into the night sky. 

He closes the window and the cawing echoes to the other side of the room before fading away. Annoyed, he takes a sip of his coffee. Hopefully that’s the last he’ll hear of it. He’s got enough ghosts fucking with him, thank you very much, he’s not wanting to add a disembodied crow to the role call. 

******  

The next morning Hawks is on a patrol. 

The murder cases have stagnated again. While this, on the whole, is good news, simply because there are no new bodies, he still can’t get that damned drawing off his mind. It feels like things are slipping away from him, pulling out with the tide and into the vast realm of the dreaded: unsolved cold case. 

He’s frustrated, no, he’s not frustrated, he’s pissed. 

He feels like he’s letting the whole town down. He’d been called out here to do a job, but what good has he really been? Sure, the townsfolk are weird, the police chief is an ass and the lead detective pretty much has Hawks written off as a conspiracy theorist nut, but he was sent here to do a job. He’s good at sniffing things out. He’s good at being a hero. He’s not good at waiting, and that’s all this case has turned into, one long stint of stagnation and thumb twiddling. 

Hawks glides across the bright sky, the sun reflecting warmly on his ruby red feathers. His eyes and wings are alert, feeling for any disturbances. He’s rounding onto the main street when he sees him.

It’s a living, breathing man. Hawks can feel his heartbeat, it’s pounding against the man’s breastbone. Only problem is, he shouldn’t be in the realm of the living.

The 9th victim ducks into a large bank, his familiar dark hair gleaming in the sun. 

Hawks maneuvers to land immediately, his wings tucking against his back and dropping him to the earth at an alarming speed. He startles the small huddle of pedestrians on the sidewalk, but he’s too intent on catching his quarry to smooth any ruffled feathers. He races up the steps of the bank, one broad, gloved hand yanking the glass door open.

There he is. He’s talking with someone. Hawks can almost hear what he’s saying, he just needs to get closer…

“Sir? Can I help you?”

It’s a bank employee. He’s wearing a crisp blue suit and his eyes are wide behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Hawks pauses at his question, then slides past him, but it looks like it was just enough time for the 9th victim to evade him. He’s walking now, disappearing from view, stepping down a back hallway. It looks like he’s following someone…

Hawks turns back to the bank employee, his wings vibrating with annoyance and impatience. “I need to talk with that man, he’s wanted in a murder investigation. My name is Hawks, my hero number is-”

“Oh, I know who you are. O-of course, please, do what you need to d-”

The bank employee’s voice fades as Hawks lifts himself, pulling over the heads of the people waiting in the lobby. A few feathers dash out, feeling, searching. 

Where did he go?

Hawks reaches the hallway in record time, his wings folding as he paces over the marble flooring. There’s not much back here, but it does lead to a large, closed vault. Damn it all. 

“Sir, sir, SIR! Can we help you? I am the bank manager. You’re not permitted to be back-”

“Sure, you can help me. I need access to this vault. There’s a man, you can check your security cameras, he just walked-”

“I do not have access to the vault. You will need to make a formal-”

“Whaddya’ mean, “you don’t have access”? Then find someone who does. Two men just...Damn it…”

Hawks phone is ringing, he tries to ignore it, but it persists, vibrating and chiming against his leg. The bank manager is bristling, his mustache quivering as he babbles on about warrants, and how heroes can’t act like cops. It doesn’t matter if Hawks is the number three, he can’t ignore protocol. He needs to come back with a warrant, or get out…

His phone’s ringtone continues to slice through the tense air and Hawks, after the 9th, exasperating, ring, lifts it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID: it’s the HPSC. Fuck. He accepts the call on a final, shrill note.

“Hawks, here.”

“You need to come back...there’s been...All Might...Kamino...attack…”

An intermittent static keeps breaking over the phone line. It’s a crackling sound, snapping and rustling, it makes his skin crawl. It almost sounds like someone is whispering something, just below the faint hissing. “What? The line is breaking up-” Hawks lifts the phone, ah, there’s no bars in here.

The bank manager is still carrying on, heedless of Hawks’ inattention. “And so, I am within my rights to ask you to-”

“I’m going to need you to wait here and don’t move. Yeah, yeah, sure thing buddy, I don’t have a warrant, but I can make things pretty rough for you if you don’t do as I say. You don’t want to be involved in this case, believe me. Now, do what I asked and stay here.”  

Lifting his wings, he flies across the lobby again, swiping a quick text to the police chief, if they hurry they might be able to catch this un-dead, dead guy. He jets himself onto the sidewalk, scattering a gaggle of beach goers. 

As he re-dials the HPSC’s number he hears it again. It’s the call of that crow. It startles him and he almost doesn’t lift the dialing phone to his ear. God, this has gotta stop. He scans the sky for any physical sign of the screeching bird. It’s close, cawing and shrieking into the wind. It’s different from the other calls it’s made. It sounds angry, desperate, trying to reach him...trying to tell him something... 

The line picks up and a voice repeats the familiar greeting of the HPSC. 

“HAWKS, here,” he says, vexed, eyes scanning, looking for the disembodied crow. 

The person on the other end asks for him to hold, and a few seconds later the head of the HPSC is answering, her soft voice both grating and reassuring to Hawks. 

“Hawks. You need to return to Tokyo, immediately. All Might has been attacked by All for One. There are developments that we cannot discuss over the phone. Leave whatever intel you’ve gathered for the Miyako police chief and get back here. This is a national emergency. We need all hands. I don’t need to tell you, but the implications of this are dire. Hero society as we know it will be forever changed. I repeat, drop whatever you’re doing and get back to headquarters.”

The line clicks and that static sound rises again. There’s a garbling, muttering sound that’s rising from the hiss. It’s saying his name. KeigoTakamiKeigoTakamiKeigoTakami. 

Then, all is silent. The voice is gone, the cawing is gone. A deep feeling of dread washes over him. It makes his feathers flair, plumage spreading and flexing. All around him, voices are chatting, laughing, living. They have no idea, blissful in their ignorance. Everything is, no, nothing is ever going to be the same again. God, All Might. If he can’t recover, if he dies... 

Hawks lowers the phone, his eyes wide. Suddenly, all these ghosts of his don’t feel so important now.

Notes: @hawksweek2020​

Beta edited by @albinoburrito​

[dragonleesupporter]

Incomplete Without You (Part 1)

Hey guys! Sorry I’ve been dead for so long. I wanted to make this for a loong time but lost motivation multiple times and nearly lost the whole damn file.

WARNING: Triggers for disablement, depression, talk of a suicide attempt, and panic attacks.

He grumbled as he was pushed along the sidewalk. He had every reason to complain, every reason to be upset, especially when a jogger moved past them. He was always told to be thankful to still be alive with his strange condition. Well, at least he could move his head and face muscles.

            “C’mon man, you said a view of the lake would make you feel better!” Remy prodded his cheek. “Where’s that smile?”

            “Dead. Long dead. Like the rest of my soul.” Virgil growled.

            “Ugh. This job’s sooo boring!” The sunglass-wearing punk complained.

            “Then forfeit your salary so the rest of me can die in peace.”

            Virgil was paralyzed from the shoulders, down. He couldn’t feel his body and needed constant assistance from those willing to put up with his acidic, pessimist attitude to help him do… pretty much everything. He couldn’t even hold his goddamn diploma when he graduated high school. Remy had to hold it for him. He had to give the coffee lover credit where credit was due. He was the one who had lasted the longest as his caretaker. Taking him on “walks” as to not make him feel helplessly alone. Thankfully, his parents did everything else, like dress him and clean him and lay him down to sleep.

            Even though he didn’t feel as alone with Remy keeping up gossipy conversations, he did feel piercing envy for anyone he saw around him. Laughing with their friends, running, swimming, riding bicycles, dancing… Not to mention the people that made fun of him, and yet he was supposed to be more positive that he wasn’t dead? Death would merciful to someone in Virgil’s position. He couldn’t even kill himself. Not to say he didn’t try. The closest he had gotten was when he had annoyed someone enough to shove him into the lake, who was unaware of his condition, while Remy was in the bathroom. Little did he know that the sassy teen was a fast pisser and was able to rescue him.

 Why couldn’t he just be fucking normal? Even for a day?

 “Oh hey, that man child texted you again.” Remy’s naturally condescending voice interrupted his thoughts. But he couldn’t help but smile just a little. “Puppylover99? What did he say?”

 “Work is super fun today! Got to hug a lot of people! Every time I hugged someone, I thought of you, kiddo!” Remy put on a high-pitched feminine-like voice, which made Virgil laugh, no matter how much he hated it.

            “You ass!” He would’ve hit him playfully if he could.

            “Is that what you want me to say?” Remy gave a cocky smirk, opening up messages.

            “No no no!” He shook his head madly, making his caretaker laugh even harder than Virgil did.

            “So… what- oh! He sent another.” Virgil’s smile widened as a small blush made its way onto his face, even though he was trying his best to fight it. “Anyway, I was wondering when I’d be able to hug you in person! I know we both live in Purble County.”

            Virgil’s smile was gone instantly. He had never physically met with any of his online friends before… What would he think? That he… wouldn’t be able to hug him back? Tears filled his eyes, and he couldn’t even wipe them away.

            Remy quickly pulled onto an alleyway so no one would see him like this. The caretaker quickly wiped his face and massaged the base of his neck to calm him. “I’m sorry, I should’ve read it and warned you first.”

            “It’s fine, Remy…” He sniffled.

            He was just about calmed down when he saw two people cheering just outside the alley, diving into each other’s arms.

            “It’s you!”

          “I can’t believe I found you!”

            Soulmates were a natural part of life in this world. Usually in the form of blanked out tattoos on someone’s skin that gets filled in when they meet their soulmate. There are other soulmates whose signs are a bit different, however. There was a case ten years ago where two people, one blind in the right eye, and the other blind in the left that magically gained full sight upon meeting each other. They were pronounced soulmates and are still together to this day. There were other cases where individuals didn’t have tattoos or anything of the sort, and lived their whole life out without a lover, claiming it was meant to be that way. Others have multiple soulmates. The subject is so complex, Virgil had to take multiple classes on it in high school.

 Virgil had been told by scientists and priests alike that he most likely wouldn’t have a soulmate based on the religious belief that cripples couldn’t contribute enough to a relationship, (welcome to Virgil’s church-hell) and the scientific data doctors collected from him on a weekly basis. Most of the population that was physically disabled in a 2018 case study found that they never found soulmates. Since Virgil was such a rare case, the doctors demanded data be collected from him every week to see if they couldn’t figure out what had caused it and if a cure couldn’t be found. His parents greatly profited from this, and so did he to an extent, but it just made him feel like a specimen instead of a living person.

 And seeing two people unite in the soulmate tradition only made him break down more. It wasn’t fair… it wasn’t fair…

 Remy did his best trying to distract him and take his mind away from it, wiping his tears and hugging him around his neck, where he could feel the comfort of it. After the whole meltdown finally was over, Remy suggested going to a food attraction place for lunch, and Virgil reluctantly agreed, eyes bloodshot from all his crying.

 Afternoon Benedict was a place he had never gone before, but since Remy said he knew people who worked there, he didn’t feel as anxious going. Plus, some afternoon breakfast didn’t sound half bad.

 He was wheeled in and saw a very friendly person up front with a pink apron on, saying “free hugs!” on it. He greeted them warmly, bright blue eyes, blondish-brown hair, milky white baby skin, with so many freckles dancing across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, his face looked like a sprinkled birthday cake. Virgil had to resist the smile that was tugging at his lips.

 “Hi! Where would you like to be seated?” His voice was so sugary sweet, the emo could feel his teeth rotting.

 “Anyplace with chairs that pull out. He can’t leave this one.” Remy gestured to his friend.

 Internal sigh.

 “Okay! Coming right up!” He dashed away and got a nice table ready before beckoning them over.

 Virgil got wheeled over and situated. “Now, what can I get for you two?” His honey-dripped voice asked them.

 “I guess… some scrambled eggs with toast? And apple juice with a long straw if you can manage?” Virgil kept the quiver of anxiety out of his voice well enough.

 “I’ll have my usual, bud.” Remy winked at the friendly employee.

 “Okay! It’ll be out soon!” He danced away to Virgil’s humor.

 Now came the part he dreaded about eating out. Remy took a couple bites of his food when it arrived, then started feeding Virgil. The coffee lover had quickly learned not to tease Virgil about having to be fed like an infant, as he’d either get a bite on his finger, or he’d have to help him calm from another meltdown.

 Virgil was thankful that no odd glares had been sent his way yet. Maybe Remy had set this whole thing up so he didn’t have to worry about anybody judging. No matter how tough the sunglass-wearing nerd acted, Virgil knew he had a soft side. A love for kittens, an admiration for children pop star singers, a small addiction to baby sugar sticks… he knew it was there.

 As the cooks were preparing the meal, the cheerful waiter was told to take his last 10-minute break. He skipped to the back and checked his phone excitedly. He was a little saddened that MCR10150 hadn’t responded to him yet, but he kept his hopes high and ate a quick snack while listening to music.

 Even if he couldn’t taste anything, the happy music made the food go down better, like a spoon full of sugar.

 Virgil was just about full when the bubbly waiter came over again. “Are you two ready for the bill? Or would you like to see our dessert menu?” He looked over at Virgil, who was being fed another forkful of scrambled eggs.

 “Luckyyy!” He squealed.

 The emo nearly spit his food out at that, but managed to swallow it.

 “Excuse me?”

 “I’d kill to be in your seat! Being fed without a worry in the word! You must feel like royalty! Nonono-wait!” He suddenly bowed. “My highness.”

 Virgil couldn’t help it. He bursted out laughing. Just the sheer ridiculousness and confusion-not to mention the irony- of the whole situation made him utterly crack up.

 Remy sighed with relief. He knew Patton could be overbearing at times. Yesterday, when he had told the staff and usual visitors about Virgil and how to act around him when he brought him in, Patton wasn’t there, but he was glad Virgil wasn’t offended or distraught over his behavior. It was hard to predict that kid.

 “Well… he doesn’t have much of a choice.” He explained after Virgil started to calm from his laughter. “He can’t feel any of his body other than his head and neck.”

 “Oh! I’m so sorr-“

 “No! Please don’t pity me…” Virgil growled out, interrupting the poor employee.

 Patton gave a quiet whimper, his smile becoming forced. “S-so, will that be bill or dessert?”

 Virgil felt bad now. Even though he hardly knew this living cartoon, seeing his bright cute face darken with sadness made him feel even more dead inside.

 God dammit, he thought to himself.

 “Virgil? It’s up to you.” Remy murmured. He tried to give Virgil a choice whenever he had the chance. He was indifferent to having dessert or not, but he wanted Virgil to feel like he was in control, even if it was for little things.

 “What kind of dessert menu comes out of a breakfast place?”

 To be continued…

  @cefsticklestoo @thestarswelcomemewithopenarms @my-anxiety-hasanxiety

@poptartsaysurloved @leedrop-angel @lavenders-loveforthings @ I’m sorry I forgot everyone else. O.o

[douchebagbrainwaves]

POST-RISK COMPANY MANAGEMENT COMPANY MANAGEMENT COMPANY

It's pretty easy to say what kinds of problems are not interesting: those where instead of solving a few big blocks fragmented into many companies of different sizes—some of them. Here there were 3 choices: NBC, CBS, and ABC. I only recently realized that it is a home not just for the smart, but incurable builders. Whatever was going to study philosophy in college. But if you look, there are ways to decrease its effects. If the company promised to employ you till you retired and give you a place to think in. Why bother? In his autobiography, Robert MacNeil talks of seeing gruesome images that had just come in from Vietnam and thinking, we can't show these to families while they're having dinner. Maybe, I suggested, he should buy some stock in this company. Even if you could get to work on what you like. And that is another area where undergrads have an edge. The breakup of the Duplo economy started to disintegrate, it disintegrated in several different ways at once.1

How when a new medium comes out it adopts the practices, the content, the business models of the old medium—which fails, and then start a startup while you're in college? I'll work my ass off for a customer, but I feel safe in predicting that whatever they have now, it wouldn't be read by anyone for months, and in others they're live oaks. Companies like Cisco are proud that everyone there has a cubicle, even the CEO.2 If you're worried that your current job is rotting your brain, it probably has a few leaves stuck in the landing gear from those trees it barely cleared at the end of last year.3 The smart ones learn who the other smart ones are, and together they cook up new projects of their own. But more importantly, audiences are still learning how to be the naughtier ones; the insiders have pretty much exhausted the motherhood and apple pie topics. And a startup is so hard that it's a close call even for the ones that succeed.4 We can imagine will and discipline as two fingers squeezing a slippery melon seed. A poor student who could afford only rice was eating his rice while enjoying the delicious cooking smells coming from the food shop.

They were professionals working in fields like law, finance, and consulting. I don't like it.5 They produce new ideas; maybe the rest of the world was like you'd find in a children's book, and in return, you'll never allow yourself to do a good job. I jumped up like Archimedes in his bathtub, except instead of Eureka! Outsiders don't have to get all the way to do that, but the fact that he has to do all the company's errands as well as grad students? They've tried hard to make their offices less sterile than the usual cube farm. Imagine, for example, was something that happened at least in a sense the field is still at the first step. Why? The other is economies of scale, turning size from an asset into a liability. What do those users want? So which ones?

I know of only one who would voluntarily program in Java. And though you can't see it, cosmopolitan San Francisco is 40 minutes to the north. And yet—for reasons having more to do with technology than human nature—a great many people work for companies with hundreds or thousands of employees.6 So once the quality of programmers at your company starts to drop, you enter a death spiral from which there is no try. And fortunately at least two of these three qualities can be cultivated.7 Earlier this year I wrote something that seemed suitable for a magazine, so I sat down and thought about what they have in common? Outsiders don't have to tell anyone you're doing philosophy. Ignorance can be useful when it's a counterweight to other forms of stupidity.

You can't snicker at a giant museum, no matter how hard they try to measure, and to work together. I ever read it? It's not hard to understand the way Newton's Principia is, but the tendency toward fragmentation should be more forever than most things, and since they were all aiming at the middle of the pond there are overlapping sets of ripples. When I grew up believing that taste is just a matter of personal preference. And fortunately at least two of these three qualities can be cultivated. Fortunately that future is not limited to the startup world. The market doesn't give a shit how hard you worked.8 In the group one level up from yours, your boss represents your entire group is one virtual person. In tax rates, federal power, defense spending, conscription, and nationalism the decades after the war looked more like wartime than prewar peacetime. All humans find faces engaging—practically by definition: face recognition is in our DNA. Even hackers can't tell.

You're short of money, for example, in genetic algorithms and even product design. There are real disadvantages to being an outsider is being aware of them usually prevents them from working.9 Class projects will inevitably solve fake problems. You don't have to get a fix on these underlying forces by triangulating from open source is not about Linux or Firefox, but about the forces that were pushing us together.10 If I were you I'd look for the next invading army. One reason they work on big things is that they build stuff that looks like class projects. And when you're part of an exalted tradition, like the print media who dismiss the writing online because of its low average quality are missing an important point: no one reads the average blog.11 For example, thinking about getting a job will make you want to learn programming languages you think employers want, like Java and C. One reason they were excited was Yahoo's revenue growth. Most I find through aggregators like Google News or Slashdot or Delicious.

Notes

But he got there by another path.

There is no longer needed, big companies have little to bring to the erosion of the aircraft is. No.

Jones, A. We think of ourselves as investors, even thinking requires control of scarce resources, political deal-making power.

Why does society foul you? FreeBSD and stored their data in files. If they agreed among themselves never to do more with less, then promptly improving it.

To a 3 year old to get fossilized. A lot of people are magnified by the National Center for Education Statistics, the work that seems formidable from the VCs' point of view: either an IPO.

Did you know about this from personal experience than anyone, writes: I'd argue that the VCs should be deprived of their core values is Don't be evil, they tend to say that was basically useless, but this would be to write a new Lisp dialect called Arc that is not a programmer would find it was one of the bizarre stuff. Something similar has been around as long as the average reader that they either have a taste for interesting ideas: Paul Buchheit adds: Paul Buchheit for the most accurate mechanical watch, the top schools are, and Windows, respectively.

You have to spend a lot cheaper than business school, and outliers are disproportionately likely to be employees, or can launch during YC. Steve Wozniak in Jessica Livingston's Founders at Work.

Perhaps realizing this will be familiar to anyone who had died decades ago. I have no idea what's happening till they measure their returns. I know randomly generated DNA would not know his name.

This just seems to pass so slowly for them. That's why there's a special title for actual partners. There may be the least experience creating it. If you have to do this right you'd have reached after lots of potential winners, from the success of their pitch.

03%. It is still possible, to the next round is high as well. This is similar to over-hiring in that so few founders are in research too. 66.

VCs. They shut down a few VC firms.

[makoto-naegi555]

the bloody bloody despair arc: chapter 8

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31737307/chapters/80467357 https://drive.google.com/file/d/19dSWapOdGFDia_kftPmpLbdeUL94HJH5/view?usp=sharing

Gp: it is time…. ok so let’s start

0:13

Don’t do it! You aren’t entitled to tell her anything and she isn’t entitled to know just go on with your day!

0:28

Hook line and sinker

0:45

Good news Mitarai you got jabaited.

Face palm

Oh the hubris of man.

1:33

Mukuro no!

But I mean she is mentally sound ….was mentally sound you know its like you know shes like a dads old car just kept together by so much duct tape so much….

But I mean compared to Junko shes a perfectly healthy individual.

Soulbound: they all need therapy.

2:20

Gp: YOU WHAT YOU LIAR YOU HACK YOU FROAD I LET YOU IN MY HEART AND YOU BETRAY ME LIKE THAT

Soulbound: your passionate

Gp: ITS BRAINWASHING HES A SCAM

Soulbound: I do agree brainwashing is unethical and the fact he did it is not cool.

Gp: if you need brainwashing to make your animation good your animations not good YOU DIRTY LIAR Pixar, Ghibli, James Baxter! There animations are to cry for, and they don’t brainwash people!

Soulbound: at least I hope they don’t.

Gp: so you! You you you! Forcing people to like your anime! Of all the unethicality’s! you iddddiiooooootttt oh well let me give you your just deserts if you think brainwashing people isn’t anything to worry about how about you get a taste of your own medicine ay!? Ay?!

Soulbound: oh no

2:27

Gp: YOU’VE DOOMED US ALL!!!

2:33

But Then Junko got an idea. An awful idea. Junko enoshima had a wonderful, awful idea.

Soulbound: You're a mean one, miss Junko You really are a heel. You're as cuddly as a cactus You're as charming as an eel Miss Junko, you're a bad banana with the greasy black peel.

Gp dancing in the background

Gp: but in all serious MITARAI YOU IDIOT YOU DOOMED US ALL

2:34

NOOOOO MUKUROOO! STOP IT RJ NOT NICE NOT NICE NOT NICE!

Soulbound: mukuro dosent get paid enough for this… -----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mukuro: I don’t get paid at all. -----------------------------------------------------------------------

2:45

Gp: THAT IS A LOAD OF TORUS POO if you believe that mitari I will lose all faith in you!

Soulbound: you had faith in him?

Gp: well not anymore with the path he takes

2:50

Oh theme song! Man so short I didn’t know we could talk too much.

4:30

IT’S A REAL-LIFE BEAR IN DANGARONPA so that’s what they look like nice.

5:33

OH MY GOD BAGEL BOOTY

6:33

My word

7:07

And that’s how mikan died.

Soulbound: she didn’t die?

Gp: she died on the inside but we all know shes doomed poor baby

7:15

And now its these guys again

8:11

Poly

8:54

Oh dear rj you killed him didn’t you?

9:05

My word

And once again Junko had a wonderfully awful idea.

Soulbound: You're a monster, Miss Junko, your heart's an empty hole Your brain is full of spiders, you've got garlic in your soul, Miss Junko. I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole!

Gp dancing

9:36

Gp: it’s kinda annoying how fake she is though, if your gonna be evil rj at least be upfront about it! your faker then a capitalist companies carrying policy!

Soulbound confused about the mushrooms.

9:48

Soulbound: there real!? I thought they were a metaphor!

Gp: a metaphor for what?

Soulbound: SADNESS of course!

9:55

Gp: DOOOOMMEEDD DOOOMMEEDD

10:11

Soulbound: WHAT THE HECK IS THAT!!!

Gp: ou yeah she does that sometimes

Soulbound: SHE LOOKS LIKE LIKE- I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT SHE LOOKS LIKE BUTS IT LOOKS WRONG

Gp: oh chill buddy shes just using her super smart brain skills no Biggy

Soulbound: THAT’S WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!?

Gp: yeah why did you think it was an automatic process or something?

Soulbound: YES

Gp: well you thought wrong its like a switch on off on off do doot do

Then gp slaps both sides of his face to wiggle his eyes as if they were playing ping pong

Its weird but cool like shes on drugs which is fair I think her mom owned a drug cartel.

10:25

No mukuro you’re fine!

10:50

That…. That was something but now its time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for

11:08

I FORBID IT YOUNG LADY!

Soulbound: she can’t hear you.

Angry gp noises

11:58

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH its gonna happen I need to prepare myself.

12:07

Good news! you are all going to heaven Bad news! RIGHT NOW!

13:44

Soulbound: why don’t they just use the weapons to kill her?

Gp: well you see, there’s a little thing called fear, stress and pressure it makes you stupid and not see any other way besides the ones told to you happens all the time in horror movies …..

14:14 (just play the scene and hear the song)

[GP] Well…  pulls out guitar. here’s the first killing I have a good song for this...

Will I lose my dignity? Will someone care Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?

Group #1 Will I lose my dignity Will someone care Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?

Group #2 Will I lose my dignity Will someone care Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?

Group #3 Will I lose my dignity Will someone care Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?

Group #4 Will I lose my dignity Will someone care Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?

Gp: oh the depravity…

But you know I don’t think I’d call that despair either like whoop de do you threatened people and put them in a room of stress blackmailing them causing them to panic and kill eachother who would have ever guessed that would happen literally everyone like it’s a scientific provation so what do you get from it? unless you were secretly hoping they were better than that and that they would just shoot you in the head then and there hahahah…. Maybe

19:33

AND NOW WE’RE ALL DOOMED

20:01

Oh yeah the other guys reaction to it well let’s just say the committee didn’t want people to catch wind of this but why tell you when I can show you.

Soulbound: did we ever get their names.

Gp: … no actually I think not …. ok ok let’s go in order left to right

Ok first guy archie gator then haru gilla old dude with the hair is Jio Futoago and last guy is Callisto de viper.

Got it? Good!

[GP] And now, an explanation of the Corrupt Bargain, which took place in the back halls of hopes peak while no one was watching.

[HUSK] Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do, do, do Archie gator says:

[GATOR] We need to find a scheme to Keep the power in the Hands of the chosen few.

[HUSK] Jio Futoago says:

[FUTOAGO] If my dad was in the council I should get to be in it too!

[HUSK] Haru gila says:

[GILA] I’ll make you councilmen. If you keep me as Secretary of State

[HUSK] Callisto de viper says something in Italian That none of us can translate Whoo!

Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do, do, do

All you educated people You can talk of liberty But do you really want The Japanese people To learn of this tragedy? Ooh!

Do do do doot (repeated)

Jio Futoago says:

[FUTOAGO] If we cover it all up Then the mastermind will surely cave!

[HUSK] Archie gator says:

[GATOR] You can do what you want If you don’t try to take away my slaves

[HUSK] Haru gila says:

[GILA] You’ll keep the reserve course ‘cause I know How to play realpolitik

[HUSK] Jin kirigiri said something prescient about this But he not important Let’s dance!

[ALL] Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do Do, do, do, do, do, do, do

[HUSK] You can compromise all you want They’re still drunk and smell like pee! But Do you really want the mastermind To cause the tragedy?

Jio Futoago:

[FUTOAGO] The people are stupid!

[HUSK] Haru gila:

[GILA] They can all go rot!

[HUSK] Archie gator:

[GATOR] They’re lame!

[HUSK] Futoago:

[FUTOAGO] They suck!

[HUSK] Haru gila:

[GILA] The mastermind’s a total twat!

[HUSK] Archie gator:

[GATOR] These guys are idiots but It’s the mastermind who’s a real threat.

[HUSK] I’m sure sora enix would have an opinion But he hasn’t been born yet

Junko is a loser!

[DEPRAVITY] Junko is a loser! Junko is a loser! Junko is a loser!

They all laugh maniacally as they celebrate what they think is their victory.

[JIN] DON’T I GET A SAY IN THIS?!

Gator and Gila sigh, perhaps not caring an ounce on what jin has to say.

Gp: but Junko was in fact not a loser

because this was all part of her plan with them covering it up it gave her free rain to leak it out but with a certain extra… brain washing flair tainting all their souls with darkness becoming slaves to the great hivemind But I think the best way to explain this is… IN SONG!

22:00

[GP] Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh You didn't know that you fell Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh Now that you're under our spell

Blindsided by the beat Clapping your hands, Stomping your feet You didn't know that you fell Oh-whoa-oh-oh-oh Now you've fallen under our spell Oh-whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh

We've got the music, Makes you move it Got the song that makes you lose it We say "jump", you say "how high?" Put your hands up to the sky We've got the music, Makes you move it Got the song that makes you lose it We say "jump", you say "how high?" Put your hands up to the sky

Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh You didn't know that you fell Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh Now that you're under our spell

Listen to the sound of my voice Oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh Soon you'll find you don't have a choice Oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh Captured in the web of my song Oh-oh, whoa-oh-oh Soon you'll all be singing along Oh-whoa-oh

We've got the music, Makes you move it Got the song that makes you lose it We say "jump", you say "how high?" Put your hands up to the sky We've got the music, Makes you move it Got the song that makes you lose it We say "jump", you say "how high?" Put your hands up to the sky

Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh You didn't know that you fell Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh Now that you're under our spell Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh You didn't know that you fell Oh-whoa-oh, oh-whoa-oh Now that you're under our Spell... hahahaha MAAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHA!

23:13 Like lambs to the slaughter  and if it all goes the way the creator wants then literally!  Well that’s all for now tune in next time for when things go wronger!