#life is a wisp; a vapor; a flash--and then it is gone

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24-26, 2023

End Times Prophecy Report HEADLINES FRIDAY-SATURDAY-SUNDAY March 24-26, 2023 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky ===INTERNATIONAL UKRAINE: Russia Launches Attacks Across Ukraine, Killing Seven in School…

[asterroidd]

fragment in time

↬ Reincarnation/Soulmate AU

—Wherein past lovers would always find each other in a different life.

↬ Pairing: Levi Ackerman/Reader

↬ Word count: 4.4k

↬ Synopsis: Perhaps in another lifetime, you and Levi would finally be together.

↬ not proofread, capn’ :’)

   The smell of blood wafted through the air. Screams of terror of fallen soldiers plagued your senses as man-eating-giants unhinged their jaws, their large teeth sinking down into the soft flesh of your comrades. Their blood splattered around, your terrified eyes watching each and every one in your squad being eaten alive by the titans.

   It was a simple mistake, an error created by the supposed messenger from the other squad of soldiers reporting in to inform you of the titan wreaking havoc amongst the lands to the west. You took them upon their word, heeding into the information, and as such steered the squad towards the east to avoid the chaos.

   But they were supposed to say east. East was where the giant beasts are.

   Which brings you back to today's scene, wherein you are badly injured—and perhaps internally bleeding—with an aberrant titan desolating your men.

   Biting down your cheeks, you groaned in pain as you adjusted yourself into a sitting position. Hands flying down to your stomach in attempts to stop the bleeding caused by a titan that caught you earlier.  You were in death's door—a foot in the grave you have dug yourself in ever since you signed up to be a soldier in the Survey Corps—ready to embrace the sweet release of death that would finally rid you of this hellish world. That is until one of your men saved you, slicing the fingers that are wrapped around your torso and harshly tossed you to the side and out of harm's way.

   You froze in horror, unable to recover your mental state after being a hair's width to cessation.

   "Lieutenant (____)! Take my horse and esca—" was their last words before the titan bit of their head. The beast looming over their figure, a sickening grin adorned their face as saliva trickled down its chin. It let out a small grunt of pleasure, gulping down the severed head of your comrade. Their lifeless body slowly slumped down until they fell with a thud against the grass. Dirt mixed with fresh blood dirtied their pristine white shirt they wore along with the Survey Corps uniform.

   You felt so useless. . .so powerless.

   The scene played inside your thoughts like a broken record playing in repeat. Over and over again. . .

   It was a nightmare much worse than those you have in your sleep. No. . . this is reality. This was actually happening right before your eyes. With a shaky hand, you brought it up to cup your cheek, smearing blood all over it as you lightly pinched yourself to confirm that you are actually awake and are not simply dreaming.

   You wanted to save your squad—your friends whom you trained and joked with back inside the walls. The very same people who were assigned to you by Erwin.  But you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

   Your body wouldn't budge.

   It was as if fate was tricking with you—letting time slow down for you to witness the horrific scene before you. You wanted to take a break, just a brief moment to recollect your thoughts and congregate yourself to fight back against the titans. You wanted to fight back; to slice the nape of the titan that killed most of your squad. But you find yourself unable to. Shoulders slumping down in defeat, eyes swimming with salty tears, and mouth so dry like those desserts Armin spoke of.

    As the titan's hands hover above, your life flashed before you. Recounting your most joyous moments from childhood to adulthood. Like that one time your mother gave you a hand-sewn doll for your birthday. Or when you got accepted to the Survey Corps despite your family's protests.

    You'll die a terrible death, they say. It's safer inside the walls.

    But you defied them, enlisting your name the moment it was announced that the military branch was recruiting a new set of soldiers for the next expedition happening in a few months. Your first time outside the walls was different.

    Instead of puking everywhere and shaking in your horse, you felt strangely calm and excited. Not only that but you also easily killed the titans coming your way. Which in return shocked the higher-ups and eventually gave you your own squad a few months later due to your pure skill.

    But perhaps the most memorable event in your life was meeting your fiance, Levi Ackerman. You met him a few years back—when he was still a fresh new recruit just like you. His skills with the 3d maneuver gear were no joke. The male looked so graceful whilst swinging from tree to tree. Moving as fast as sound as he sliced off the napes of giant beasts that dared come close to him.

    You idolized him at first—looking up to him in astonishment and hopes that one day, you would also possess the same prowess as him. Perhaps being on par with him in speed and killing titans was your goal. And so you set out to accomplish that ambition of yours; training every day until you pass out from exhaustion, harnessing your skills in hand-to-hand combat, and of course, improving your technique in using the 3d maneuver gear.

     That surely got his interest, because months later Levi started to acknowledge you more. Whether it was a simple nod and greeting when both of you passed each other in the hallways. Visiting you in your room when he knew a friend of yours died during the expedition. And of course, Levi bringing you tea to your office in the wee hours of the morning whilst you are drowning in piles and piles of paperwork.

    Before you knew it, you and he confessed to each other one night. You remembered it as clear as day. There were no clouds that moment, letting the moon shine brightly and provide light to the dimmest corners of the base. The stars were also out, glimmering in a rhythmic pattern that you grew to love.

    I think I have feelings for you. . .romantic ones, you first confessed to him. Your hands bawled up in a tight fist, your eyes screwed shut, and heart hammering against your chest in anticipation of his answer. Much to your delight, he reciprocated your feelings.

    That's good to hear, you swore there was a small smile. I feel the same way.

    You relish in the memories of you and Levi inside his office. Every activity with him makes your heart swell and heat rush to your face. Being with Levi makes you forget the horrors of the world offers and instead replace it with comfort and blissful moments. Whether it was a simple trip downtown, spontaneous cuddle sessions when no one was around, and of course the pleasure-filled occasions with him behind the closed door of his office.

    You treasured every moment inside your heart. And you would do whatever it takes to experience those once again.

    What you were going to do was obviously a suicide mission—you should've just taken a horse just like what your comrade said. But you are one stubborn one.

    Despite your body screaming in pain and agony, you won't die in vain. No, you'll stand up and fight back. Levi is expecting you to return back home intact and alive. You fired the hooks in a nearby tree, reeling yourself towards it before releasing it. There was a brief moment you're flying in the air. Everything was silent save for you hearing your own clamoring heartbeat against your rib cage. You've managed to escape in the nick of time, the titan's fists closing in the area where you once were. You could've died right then and there if it weren't for you acting quickly.

    Your eyes clouded with rage, you fired the hooks once again, only this time to the nape of the beast. In one fell swoop, its nape detached itself from the rest of the body.  A grunt escaped past your lips, an electric-like shot of pain coursed your veins. Air whistled past your ears as your velocity pushed you towards the side. Somehow in the process of killing the titan, its blood splattered on your face as well clothes.

    With immediate effect, mind you, as small wisps of smoke emerged from your clothes. A sign that the blood is vaporizing. You kept your eyes low, staring at the gaping mouth of the now-deceased beast. Within a few minutes, its once strong skin would disintegrate. Turning into piles of bones that, if given more time, would also fall apart. Like a bubble bursting into nothingness once in contact with air.

    You let out a small sigh of relief, letting your knees buckle and come in contact with the ground. It was a miracle that you could move despite your wounds.

    Though, you celebrated all too early.

    A shiver went down your spine as you heard the loud thumping behind. You whipped your head to the sound, eyes widening as a titan much bigger than the one you have killed was making its way towards you. Their mouth was stretched in an eerie smile, body covered with blood—with what you presumed was human's from another group of soldiers. Perhaps it heard the commotion and as such ventured towards the sound.

    "Shit. . ." you cursed, finally realizing that you were out of gas and the blades are dull. The horses, as you observed earlier, were injured and some ran away. Even the one your comrade left for you was long gone, nowhere to be seen.

    You imagined death so much it feels like a memory. Is this where it gets you? On your knees while the titan several feet ahead of you. You see it coming as clear as day, the surroundings a blur as you fixed attention on the beast. Do you run? Do you scream? Do you close your eyes and accept death? Though, you knew all too well that with your cracked ribs and injury, you wouldn't run as far.

    You chose the latter.

    Hands releasing the blades, you closed your eyes as you embraced the impending death.

    When the titan wrapped its fingers around your finger, you kept your mouth shut. Not even a scream escaping past. Your breath hitched, breathing in the godawful stench as the beast opened its mouth. Perhaps salivating at the thought of gnawing at your flesh.

    A choice with no regrets, that is what Levi said. True, you had a lot of regrets throughout your life, but you would never regret meeting him and enjoying every moment with him. Even if it was brief and shortcoming, you cherished it. Though, you truly did hope you would see his face once again. To relish under his touch. To hear his voice once more. Oh, how you wished you bid farewell before you take your final breath.

    You cried in pain as its teeth slowly sunk into your flesh, your lower half of the body bit by bit being detached from the rest. Tears streamed down your cheeks. This was finally it. The moment wherein you would take your last breath and leave this hellish reality.

    That is, until a strong gust of wind passed by.

    "(____)!!" you knew the voice all too well. It was Levi's.

    You opened your eyes, realizing now that the male had successfully killed the beast and is now carrying you in his arms. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising up and down vehemently. "You—" he started. Fear danced in his eyes, perhaps tears clouding his vision despite his attempts to keep it at bay. It was a rare sight to see Levi crying, usually, only a handful of people get to witness it. That said, you were always the one to comfort him in his darkest nights.

    Levi carefully set you down, letting you lay down on the grass. "Don't you dare close your eyes, (____)!!" he pleaded. Hands clasping your shoulder blades.

    "The others are coming this way—" he fought back a sob. "Just—just keep your eyes open long enough."

    But you and he knew all too well that the deep gash in your abdomen as a result of the titan sinking its teeth is far too severe to be treated. The damage has already been done, it would be magic if the medic could heal you. Still, Levi clung to that hope that you would survive. That you would be back in the walls with him just in time for the wedding to happen after the expedition.

    Levi was frantic. Unsure of what to do in seeing you in such a state he knew would be far-fetched to heal.

    A minute.

    He deduced that with your injury and blood continuously pouring out, you would still have a minute or two with him before you leave for good. Levi hated the thought of losing you. He blamed himself for letting you separate from him for this mission. So when he was informed that a titan wreaked havoc upon you and your squad, Levi did not think twice in changing directions in order to check up on you.

    If only he was fast enough. If only he could turn back the time so Levi could save you in the nick of time before the titan drilled its teeth unto your flesh. But he knew all too well that what has happened has already been done. So for one last time, he'll make sure that the time spent with you would leave no regrets.

    In contrast to him, love and mirth danced in your eyes, sparkling like a radiant summer sun glistening and being reflected on a puddle of water. Carefully and somewhat sluggish, you raised your hand to cup Levi's cheeks. Your thumb caressing his skin that you love oh so much.

    "I'm glad I could see your face one last time. . ." you murmured under your breath, too weak to raise your voice.

    Levi tightened his grip on your shoulders, this is it. The moment he'll lose another loved one yet again. "Save your energy. Don't you dare leave me," he spat.

    "Levi. . ." you chuckled despite the pain. "You and I both know that I wouldn't make it in time. . ."

    His broken expression made you wish this was all a dream.

    "So. . ." you trailed off. "Just hold my hand, please?"

   You blinked as black spots danced in her eyes. You were getting sleepy though ironically your body can't rest. The pain in your lower half was gone but when you tried moving, the pain emerged again. It somehow finds a way to wake you up. It was as if fate knew to keep you awake just to have one final moment with your beloved.

    Levi closed his eyes, finally accepting reality and abiding by your request. With shaky hands, he clasped yours quite harshly. He was not ready to lose you.

    "I'll see you in another time. . ." he slowly spoke. "We'll meet each other again and I'll find you."

    One tear slid down your cheek, "Yeah. . . See you."

   You woke up with a start, eyes flying open and you gasping for breath.

    The room was dark, save for the small light given by the sun which was shielded by the floral curtain. A blue vase etched with gold ethnic marks and aster flowers in it sat at the windowsill. The first thing you registered was the feeling of cotton against your skin and the dark surroundings of your room. Slowly, you moved into a sitting position, your body feeling light as if you are floating in thin air.

    That dream of yours had been reoccurring more often, plaguing your thoughts every night as you hit the haystack and welcome the sweet embrace of sleep—as if some outward forces want to tell you something.

    You were in a trance—fog clouding your brain as you recalled. Distantly, your fingers ran over the soft cotton blanket, you can't help but feel like you were forgetting something.

Something important.

    It was odd enough that giant naked men are desolating the lands; eating every human that comes across its way. But the thought of actually fighting it using a device far too technical for you to understand is what makes it absurd. That one particular scene keeps replaying over and over again when you sleep. You are confused—flabbergasted even. Though, it could only point to one answer.

    It was a hand maiden's tale. A story passed down from generation to generation that the person constantly reappearing in your dreams was your soulmate. Though you wanted to believe that, it was a slim chance that it could actually be true. For starters, you were not a superstitious person—you believed in facts and data instead of made-up tales by who knows who. Still, something deep inside you was screaming that the male in your dreams was your destined beloved.

   So as you strolled down the halls of the campus, you can’t help but let your thoughts drift off to the dream that incessantly appears at night. It was yet another day of you visiting the library to check if there are any new books added to the catalog. It may seem a nerd-ish move, but who could blame you? Thousands upon thousands of books right at your fingertips that you could easily access for free. Who wouldn’t want free books?

    The soft beep of the monitor lets you know that your ID card has been scanned and as such recorded that you have, yet again, visited the library. As you stepped inside the room, there are a couple of students slumped over the tables. Their laptops opened, notes sprawled out, and multiple pens scattered around. Despite the obvious studious set-up, half of them are on their phone or sleeping. Talk about slacking off.

    Shaking your head, you opted to walk straight into the fiction section where you spend most of your time scouring each shelf in search of a new adventure. Though, you halted momentarily as an unfamiliar figure came into view. They were searching for something—at least that is what you presumed given their furrowed eyebrows and the occasional curse underneath their breath.

   It is such a rare sight to see someone other than you in the fiction aisle. Mainly since most students would be in other sections searching for biographies, dissertations, and old literature stuff that would aid them in their studies. At first, you thought it was Arlert, the freshman you met a couple of months back when both of you happen to stumble upon each other. The male happens to be searching for a specific sci-fi book. Luckily, you had practically memorized each shelf in the fiction section. As such, you helped him find the novel he desires. Before you knew it, you and he had become close friends that would occasionally talk to each other about books both of you enjoy.

   But that isn’t the case this time. Armin’s iconic blond hair wasn’t in sight. Instead, onyx black in an undercut hairstyle is what greeted you. Wait a minute—he exactly looks like the male in your dreams.

   You stepped closer, quiet as to not disturb or startle him. When you got close to the figure, you concluded that, indeed, he is the male in your dreams; quite literally and figuratively.

   True, he is the exact spitting image of the male you’ve been seeing every night when you’re fast asleep. But also he is exactly your type; sharp jawline that could probably cut your finger, steel gray eyes that look oh so mysterious, and saints, the way you could see small veins on his pale hand drives you crazy.

   “Uhmm. . .do you need help?” you voiced out without thinking twice. You had to slap yourself internally when the male turned around to glare at you.

   He rose a brow, eyes trailing from head to toe as if questioning you what are you doing.

   “Ah—uhm. I didn’t mean to startle you but I am quite familiar with this section so maybe I could help you with what you are looking for.”

   The male narrowed his eyes at you, lips pressed into a thin line. Both of you shared silence, the distant hum of the air conditioner was the only thing you could hear. “What happened to Lori,” he abruptly spoke which perplexed you.

   “What. . ?”

   “I am looking for the second book of ‘What happened to Lori’. Do you know where that is?”

   Your mouth fell open in realization as to what he was pertaining to. It was the exact book that you bought a week ago after finding out that the library doesn’t have the second book to the duology. It was a hefty price, but all was worth it since the story is all too intriguing to be left behind in book one. You needed answers and a continuation, and as such bought the second book online.

   “The second book isn’t actually available. . .” you explained. The male cursed under his breath, something about the library being a useless piece of shit that was stupid enough to not buy the second book considering it was a duology.

   The very book he is looking for is inside your bag. Frankly, you only finished it halfway so you were not too sure if you want to let him borrow it. But, with one look at the male, you can’t help but be amazed at how he is the carbon copy of the person that keeps appearing in your dreams.

   You weren’t a superstitious person, but could this male be your soulmate?

   He was about to leave you, that is until you called out to him. “But I have the second book with me,” you stammered. If it means that you would get to see him again and perhaps know some answers, then you are more than willing to lend him your book. “You could borrow it if you want. . .?”

   The male looked at you from the corner of his eye, observing the way you fidget in your place and how you refused to look at him directly in the eye by continuously letting your gaze shift from book to book on the shelves.

   “If that’s fine with you, then sure.”

   With shaky hands, you frantically fished inside your bag in an attempt to look for the book. He was silent as you pulled out the said item and handed it over to him. The male, with astonishment dancing in his eyes, took the book from your hands and examined its cover and pages.

   “Have. . .have I seen you somewhere before?” you dared ask, eager to confirm if you were plain hallucinating or perhaps the soulmate-thing is indeed true. That, suppose, you also appear in his dreams every night. It was far-fetched, but you were ambitious to find out answers.

   The male let out one drained sigh, irritation washed over his features. “Look, if you are trying to hit on me then I’m not interested.”

   Wait, what? You weren’t—

   “I-I’m not!” you stammered, hands flailing around. “I just thought you look familiar.”

   He opened his mouth to respond but was cut short when the deafening clap of the thunder followed by a flash of light interrupted him. Both of you looked out the window to see the sky as black as tar, clouded by dark gray nimbus clouds as small drops of rain fell to the ground. Then it gradually got heavy all too soon.

   The color drained from your face as you realized that you forgot to bring an umbrella today. Not only that but you were totally unprepared for the sudden change in weather given that you were wearing a thin shirt.

   You bit your lip, brows curling up at the thought of shivering as you wait for the rain to dissipate. If anything, you totally despise the cold and how it makes your nose all runny and hair stand. Internally scolding yourself, you made a mental note to always check the weather update before going out of your dorm.

   “Tch. . .” the male clicked his tongue. “Here.”

   You were surprised to feel the soft fabric of his jacket draped over your shoulders, giving you warmth. Did he just—did he just gave you his jacket?

   “You’re shivering like a fucking wet dog,” he explained. “So wear that. . .”

   A flush crept up your face as the musky scent of his cologne with a hint of artificial fragrance from what you presumed is the smell of cleaning products wafted through your nose. You’ve got to say, this jacket of his truly is comfortable. With it being lined with cotton on the inside, the thick wool serving as a second layer for warmth, and the exquisite color combination of forest green and gold of the clothing. Slowly, you slipped your arms inside the sleeves and tucking your hands deep inside its pockets. Oddly enough, it fits you just well given—not too big nor small.

   The male turned on his heel, about to take his leave, again, without bidding you farewell. But you grabbed onto his sleeve just in time before he could leave the vicinity.

   “When—uhh—when can I return this?”

   He looked at you with a confused expression, as if asking if you are dumb or whatnot. “Isn’t that obvious?”

   “What I mean is, oh gods, I don’t have any ways to contact you whatsoev—“

   “So you want my number?”

   Someone please kill me right now, you whimpered.

    “What? No, I was ju—“

   “Yeah, yeah I get it. Hurry up and give me your phone,” the male pulled out his phone, expecting you to do the same.

   The audacity of this guy. He has to be a lady’s man or whatever to be this haughty.

   With a shaky breath, you and him both exchange numbers. Mind in a frenzy at the thought of seeing him again and perhaps that wouldn’t be the last time.

   “Uhmm. . .So I guess I’ll return the jacket to you once you’ve finished the book. . .?”

   Ah, there is that feeling again that keeps pestering you—a thought on the back of your mind.

   "Yeah, I'll give the book back to you eventually," he spoke. "I'll see you in another time. . ."

   "Yeah. . .” you breathed, calming yourself to prevent blood rushing to your cheeks. “See you.”

   A hunch that you have already met him in the past; a fragment in time.

part 2 (?)

[plush-rabbit]

I Want To Hear You Say It

Chapter 4: Missed Comfort

Word Count: 3.8K

A/N: I just realized that this is my story and I can choose what happens

Prev.

Memories are fragmented, pieces of glass that has broken and shards that escape him and hide elsewhere, leaving his past broken, blurry and incomplete, painful to pick at and there has to be a reason why, there has to be a reason why whenever he thinks about who he was before he was found by All For One, that he scratches at his skin, tearing the flesh off from body, dirty blood that covers his hands and leaves him gasping for air, making him fear that he’ll suffocate before the memory grows clear. He can remember kind words, he can remember breakfast and playing, he can remember something soft under his chin, he can remember love for a moment, a moment that leaves him sick and broken, clasping his hands around his neck and hoping that he’ll die. He can remember the harsh stare, eyes that belong to a monster, eyes that are unforgiving with a hand that is merciless, the harsh feeling of the ground and the eyes that can only look away until he’s forced to face the monster in front of him, the monster that strikes over and over again and it fills him with hatred, it fills him clarity, the one moment where he can breathe and he stares into his reflection, covered in his own blood with red rimmed eyes, and he’s home.

Tomura Shigaraki stands in a room with few possessions, his body cold as he lays above the worn out bed, springs that dig into his back and a pillow that is far too flat to bring any sort of comfort. 

He grew up in the care of All For One, molded and cared for, the embrace clear in his head and there are flashes of memories that are clear, ripe for the picking and allowing him to view who he is now. But he brushes past them. He brushes past the dust on the floor and the tantrums, past the cold wooden floorboards under his feet, the weight of the hands on him are lighter and heavier all at once, lifting him into the air with the promise of love. The hands pinch around his body and threaten to drag him into the depths of hell, moaning out to him, his name broken and unsure, calling him something too different and too similar that leaves him retching and covering his mouth with his hand.

Tomura Shigaraki can remember Kurogiri. He can remember the wisp of a man, purple and black mixing, shades light in certain areas, mixing and swirling with the darker colors, creating a beautiful shade that disappears and is never shown, a shade that was never meant to be seen hides deep within the man. He can remember the apprehension, the choked up feeling, like something small was lodged in the base of his throat, uncomfortable and manageable. He can remember the soft words, the hands that touched him, defying physics and the vapor having actual feeling to it, actual touch that moves the hair across his face. He can remember the shared meals, proper and simple, the hatred in his eyes that soon turned into acceptance and silent compliance with every meal. 

People come into his life and they leave. So far, the League of Villains has remained whole. Kurogiri separated but for the good of the mission. For the good of the plan. For the good of him- Tomura Shigaraki. People separate and they come together. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s developed a kinship with the team. He’s developed genuine emotions towards them. He doesn’t want to call them friends. It feels odd- heavy and foregin, the word unspoken of, even when he was just a child, he never spoke the word, flinching when he thought of it because he knew that he was alone. All For One was his sensei, his master, a father-like figure to him but never a friend. Kurogiri was … something. Kurogiri was something else, heavy and comforting, wanted and pushed away. The team right now, they are his comrades. They are the people that he cares about- their wishes and likes, their desires and wants- that’s what he cares for. He’ll spit at the idea of caring, deny it with a wave of his hand, but he cares.

He’s lived a lonely life. And in the blink of an eye, it became filled with people. And he was accepting of that, he can handle people following his bidding, he can handle people if they’re there to serve his cause. But then you come along.

You aren’t there to serve anything. You are nothing to him. And yet, you still fill his mind. He lets it wander and you come into view, the way you brushed his hair and dried it for him, offering to pick something that he’d like to eat. You called him a friend. You were lying. You told a lie to save your skin from a prying neighbor. It’s easy for him to believe that you told a lie. You did. You lied only to protect yourself. But then he can feel your hands again and the touch has faded, it’s nothing more than a ghost that caresses his skin when he’s falling asleep, his own hands crawling to hold the place where you held and his sleep ruined when his hands are not like yours. They don’t hold the same delicacy, the gentleness that made him feel at ease- they aren’t your hands. Your touch is fading and he hates it. He hates that he misses the way you cared for him, the way you let him into your home and cared for him. He is a wounded man, alone in a world with only a few companions, and it’s been so long since he’s felt a touch that wasn’t filled with malice, that wasn’t a rough, teasing punch or a reassuring squeeze of a shoulder, but one where it was focused on him and being gentle, treating him like he were glass. 

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself but he wants to see you. He needs to feel your touch again. He needs a moment where your hands are on him and then he can be satisfied, he can be fine without your touch that haunts him.

-

Learning your schedule is relatively easy. People don’t want to admit that they’re predictable, they want to remain a mystery, they want to be hidden from view and open up when they feel like it and you are no different. You stick to yourself. You don’t talk to people in your apartment complex- minus a few people who stop to chat, a forced smile that takes place on your face. Even at work, you give polite smiles, you eat alone in your car, watching a video on your phone and always peering outside the window, like you’re scared that someone is watching your every movement. You’re polite and you stick to a routine, you treat yourself to the bakery and leave with a white bag curled in your hand and you pass by the alleyway where you first met. And there’s a leap in his heart when you pause, and he can see your hand tighten around the paper bag and then you move on. You continue to walk, faster, a pace that catches the eyes of a few pedestrians and before you can reach the stairs, your keys are in your hands, and you’re inside your home and you’re out of view. 

It has to be a sickness that he has.  He has to be sick with the way that he always finds himself wandering into the alleyway, crouched where you found him and he hates that he can’t remember your scent, hates that he was too disorientated to focus on the important details that you had. He hates that he only realized that he wanted- that he craved and desired your touch when you were gone. He doesn’t bother lying to himself, he’s not in the area to clean any loose ends, the blood that had fallen from him has long since dried, fallen into the crevices of the ground, weeds that have bloomed and raised where he had squashed them. He’s here filled with hope, hope that diminishes whenever you don’t arrive at the same time that you once did. And he hates himself when he feels disappointment, the feeling coursing through his body and leaving him empty, leaving him with acid in his mouth and blood on his neck. 

It was fate then. You worked a late shift and you came to him. You had saved him because he was meant to continue on. You pushed him to live another day. He wonders if you know who he is. How would you react? Would you accept his views? Do you believe that society is damned? That everything within hero society is corrupted and needs to be changed? Would you accept him? 

He laughs to himself. It’s a short burst of laughter, bubbling past his lips and it’s short until he presses himself further into the brick. Of course, you’d accept him. Of course you would accept him. You did it once. You let a stranger into your home, welcomed him and brushed his hair, held him in your hands and let him live in your life for a moment- you’d accept him with open arms. 

-

It was a miscalculated risk. Heroes that were unaccounted for due to how close they were. He’s injured, face trickling with blood that mixes with his sweat and he’s unsure of where the wound is. His clothes are singed at the end, fabric crumbling and fingers painted in soot as he runs through the night, gasping for air. It’s cold and sharp, entering his lungs and chilling his throat, every breath painful and heavier, as he runs. Red ruins his vision and he swipes it away with the back of his hand, blood flickering onto the pavement, seeping into the cracks and leaving nothing but dark spots. He runs and he runs. His legs hurt, aching at the joints, muscles pulled taut, and he knows that if he stumbles, he’ll collapse. Father is held tight against his face, piercing at his skull, hands pulled taut around him, pulling him back and the hands on his neck choke him.

He knows where he’s going. He’ll deny it to himself, lie and say that it was his own moving on it’s own accord, leading him past the convenience store, hands ripped from his body and shoved into pockets, bulging and pale gray fingertips that peek beneath the pockets, stiff fingers intertwined with each other and he’s lying to himself, telling weak lies that even he can’t believe. He runs towards you, running and gasping, a burst of adrenaline spiking through his body and sirens are ringing through the air, colors flashing and you’re so close. He runs, sweat mixing with blood, a heavy red color that reminds him he is only human, he’s covered in his blood, he’s covered in people’s blood and ash, weighing him down and clinging to his ankles, dragging him to hell as the devils rush behind him. His steps are heavy, slapping against the stairs and he’s knocking at your door, pounding and there’s a moment of fear where he thinks someone else will awaken before you do and he’s begging, calling your name in a whisper that cracks and cuts through his alreadys scarred lips and he’s begging for you to open the door, a silent prayer that is echoed into the night and there’s nothing more than he wants to do than to touch you.  He’s close to touching the doorknob, desperate to find safety inside until the light turns on underneath he’s cursing you in his mind for being so careless, for letting the person outside- letting him know that you are home- and he steps away and the door opens and you stand him front of him with heavy eyes, a disheveled appearance with an annoyed expression that only lasts for a second, a moment where he has you entire attention and then you break and you call his name and he stumbles inside and he’s safe.

The door is closed behind him and the ringing stops. He’s inside your home, leaning against the wall, and he’s filthy, coated in grime and sweat, blood that runs down his face from an unknown wound, legs heavy and he slides down the wall and he can see you, standing away from him, a horrified look on your face and maybe this was a mistake. That you didn’t feel whatever he felt. That you were just trying to be nice. A hand reaches, fingers outstretched and he can imagine how soft you’d be, the look of horror frozen on your face as he’s the last thing you see and then you kneel down, and you’re shaking and your words are stuck in your throat.

Your hands are soft. Softer than he remembered, cusping his face and he’s grateful for it, leans into your touch until you grab at something foreign on his face, and Father is removed and held so tenderly in your hand. His eyes widen. He forgot to remove Father. Sirens grow closer and you look out the door and he’s weak and unable to stand as you lift and walk towards the door and there’s a shake of your hands, you clasp around the door knob and you seem to struggle with yourself internally before you latch on the locks and turn back to him. You call his name and he calls yours and he wants to lean in but he’s bloody and you are clean, and he sits against your wall as you hold Father and walk away. 

He sits on the floor and closes his eyes for a second and when he opens them, you’re crouched in front of him, Father beside him and he watches as you bring up a wet rag and whisper to him. “I’m just going to clean you up, okay?” Your voice is shaky, hands matching as they dab against his forehead, your other hand pushing his pale blue hair upwards. “Tomura?” He grunts in response. You pause, your lip is bitten and he wants to know what you’re thinking. “Why are you here?” You dab and the pale blue cloth in your hand turns into a horrible shade, sweat, blood and dirt standing the ruined piece of fabric. Realization has set into your eyes, the fear leaking off of you and yet your hands are nothing but gentle. 

“I wanted you to touch me,” he mutters and your hands still. “I needed it.” He lets his words hang in the air. He can feel the press of your palm against him, and you don’t respond. You clean him, cleaning the sin from him. “Do you know who I am?” 

“I think I can take a guess.” Your hands leave him and you turn from him, pulling out a pack of wipes, the white bright against your palm and then you’re cleaning at him again, discarding the wipe after wipe, the pack becoming thin as you clean him. “Are you going to-” you swallow nervously and you meet his eyes, unsteady and glistening with unshed tears- “you know.” Your eyes dart to his hands and then back to his eyes.

He laughs. It’s rich and filled with something indescribable and he leans towards you, peeling himself away from the wall and you stiffen when his forehead rests against your shoulder. Father has slipped and is on the floor. You’re still, faltering against him and he wants nothing more than to touch you. His lips brush against your neck and he can hear a sharp intake of breath, hands that react and grip the sides of his shirt, pulling him closer to you, and he wonders if you’re crying as he’s pressed against you. 

“I could never hurt you,” he whispers against your neck, nuzzling closer, feeling your pulse quicken. “You were so nice to me-” his hands are unsteady as they brush up your shirt and he hears you whine, and his fingers are pressed against the soft side of you, and he smiles, hidden from you- “I will never hurt you.” It’s the truth- a wholehearted truth that he will never use his quirk against you, he’ll protect you, watch over you and dig his nails into you. He won't ever hurt you, he won’t have you bleed because of him, he’ll keep you with him and protect you, have his hands wrap around you in the loving way that his do, remind you that he’s letting you live and giving you all his love- whole and innocent, twisted and pure. “I love you,” he murmurs and there’s a swell in his chest when you twist his shirt in your hands and your pulse beats against him. “Perhaps it’s too quick to tell each other that-” he hums into you, smelling the sweet scent of vanilla on you- “but I love you. And I’ll protect you.” His nails dig into your skin, red appearing, a pale shade that stings and doesn’t stain his fingertips.

Perhaps it was too quick to give each other your love. But when he pulls away and he sees you crying, hands still gripped against his shirt, a rise and fall of your chest and he smiles. His hands leave you and your shirt flutters and it’s covered in grime, sticking to your chest and it’s wrinkled. Tears fall from your eyes, tracing down the curve of your face, polling and dripping off your chin and you can only look at him with wide eyes and you’re doubling over, gasping for breath, your hands wrapped around you, trying so desperately to control your breathing and you look over, watching the door with hope that vanishes in a second. It’s quiet outside. There are no heroes around. You look back at him and he smiles at you.

“Shigaraki?” You ask him, and there’s a frown on his lips. You need to check if it’s really him, praying that this is a sick joke, exchanging your life for a moment of false reality, to be laughed at because this is some cruel, sick joke that doesn’t exist and isn’t happening before your eyes. “Tomura Shigaraki?”

“You can call me Tomura,” he coos, his hands bringing your face up, held so tenderly, so carefully, with poised and raised fingers, trying not to touch you and you’re crying and he’s shushing you. “You don’t have to cry,” he murmurs. “I mean it-” he leans in closer and your eyes shine with fear, colors mixing together to create a lovely shade of color that he has never seen before and when you cry, it glosses over and he tilts his head, smile stretching past his lips- “I would never hurt you.”

“Be-” your voice cracks and there's a soft pink that licks at your lips and he leans in. “Because I was nice to you?” You’re so hesitant and so scared, trembling under his palm and your tears pool onto him.

“Because you cared for me, yes.” He could never hurt you, never bring himself to cause you to cry. He’s so careful to pull away, hands fisted once he’s moved and he looks around and grabs at a wipe, brings it under your eyes and he shushes you when you flinch from him, his hand gripping at the side of your face, string and firm. “I hate seeing you cry,” he murmurs. You’re scared and new to these feelings. He won’t push you. He’ll stay by your side, faithful and patient, wait for you to come to him and profess your love, and he’ll wipe away your tears. “I love you,” he repeats.

He rises and pulls you up and you stand in the entrance, you stumbling into his chest, and his arms holding you up and he’s nuzzling into the crown of your head, and when you start to sob, shaking into his chest and clinging to the back of his coat, hands threatening to spill from the pockets, he pats your back carefully, run the side of his hand down your back in a comforting motion, slowly turning until his palm is against you and your sobs are muffled into his chest, with your tears staining his shirt. Your name is whispered into the room and you cry until you pull away and he stares at you patiently and you can hardly meet his eyes when you tell him he can use the shower and he stands alone, as you walk into your room, letting the door remain open.

He showers and he lets the water fall from him, dries himself with the same towel he had used from the other day. He washes himself free from grime and wears the same clothes, filthy and hanging from his body, sticking uncomfortably and he wears clothes that are his and he smells like you. His hair is wet and tangled and he brushes at the knots, and makes himself look presentable. He won’t have the first night that he sleeps here cognitive sullied by the outside world. He sits on the chair in your room, watches as you pull the blankets up to your chin and have your back turned to him. He comes to sit at the edge, his hand slowly coming down until he’s holding onto your neck, stroking it, feeling the way that you jerk and go painfully still, and he whispers your name. It's a gentle call, feeling you brush against his fingertips, calling out to you because he knows you’re still awake. 

“Yes, Tomura?” You respond and there’s a level of politeness that sticks to your words and makes him frown. 

“I’ll be back to see you soon, okay?” He has to leave for now. He needs to go before he can give in to his wants and touch you, to let himself bury into your chest and hold you, and sleep beside you. “But I’ll be back, okay?” He pulls away and the bed creaks as the weight shifts. He’s closing your door, and his eyes are on your body and he’s smiling to himself. “Don’t try anything dumb, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer- you’re smart, you know who he is. It isn’t a threat, it’s just a phrase that he knows will keep you in line from trying anything reckless- he’s viewed you, watched you and he knows that an empty threat will keep you in check. “I love you.” He whispers your name and it’s filled with love, enough to make him sigh and close the door, lean against it for a moment and let his imagination wander on how you’d welcome him into bed and hold him. The door to your apartment clicks shut and he’s walking out, Father holding tight against his face, and a strange calmness flooding throughout his body.

taglist:

@dillybuggg @gladiatorandroid @mrgorewhore @justanotherlifeff

[one-piece-drabbles]

Skyburst

Notes: A warning for violence and unhealthy family dynamics. Inspired by this post from Nari ( @authenticaussi3 ) - years old now, so I’m either late to the party or just that slow of a writer. Take your pick.

For all that Luffy likes a good surprise, he thinks—and in all honesty, it takes him a few seconds to come to this conclusion—that he doesn’t like hurtling through the sky without any sign of how he got up so high. He’s pretty sure that the white stuff below him is just clouds and not weirdly-colored ocean, but that doesn’t answer the question of what’s below the white carpet. Or how he ended up like this.

Nami would know, but she isn’t around to ask. His whole crew is gone. He twists in the air, wind stretching and pulling his skin, but he can’t see any sign of his ship. Still falling and now blinded by the sun, he brings a hand up to his chin and tries to remember the last thing he did. Were they in a fight? No, he had dinner, Sanji kicked him out, and then he went to sleep in his hammock. And woke up in the sky.

He groans, spreading out his limbs in frustration. He finally stops spinning just in time to hit the tallest cloud. The cold, annoying before, is now biting as water soaks his skin, hair, and clothes. With little choice but to keep falling, Luffy shields his eyes. A rumble he can feel in his bones shakes the air, followed by a teeth-rattling boom. Bright blue light flickers around Luffy in constant flashes. The cheery sunlight of before dies under a suffocating blanket of gray.

He’s falling through a thunderstorm. But the weather was clear when he went to sleep—Nami even talked about it, saying that Usopp would be able to fish for a while before anything hit.

Maybe this is a dream. That would make the most sense, right? Even though he’s never had a dream like this before…

He breaks through the lowest layer of clouds and the water vapor becomes torrential rain. Lightning strobes the sky and thunder roars. Luffy claps his hands over his ears as one thunderclap goes off way too close—only that makes him spin again, so it’s either painfully loud noises or throwing up in freefall. Luffy chooses the former. He’s getting far enough from the clouds now that it shouldn’t be deafening anymore.

Maneuvering himself with plenty of trial and error, Luffy finally gets a look at the ground below, blinking almost continuously against the wind. It’s an island, the only one Luffy can see, not that visibility is all that great. Even in the downpour, fires rage all over. The closer Luffy gets, the more details he can make out. There’s a fight going on between white-clad people and…one person?

He’s going to crash down right in the middle of the plaza in the thickest tangle of it all. Water gets into Luffy’s eyes and he wipes it away. He orients himself one last time and braces for a hard landing.

Something slams into the ground a foot to Ace’s left. It isn’t a cannonball or a bullet, no—the force of the impact knocks Ace off his feet. Several marines try to take advantage of the opening, but Ace catches himself on his hands and spins with his feet in the air, releasing a cyclone of flames that burns them all twice over: first with the fire and then again with the steam.

Flipping back onto his feet, Ace eyes the impact crater. It’s too deep to see to the bottom from his angle, and he’s not getting any closer in case the marines are trying another one of those surprise explosives.

A hand shoots out and scrabbles on the upturned brick of the plaza before finding a grip right on the edge of the hole. A second hand joins it, and then any body parts are just a blur of motion. Ace rolls out of the way of the human missile and comes up swinging, knowing that whoever it was would’ve stopped against the wall just behind him. He catches sight of wide eyes and a panicked expression before the stranger bends impossibly far backwards to avoid the hit, nearly slamming his own face into the wall. A stream of fire easily twenty feet high explodes out from Ace’s fist, leveling the entire block behind the house and roasting all the marines too slow to get out of the way.

The attack sputters and dies when the stranger’s feet hit Ace’s shins and knock his legs out from under him. His jaw cracks against the ground and bloodied rainwater splashes all over. Ace snarls into the shattered brick at his own amateurish mistake. The rainwater isn’t enough to stop him, but there’s just enough ocean in it to stop his full-fire transformation. He slams a fist against the ground and releases an omnidirectional explosion that clears the ground for thirty feet in every direction. Ace gets to his feet, wiping his freshly-sopping hair out of his face, and finds the kid who knocked him flat.

Kid. The realization makes him pause, the pouring rain drowning out all the thoughts in his head for a second before he can bring it all back. The stranger can’t be older than twenty, with short black hair and a scar under one eye. That scar rings uncomfortable bells in Ace’s memory, and fire flickers to life on his shoulders.

“Ah, wait!”

Staring in disbelief, Ace watches as the kid jumps up into the air, fingers grasping at something floating down from above. It moves erratically, battered by the same rain still doing its damndest to drown everyone out in the open, but the kid eventually snatches it and jams it onto his head.

And now, Ace thinks, the universe has to be playing a trick on him, because he knows that hat. He buried that hat. How the fuck does this random asshole have it?

Ace is so caught up in memories he wants no part of that he doesn’t realize for several seconds that the rain has stopped. Water runs in rivulets down his face and bare chest, collecting between his shoulder blades before sliding in freezing lines down his spine. Without a curtain of rain in the way, Ace can finally get a clear look at the kid, more than just random details, and it stops him cold.

It doesn’t matter that Ace’s memories are more than ten years old. It doesn’t matter that this kid is almost three times the age of the Luffy he knew. None of it matters, because this kid—this kid—

He looks like Luffy. He looks like how Luffy should’ve looked if the world let him live, right down to the round features that Ace had always figured he’d grow out of and the straw hat Luffy refused to let out of his sight. He looks so much like the Luffy Ace wanted to grow up with that it makes his chest clench, and he balls his hands into fists on reflex. How long has it been since he thought about Luffy? A year? Two?

He blinks, time restarts, and a bullet chips the ground an inch from his left foot. Ace leaps back, a retaliatory barrage of fireballs consuming the sniper’s chosen roof a second later. As the marine screams and falls to the street below as an inferno himself, Ace goes to work on the stragglers who weren’t cowardly enough to run when they had the chance.

Watching him, Luffy can’t bring himself to move, to speak, to do anything but witness as Ace, alive again, murders scores of marines with uncaring brutality. He isn’t concerned about ending life quickly, only incapacitating until the next attacker is down, so the groans of the dying quickly fill the air until Ace goes back and kills them too.

It’s all too much like Marineford, and that snaps Luffy out of his trance. He acts without thinking and joins his brother against the marines. They’re all retreating now—when Luffy propels himself onto a nearby roof that avoided Ace’s flames, he can see ships pulling away from the harbor—but they’ve left a few dozen to cover their escape. Ace and Luffy make short work of them, and while Luffy could catapult himself after the fleeing ships, he doesn’t want to take his eyes off Ace.

Because it is Ace. It has to be, even if he’s not…right. He’s missing his tattoos and his hat and and he’s got more scars than the old Ace ever had, plus there’s something wrong behind his eyes that makes Luffy shiver. Despite all that, he’s still Ace.

Right?

As they stand there on the beach, watching the disappearing ships, Luffy tries to keep himself together. His own grieving words echo in his head and he sneaks glances at Ace, trying to reconcile what he knows with what he sees. He can’t do it.

Ace catches Luffy’s look and turns fully to face him. There’s none of the warmth that Luffy is used to seeing in his expression and his voice is dangerously bland. “Just who the hell are you, anyway?”

Ace expects hostility, or fear, or at the very least trepidation from the kid in front of him. Even Luffy knew when to be afraid. He gets none of it; the boy just stares at him, gears stagnated and mental trains stalled at the station. Scowling, Ace waves a hand in front of his face. “Hey. I asked who you are.”

“You’re Ace, right?”

Irritation showing in the tongues of flame licking at his hair, Ace crosses his arms. He’s not surprised the kid knows who he is. Every single flat surface has his wanted poster tacked up on it these days. “Yeah, I am. Now, for the last time, who the hell are you?”

The kid gets a furrow between his eyes like Ace just asked him how far away the sun is. The gears slowly begin to turn. “You…you don’t remember me?”

More fire. Steam wafts up from Ace’s skin in deceptively gentle wisps. A rumble of thunder from the retreating storm shakes water from the shoreline trees. “I think I’d remember someone like you. Spit it out. Last warning.”

It’s like someone flipped a switch. The kid slides out of Ace’s reach with unexpected speed and offers up a laughably unconvincing smile. “I gotta get back to my crew, they’re probably looking for me—”

“Hold it.” Ace’s hand fastens around the kid’s wrist like a vice. He yanks him close. “Name.”

Luffy swallows. He’s never seen Ace like this before, not since those first few weeks at Dadan’s hideout. Ace’s eyes are hard, his expression promising retribution if Luffy doesn’t listen. There’s something so…so feral about it, and Luffy can’t get the memories of that haunted young boy out of his head. It’s unlike him, but none of this is right and he just wants a little bit of time to think, but Ace isn’t giving it to him, he isn’t acting right, he doesn’t even know Luffy—

Tugging ineffectually on his arm, Luffy tries to hide the pain from his voice. “You’re burning me.”

Ace’s grip tightens. “I know.”

Every ounce of experience in Luffy’s bones is telling him to run, but he can’t. It’s Ace. “I’m Luffy, okay? Luffy. Let go.” Ace’s fingers go slack in surprise and Luffy yanks his hand away. He stays several yards away from Ace, prodding his burned wrist. The skin is raw and pink.

Ace had burned him and hadn’t cared that it hurt. They’d hurt each other plenty of times growing up, that came with their home and with training, but it was never like this.

“Luffy?” Ace’s quiet voice makes Luffy back up another several steps. Ace is glowing with heat, the air distorting around him. “Is this some kind of joke?” He raises his head and his eyes are alight with rage. “Who sent you? How the fuck did they find out about my brother?”

“Ace—”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Ace continues, heedless of Luffy’s interruption. “You’ll either tell me or you’ll die. I mean, you’ll die either way, but you can at least give me the pleasure of putting up a fight.”

Fear—honest, unfamiliar fear—hooks its fingers in Luffy’s head and instinct takes over. Straightening and losing the confused edge to his expression, Luffy meets Ace glare for glare. “You’re not Ace, I am Luffy, and I really don’t like what you’re doing with my brother’s face.”

His sheer certainty throws Ace out of his reflexive rage. He takes a closer look at the kid. He’d thought that he was some kind of government spy, but really, there’s no way CP9 or any of those assholes know about Luffy. Ace has never talked about him. Plus, too many details are the same for this to be coincidence: the hat, the scar, even just his overall appearance. Hell, Ace is pretty sure that this kid has the same devil fruit powers, too.

The more dots he connects, the farther from the present moment he gets. Adrift in memories, he hardly notices Luffy edging away again—hardly, but he does.

“You can’t be,” he whispers. “I—you died.” The phantom blood spray arcs through the air as Luffy’s tiny body smacks into a tree and crumples to the ground. “You died.” The bear’s roar is a declaration, a challenge, and Ace can’t match it. Luffy is unconscious or dead and Ace—

It’s his greatest shame, a burden he will never be rid of, and his right hand curls into a fist.

He runs. Over and over again he runs. Night after night, year after year, he turns on his heel and he runs. Like a weakling. A coward. A selfish, worthless monster.

“Luffy.” The boy freezes, microexpressions flickering like strobes under a cracked mask of confidence. “You really are him. How—” Ace stops. “No, that doesn’t matter. You’re here now. We can be together again. Brothers. Family. Like we used to.”

“You’re not Ace,” Luffy repeats.

“What are you talking about?” Ace takes a step forward. Luffy takes a step back. “C’mon. It’s me.”

Shaking his head, Luffy maintains the distance between them. “You’re not Ace.” His voice hardens. “Ace wouldn’t do what you do. He cared about—about things. About himself. You don’t care about anything.”

A strong ocean wind washes over the island, picking up and spreading the nauseating odor of burning flesh. Ace’s rampage had spared no one, not a single soldier and not a single civilian. It was cruelty of the highest, most callous order. Luffy’s right foot slides back and he sinks into a ready stance.

“You’re not my Ace. I’m not your family. Leave me alone!”

Ace grins, teeth shining with reflected firelight from the village still burning in the background. Something broken and mad bleeds out from behind his eyes. “Leave you alone? No,no, I can’t do that. This is a second chance.” Flames race across his skin and bathe his face in demonic light. “I’m never leaving you alone again, Luffy.”

[doom-dreaming]

The Sound of Silence

The gifts of a Vault aren't always appreciated.

(WARNINGS: Suicide, Major Character Death, Vomiting) (Note: This ties into a larger Borderlands fic I have in the works, albeit with a different ending.)

Read it on Ao3 here!

******

“FIONA!”

The gunshot echoed off the surrounding cliffs, ringing in Rhys’ ears. She seemed so far away, caught between his eyes and the barrel of the shotgun. A second seemed like an hour as the bullet sliced through the heavy air. Rhys couldn’t look away. He just stood there, feeling frozen, cold, like all the blood had left his body. She was going to die. Fiona, a Vault Hunter, his friend, his lover...was milliseconds from death.

He could see her twisting away, trying to dodge, but she wasn’t going to make it. He knew it was futile, to reach out to her, to scream her name again, as if that would somehow save her. He did it anyway. Why couldn’t he have been closer? Pushed her out of the way? Taken the bullet himself? No, he was helpless to do anything but watch. The slowly-advancing bullet would bury itself into her skull, directly between her eyes. Those beautiful green eyes. And then she’d be gone. Dead.

Something foreign welled up within him, filling his veins with heat. She didn’t deserve to go out like this. Not now, not ever. He wasn’t going to let that happen. As soon as this thought was firmly anchored in his brain, time suddenly seemed to catch up with itself. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel his muscles straining as he stretched across the sand toward her.

And that’s when it happened. All at once. A sharp crack, louder than the gunshot, ricocheted off the stone walls of the canyon. The ground between Fiona and the gunner trembled, then exploded, tossing up a dervish of sand. Fiona was thrown to the side from the force of the blast, and Rhys watched as the bullet whistled harmlessly past her ear. The man holding the shotgun stumbled backward with a grunt, but didn’t lose his balance. Horror and anger boiled in Rhys’ blood as the gunner steadied himself and lined up another shot at Fiona, now lying dazed and defenseless in the dirt.

With a scream that felt like it shredded his vocal cords, Rhys sprinted toward the other man. Instantly, the gun’s muzzle swung around, level with his chest, and Rhys raised his left hand in reflexive defense, even though he knew it would do nothing to stop a bullet. Only he proved himself wrong because the shot never came. As soon as he opened his palm, a wave of piercing heat lanced down his arm and half a second later, hell broke loose. A ripple of energy pulsed across the short distance separating Rhys from his almost certain death, hitting the gunner with a blinding flash of light. Electricity crackled, filling the air with the sharp scent of ozone and smoke.

And then it was over. No light, no supercharged air…no gunman. Rhys stared at the ground where the man had stood. There was no body. No blood. Only a thin sheet of glass in the sand and a few dissipating wisps of smoke. Rhys’ chest was tight, his head was swimming, he felt so nauseous. The world spun in front of his eyes as the heat in his arm ebbed away, leaving behind an equally painful cold. It felt like liquid nitrogen was being injected into his veins. Burning and freezing simultaneously.

He was barely aware of Fiona muttering “what the hell” before he crashed to his knees and pitched forward, throwing up a paste of half-digested drakefruit. God, it hurt. Everything hurt.

Footsteps crunched toward him. “What did you do?!” Fiona demanded. “What the hell just happened?!”

He could only shake his head as his stomach flipped again, forcing hot, bitter acid up his throat. He gagged, spitting it out onto the sand, gasping for breath. “I...don’t know...I think I...killed him…”

Fiona knelt down and ran her fingers over the glass. “Well, whatever that was, it was hot enough to do this…” She stared at him, then pointed. “Look, Rhys.”

He glanced down at his chest. Brilliant blue glowed back at him.

“I’ve got to take you to Sanctuary. Now.”

There was absolutely no sound from beyond the door. Even the air in the hallway seemed motionless. She reached for the doorknob, turning it slowly. “Rhys...?” The hinges creaked as she pushed the door open, loud amidst the silence. The room on the other side was dark, and she could barely make out a shape slumped against the far wall. A waft of stale air hit her, dusty and sour. She grimaced.

“Rhys? Hey...” She focused on the familiar silhouette, trying not to stare at the faintly-glowing patterns pulsing across his skin. “Lilith and Maya said...” She trailed off, choked by the sudden lump rising in her throat, and wished her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dim light.

To say he looked bad would have been a terrible understatement. No, he looked dead. His clothes, normally so clean and precise, were rumpled, haphazard, and stained. His skin was ashen, his hair was tangled and unwashed, his lips were chapped and cracking. His eyes seemed to have sunk into his skull and he stared straight ahead with an unfocused, glazed expression, as if he wasn’t aware of her presence at all.

She swallowed, taking a step closer.

In a sudden flurry of motion, he was on his feet, backing away. His eyes, now focused, were wild, glinting in the low light, darting around the room. From her, to the door, back to her.

“Rhys...?”

He just shook his head frantically.

She held out her hands to him. “Rhys, it’s okay—”

“D-d-don’t. P-please.” His voice was hoarse, his breathing labored. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? You saved my life...” She started forward again. “Why would you—”

“S-stop, please, just—just stop,” he pleaded, still shaking his head and backing away from her. “Fiona, p-please...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Please...please...”

Her gut clenched as he looked up at her, desperation evident in his eyes. “I...don’t get it,” she admitted softly.

Rhys forced out something between a laugh and a sob, but didn’t offer any other answer; just kept shaking his head. After a long minute, he drew in a ragged breath and broke the tense silence. “I can’t control it.” He raised his left hand; slowly, looking at it with distant eyes.

Fiona could only watch, mesmerized by the erratic flashes of bright blue that twisted down her lover’s arm.

“Can’t control it,” he repeated, softer, more to himself.

“But aren’t—”

“NO! You don’t get it.”

The change of tone was enough to snap her out of whatever daze she’d fallen into. He was staring directly at her, and for the first time, she felt something cold creep into her chest at the sight of his mismatched eyes. The intensity and focus unnerved her. He looked...dangerous. Feral.

Yet it passed in an instant. Almost so quickly that she wasn’t sure she’d actually seen it.

“You know about Jack’s daughter,” he began, voice soft, once again watching his arm with that far-off expression. “She was a Siren, too. You know what she did?” He glanced up at her briefly. “She killed her own mother. When she was just a little girl. Because she couldn’t control what she had!”

Just like that, the edge was back and Fiona found that she was the one stepping away this time.

“You saw what happened to him. The man who...” He cut himself off with another strange noise. “There wasn’t even enough of him left to leave a bloodstain...” Again, he made eye contact, but it wasn’t like before. All Fiona could see this time was pain. “I won’t let that happen to you.”

“It won’t, Rhys—”

“You don’t know that!” he barked. “You...you can’t p-possibly know t-that.” He took a few shaky steps backward and collapsed against the wall. “I’m s-sure Angel loved her m-mother...a-and yet...that wasn’t enough t-to keep it from happening, was it!? Sh-she killed...” He dissolved into tears before he could finish the sentence, sliding back down to the floor.

Fiona drifted across the room, falling weakly onto a couch, feeling totally helpless for only the second time in her life. Only this time was somehow worse than the first. The man she loved was literally falling to pieces right in front of her and so far, she hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it, despite being here, with him, capable and willing. Lilith had said he hadn’t eaten since that incident out in the Badlands. That had been three days ago.

“Rhys.”

Nothing but sobbing.

“You’re going to end up killing yourself,” she whispered.

“S-so let it h-happen,” was the broken mumble. “You’d a-all be b-better off...”

She drew in a sharp breath. “You have to help me understand. Please.”

He blinked up at her, tears glistening on his face.

“When Helios crashed, people died. What makes one man so different from all—”

“Because it was me,” he cut in. His voice was surprisingly level. “Helios was Jack’s fault. But that man out there in the desert? I was responsible for that. I…vaporized him. I didn’t even have to touch him! It’s inside me, and I don’t want it—”

“He was trying to kill me, Rhys!” she countered, standing again. “You weren’t going to let that happen! You were protecting me!”

“I don’t want this!” he screamed. “It hurts, okay?! It feels like I have acid in my veins and I would gladly bleed myself dry just to make it stop—” He doubled over onto his hands and knees with a moan, gagging up nothing but raw air and bile.

Fiona couldn’t watch. She shut her eyes and waited until the coughing stopped to open them again. “Tell me how I can help.”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Just stayed there on the floor, shaking, sobbing, looking so small. “You can leave.”

“I’m not leaving—”

“Fiona...p-please.”

She shook her head firmly. “I know you think there’s no way out of this, but you’re not doing yourself any favors by—”

“I already told you!” Hysteria was starting to creep into his voice. “You’re not safe around me!”

“I am not going to leave you here like this—”

“Get out!”

“I love you, Rhys!”

“GET. OUT!”

A hush fell over the room as they stared at each other. That same animalistic intensity was back in his tear-stained eyes, but this time, it didn’t scare her. It broke her heart. He truly thought he was taking care of her. Slowly, she backed toward the door. He didn’t say anything, just watched her go.

The click of the latch was too loud in the quiet and she simply stood there, her heart pounding against her ribs. She'd never seen him in so much pain before. And what made it worse was the fact that it wasn't only physical pain. This was deeper. This was something she couldn't heal. She was losing him because he hadn't wanted to lose her.

Setting her jaw, she turned back, grabbing the doorknob. She couldn’t let him do this to himself. They hadn’t come all this way to—

The knob wouldn’t turn. "Rhys?! Rhys!" She tried again. Still stuck. “Dammit, Rhys, I won’t let you do this! I’m going to get Lilith!”

There was no answer. Even his crying had quieted. However, she heard one last hitched sob before a deafening gunshot pierced through the thick air. When her ears stopped ringing, all she could hear was silence.

****** Tag List: @corpseyb0nes @afterthedreamer @mischiefsilvertongue @marigold-magpie @tricerathotss @vanderlinde-exe @ayilachan @zipp0flare @luxury-of-insanity @omgzakoko

[smartcookie727]

Starfarers: Chapter 2

Happy gajevy day yall! I am so excited for all the love for my dear gajevy. This is where I finished off the original prompt for my Eden’s Zero crossover fic but we have now turned into a multichap. Levy dives into the deep end this time, and we finally meet Gajeel and a few of the crew members of the Iron Dragon. I hope yall enjoy. Leave me a comment, reblog, tag, anything so I know what yall like. Be sure to check out my writing blog @luminescent-words for all fics, WIPs, and everything literary!

Pairing: Gajevy

Length: 2.2k

Levy McGarden has a thriving business and a comfortable life on Blue Garden. But that life was turned upside down the night she crashed into the Captain of the Iron Dragon. Space pirate: Gajeel Redfox. She saved his life that night, and they’ve only grown closer since. Now, he’s got a proposition: come with him and he’ll take her to find what she’s been searching for her entire life.

Chapter 2: Captain

Levy whirled around.

Gajeel.

“Of course I got the note.” Her words tried to come out harsh, but the warmth spreading through her heart dulled their bite.

He was everything she remembered and more. Clad in a simple black shirt and leather jacket, he exuded confidence. Wild raven hair cascaded down his back, tempered by a thick gray bandana that matched the studded embellishments on his clothes and face. His red eyes pierced straight through to her heart. Tall and muscular and tanned from hours outside, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of one of her romance novels—only better.

The curve of his lips sent a shiver down her spine as he inspected her over too. Six weeks was such a long time, and there were so many details that had faded from the picture of him in her mind. The tiny scars on his hands, the sparkle of metal against his skin when his piercings caught the light. Holoscreens and wanted posters could not hope to do him justice.

Then there was his arm. Entirely mechanical, it stretched from the top of his left shoulder all the way down to his fingers. Dots of color and symbols speckled the entirety of the prosthetic, hiding the many gadgets—and weapons—his disposal. Dangerous, alluring, exciting. Real and right in front of her.  

Gajeel flashed a wicked smile. “I knew you’d come. You were never afraid, not even that first night.” He took a long drag of her coffee. The cocky grin plastered across his face vanished in a twist of lips. “That’s no good. Needs whiskey.”

Lifting onto her tiptoes, Levy swiped the cup back. “I’d thank you to not take my things.”

“Ah,” he sighed, “but that’s what pirates do, little Levy.”

She glared up at him. He knew how to push her buttons far too well.

Gajeel laughed and tucked a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. “So, you ready to fly away with Captain Black Steel Gajeel?”

The challenge sparkled in his eyes. Nodding, Levy tossed back the rest of her coffee and raised her leg in a playful kick.

“Will these shoes work?”

He caught her ankle at the top of its arc, tugging just enough to examine the sneaker and her flexibility. Levy hopped to stay upright but managed not to break eye contact.

“Perfect.”

In one swift movement, he released her foot and slid his arm around her waist. Electric whirring filled the air. Then, they were gone.

Levy’s heart raced as her feet touched the floor. Travel by rift always made her nervous, but right now, that wasn’t why her pulse was pounding in her ears. Pressed into his side in a protective hug, Levy could feel the strong, smooth muscle hidden just beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Wow,” she breathed.

Gajeel glanced down and cracked a devilish smile. Her hands still clutched him for dear life, and she could feel the burn of blush across her cheeks. Levy released him with a huff.  

“I, uh, didn’t know you had a micro-rift. They’re really rare, ya know? And I didn’t even see you had it with you; I feel like I would have noticed—”

Gajeel lifted his mechanical arm.

“Built right in.” Tentatively, she took his outstretched hand. “Pirates like shiny toys, and this one has gotten me out of plenty of pinches since I got it installed.”

Levy’s fingers drifted over the cool metal, tracing the complex command sigils that covered his prosthetic in awe.

“Then why did we have to run?” she asked softly, almost to herself.

Gajeel chuckled, lifting her chin to look her in the eyes. “Smart as a whip, miss McGarden.”

There was something hidden in the depths of his ruby gaze she couldn’t quite place. Something that felt awfully like the burning desire of more. Breath stalled in her chest for a single heart-stopping second as she waited. But nothing came, and the moment dissipated around them like stardust.

Exhaling hard, Gajeel leaned against a nearby panel, tipping his head back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I gotta modulate the frequency on it every once in a while or the alliance force will lock onto the signal. If that happens it would be too easy for them to find me and my crew.” His eyes grew dark and solemn, lost in a far away memory. “This ship’s my home.”

His ship.

“And I can’t have anyone finding us.” Standing to his full height, he shrugged off the feeling of gloom that had gathered around him. “I was going to Lily’s for a tune up. He’s a wizard when it comes to anything I need to keep the ol’ arm working. But no, he wanted to be a baker.”

They were on his ship.

“And until I can figure a way to build him a confectionery with a delivery vessel off the side of the old girl here, he refuses to close up the shop he’s got on solid ground.” Smiling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’m working on it. Never had a better first mate, though.”

She was on a pirate ship.

“Ahem,” came an icy voice laced with annoyance.

Levy jumped in her shoes. She hadn’t noticed anyone come in.

“Not that you’re not a great first mate, Juvia,” Gajeel groaned, turning to face the newcomer, “but Lily was the better sparring partner.”

The woman strode toward them briskly from across the bridge of the ship, long blue curls bouncing with every step. She acknowledged Levy with a smile that reached all the way to her aqua eyes, before directing a glare at Gajeel.

“Juvia does not take you up on requests to fight anymore because she could incapacitate you in the first few moves.”

“Only cause you’d short circuit my arm.”

Juvia raised a hand to the ceiling. Faint blue sigils flared against her skin and storm clouds gathered above her head.

“Don’t test my patience, Captain. You’re being rude. We have a guest. You haven’t even told her where she is or made a proper introduction.”

“And how the hell would you know what I have or haven’t—”

Gajeel’s eyes ticked back to Levy, who had tucked herself against a nearby corner. “Shit, Lev, this is my ship, and this Juvia. You remember me telling you about her?”

Levy’s heart skipped a beat as all attention focused on her. “Um, hello,” she said with a nervous wave. “Gajeel’s told me about everyone. It’s nice to put a face to the name.”

Before she could step forward to shake the Juvia’s hand, Levy found herself lifted into a hug. Apparently none of his crew had any qualms about separating her from the floor.

“Welcome to the Iron Dragon, Levy. You’re officially sailing with pirates. I’m so glad you’re finally here. Gajeel hasn’t been able to stop talking about his friend for weeks now.” She giggled as she set Levy down. “Any longer and I was coming to find you myself. I’m Juvia. Please come to me if you need anything.” Stepping back, she lightly punched Gajeel’s arm. “Lugnuts might get to call himself Captain, but I take care of most things around here.”

“Hey!” Gajeel barked, “I do Captain stuff all the time.”

Mist gathered above his head, and a large drop of rain landed squarely on his face. Gajeel grumbled something about rust and swatted the cloud away.

“Juvia is first mate around here. She uses weather ether gear. Don’t get on her bad side or she’ll send a shower to follow you around for days.”

“Thank you,” Levy squeaked, “I’ll be sure to take you up on that once I know more about this place.”

The remark seemed to satisfy Juvia, and she turned her attention to a monitor off to the right.

Levy exhaled long and slow, turning in a circle to examine everything. She was on a pirate ship, with Gajeel, the promise of adventure right in front her if she was just willing to reach out and grab it.  

“Wow,” she said under her breath, eyes lighting up like stars.  “So, this is what you wanted to show me?”

Juvia tried and failed to stifle a laugh.  “Smooth, Captain.”

Gajeel shot her a glare that could vaporize anyone else on the spot.

Unfazed, Juvia continued her work at the console. “You pick up everything we need or just that special item you wanted so bad?”

He nodded silently, daring Juvia to try her luck.

With a giggle, she shut off the screen and skipped out of the room. “Well, I’ll go tell Metalicana we’re ready then,” she called over her shoulder before turning down a passage out of sight.

Gajeel pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, turning to face Levy.

“Don’t mind Juvia. She’s quirky, but she’s as smart and loyal as they come. Her favorite pastime is making jokes at my expense, though.”

“We’ll be fast friends then.”  

That earned her a deep chuckle, and the air in the room seemed to relax.

“I did have something I wanted to show ya, Shrimp.” Gajeel took her hand and lead her over to a command panel in front of what could only be the captain’s chair. “You’ve been searching for some real specific scrolls, right? The ones you were so upset about that night. Well,” he pulled up a small section of space on the screen. “I happened to catch word that there’s some ancient scrolls on a planet, right here.” He gestured to a blue sphere on the screen. “Litulla. It’s on the outskirts of the cosmos. Some adventurers with a talking blue cat traded me this as proof.” Bending down, he removed a weathered roll of linen held together with an intricate wax symbol from the large iron chest beside his chair.

Levy’s eyes widened and the familiar words escaped in a hushed breath. “The midnight dove flying across a crescent moon.”

No. This couldn’t be real. They were all supposed to have burned, and yet here it was in the palm of her hand. Gently, she ran her fingers over the symbol.

“I can’t believe you found one.” Levy could feel the pull of ink and stitches in the back of her mind, itching for her to let them in. “They were used by the old council to mark documents of great importance. No one’s seen one in centuries.” Unbidden, a tear fell down her cheek. “This is amazing.”

“So, you ready for a real adventure? Let’s go to the edge of the universe together. Let me take you, Levy.” Gajeel squeezed her shoulder, and she shivered at the sudden coolness of metal against her skin. “Special delivery.”

Levy placed the scroll down and whirled around to grab him in a ferocious hug. She buried her face in his chest.

“Yes.”

His arms settled around her waist, and they stood there for a long moment, just holding each other. Levy bit back a sob. This was more than she’d ever expected. He’d remembered. He’d cared. A small part of her had given up hope on the search a long time ago, just like everyone else. But Gajeel believed. He was going to help her find the answers she’d resigned to live without, and there was nothing she could could do to show him how grateful she was—except go with him.

“Anchors away,” she said with a sniffle.

Bursting into laughter, Gajeel clutched his stomach and fell back into his chair.

“This is a spaceship, Shrimp, not some seafaring boat.”

“Starfarers, then.”

“Yeah”, he chuckled, “I guess so.” Taking a moment, Gajeel gathered his composure and called up a video labeled “Mechanics”. A tall, scarred man with wild salt and pepper hair appeared on the screen.

“Get her roaring, Metalicana!”

The man stared at Levy through the monitor then responded with a raspy grunt. “So this was the sweet you so desperately wanted to come back to this planet for?” He tossed his head back, laughing. “An’ here I thought you were talking ‘bout something Lily was makin’ us.”

Levy gaped as Gajeel turned red as his crimson eyes.

“Just do it, old man,” he barked.

“Nice ta meet ya, kid,” Metalicana said, addressing Levy with a bow. “Don’t let this one push ya around. He’s just a big softie under all that metal.”

Suddenly, the video cut out. “Pops,” Gajeel grumbled.

The floor hummed beneath their feet; Levy felt the prickle of excitement race to the tips of her fingers. Every risk she’d taken on Gajeel had steered her into something wonderful. Now, she was more ready than ever to dive headfirst into the unknown.

A smirk curled the edges of her lips, and Levy gestured with her thumb for Gajeel to get out of the seat. She was always the one who flew and he knew it.

Slowly, Gajeel stood. “My dragon’s a lot harder to handle than that little planet hopper of yours, short stack. Sure you wanna give it a go?”

Levy sat down with all the powerful grace of an oncoming storm. Command screens flickered to life around her, and she set their course without missing a beat.

“You’re not the only one with a few surprises up your sleeve, Captain.” Closing her eyes, Levy breathed in deeply. Her fingers curled around the controls as her smile deepened. “Yo, ho.”

[cressasdbfanfics]

His Worst Fear

Here is part I of a requested 4-chapter fic I just finished. Story will get updated every Tuesday. 

Blurb: Goku Black discovers how rage affects a Saiyan's power and works to push Son Goku to his limit, making Goku's worst nightmare reality.

Fanfiction.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12453430/1/His-Worst-Fear

Archive of Our Own: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10665318/chapters/23605779

Part I:

Motivations

The seven Super Dragon Balls belonging to an alternate timeline floated in the emptiness of space before me. The time had come to summon the mightiest of the Eternal Dragons.

I chanted in the sacred language of the Kai, "Come forth, Dragon of the Gods, and grant my wish pretty peas!"

In a great flash of light, the Eternal Dragon of the gods took form.

Also using our tongue, he demanded, "State your wish."

I smiled. "Please exchange Son Goku's body with mine!"

A brilliant light consumed me, warmth spreading through from my head to my extremeties, and then faded soon after, the warmth disappearing as well. When the light faded, hair black as night dropped into my eyes.

"It is done."

I touched my new face, tracing the strong, angular features and brushing my raven-black bangs out of my eyes. I smiled, delighting in the sheer power coursing through my veins.

The next step was to ensure the wish could never be undone.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the energy I sought and opened them a moment later under a bright, warm sun, the smells of the lovely green grass and of a nearby forest flooding my sensitive nose.

It was beautiful – or would be once cleansed of all humanity.

"G-Goku!? Is that… really you!? Why did this happen!?"

I winced at the female human's screechy voice, resisting the urge to clap my hands over my ears, learning my eyesight and olfaction weren't the only senses more acute in my new body.

"I don't know! But it's me, Chichi! I swear! It's me!"

I walked toward them. "You are now only Goku in heart to be exact."

It was… a little bit odd to see myself staring at me, the awareness of a mortal looking out through my eyes, but I shoved the thought aside. I held my hand out in front of me, enveloping it in energy and he grabbed his mate and the small human that bore quite a resemblance to my new body and pulled them both behind him, his eyes wide.

He didn't stand a chance against me. I knew that body's capabilities – I was strong for a Kai, but that was only a fraction compared to my new power – and he was aware of that fact.

I lunged and – amazed by my newfound speed – shoved my hand straight through him, his death near instant, life leaving his wide eyes, and he fell limp to the ground as the female human screamed his name.

Smirking, I lifted my gaze to his mate and child. She grabbed the small human and ran. I lunged for them. She tried to shield him and I almost laughed at her futile attempt as I annihilated them, leaving nothing left.

I left that world, that timeline, to its fate – knowing there would be no one to defend it against the wrath of the God of Destruction when he chose to show – and demanded the Time Ring take me to an alternate timeline. One I intended to cleanse.

The one I chose to enact my plan would be the easiest to purge for the simple reason that entities from many years back destroyed many humans already. The signs of the destruction around the globe present in abandoned villages with crumbling buildings and overgrown with weeds and the mass burial plots scattered around the land all indicated by single large headstones adorned with only numbers denoting the humans buried under it and several small shrines.

Continuing my lap around the Earth, it truly was a beautiful planet. Pristine forest, majestic mountain ranges, and green, rolling hills covered in patches of vibrant wildflowers gave way to the deep blue ocean, the pleasant, briny smell reaching my sensitive nose. If left in the care of man, the planet would surely die – one of many reasons my path was righteous.

After admiring nature untainted by the filth of humans, I began my mission. Razing each city went smoothly. The humans quickly began to fight back, but their feeble weaponry was no match for my vast power.

Several cities in, I met a slight hiccup in my plan. A small energy blast took me by surprise, striking my chest and exploding. When the air cleared, a lavender-haired human stood before me.

He took a confident step toward me. "Odd. You look just like someone I've heard many stories about and yet–" he glanced at the pile of rubble around him "–you couldn't be him. He'd never do this."

I smirked. "Ah! So you know of me. I am Son Goku."

He returned my smirk. "I don't buy that for a second."

In an explosion of brilliant golden energy, he lunged at me with unexpected, amazing speed and managed to land a right hook, bruising my cheekbone but I was ready for his follow-through – his right elbow aimed for my nose – and knocked his elbow wide with little effort, creating an opening, countering with my own attack – a jab to his face – which connected, sending him flying but he recovered. He charged me, his blows flying fast enough that his speed would have been challenging in my old body but not in my new one. His was a speed unattainable by humans.

I dodged, blocked, and countered each of the Saiyan's blows with ease. He was frustrated, but I was bored by our skirmish. I had work to do. I sent him smashing into a building with a hard blow to his stomach – feeling his ribs give way under the hit – and then fired a blast to finish him off.

Who was he to stand up to a deity? It was no matter. He merely met his fate a few moments sooner than the rest of the humans in that city.

Destroying that city was as easy as the rest and I moved on. It became clear to me that each city was no different, all wretched places full of yelling, bad-tempered mortals undeserving of the gift of life. With each city, my plan was more and more justified. I had a lot of work ahead of me but someone had to do it since it was clear the other Kais had no interest in righting their mistake.

On the longer flights between distant cities, my mind wandered back to one particular fight, recalling the power he used, the thrill of trading blows. He was the first mortal to display any kind of power. I almost regretted killing him.

My arms crossed, my flight halted a distance above a smattering of sparsely populated tropical islands and the blue-green water that surrounded them. His life was every bit as meaningless, even displaying a familiar dose of arrogance tied to his heritage. Mortals of any breed were all the same in their barbaric tendencies. Mortals with the power to stand up to deities deserved death more than any other.

I shook myself of my preposterous regret and continued toward a new target. Cities first. Then time to annihilate those with the mistaken assumption they were safe in their small, remote towns.

City after city met their ends, the thick black smoke billowing high into the atmosphere. With the first cities I destroyed still burning, smoke soon blanketed much of the region. Unsightly as it was, it was necessary. The burning wouldn't last forever. Once that ceased, the planet would heal and my utopia would finally come to fruition.

While performing my self-assigned task, one thought sat in the back of my mind, ever-present: the fight.

A few lunar cycles had gone by before I made a startling yet delightful discovery: He was alive and he challenged me again and again. Each time, my victory was effortless. That mortal wasn't Son Goku. He didn't possess the power of the gods. He was no match for me. Yet – surprising myself – I anticipated our matches.

Over time, I observed a shift in his behavior. The fights were less and less about defeating me and more and more about trying to draw me away from something. He carefully masked his energy with every defeat, disappearing into the rubble. With the acrid stench of fire burning everything around, his smell was overpowered. I couldn't sense him. My eyes lost him as he slipped – wounded – into the shadows.

I snarled softly in irritation as I landed. A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention and my head snapped around. A flicker of a shadow. The quiet sound of a latch engaging – almost drowned out by the crackling of nearby fire.

Walking toward the sound, it didn't take long to find a recessed door well disguised by rubble.

I had him.

Probing within with my senses, I found him. His power masked but detectable by his close proximity. Then, another life-force caught my attention, that one unmistakably human.

I blew in the door and a large section of the wall with a blast and darted inside through the smoke, catching the two hidden within by surprise. Dazed as they were, there was nothing they could do to stop me. I pulled the female mortal up out of the rubble covering the floor by her collar.

Trunks settled into a ready stance, his power rising. "Mother!"

The blue-haired mortal shook her head. "No, Trunks! Go! Find hope! I love you!"

'Find hope?'

Odd last words.

No matter.

Smirking down at the mortal named Trunks, a mere fraction of my strength crackled down my arm, and I released it, vaporizing the woman in seconds and destroyed the last remnants of their hiding place.

Trunks slipped away from me in the fire and smoke – no doubt masking his energy. Wisps of energy flowed out of me, snaking into every crevice. With my eyes closed, I detected a small but bright spark of human life. It blazed like the sun in the barren wasteland I created.

It wasn't Trunks', but it would do. I had sensed that particular energy with him before. Wherever I found that bit of human energy, Trunks was never far away. Lifting into the air, I flew the few hundred yards to that energy and stopped. He was in the shadows with the dark haired girl I had seen him with before.

She darted out in the open from her hiding place and sought cover behind a large chunk of rubble. She fired her weak weapon again and again, the tiny projectiles streaking toward me all too easy to dodge, her face twisted into an unsightly expression of irritation – irritation that quickly turned to fear when I fired on her. She had no hope of dodging my blast and she was well aware.

The impressive explosion engulfed her and her lifeless body soared through the air several yards before landing with a thud, her energy extinguished.

She was dead.

I smirked down at Trunks bent over her body, shaking.

"You'll be with the girl soon. Humans deserve death. In death, they will finally atone for their sins and so will you. Today is the day you die!"

Trunks threw his head back and screamed in rage. He kicked into the air straight for me in a blast of energy, the familiar golden aura engulfing him, his face contorted in an ugly display of pain and fury, his power climbing at a rate faster than ever, and then higher than ever, his speed incredible. For the first time in a long time, he managed to land a blow straight to my solar plexus and I flew back.

My stunned lungs refused to work – refused to follow the subconscious reflex of their kind to breathe, my heart pounding in my chest. Seconds later, breathing returned, and I countered, delighting in his newfound power and in the little burst of energy I gained as my body recovered from that blow.

He got lucky. My speed remained unmatched and I countered, landing my own fist in his stomach, feeling as well as hearing several ribs crack under the pressure. Power surge or not, he wouldn't live to see another day. His death was imminent.

I wouldn't let him go right then. Relief in death was far more than that arrogant mortal deserved. I needed him to suffer – to break him – and then I would let him die.

Slamming punch after punch into his gut, his power dropped, the aura dissipating. His hair fell back into his normal shade of lavender. He was barely conscious. One more blast would be enough to finish him.

No more Trunks meant no more fights.

The blast charged in my hand, I hesitated a second too long because he had just enough energy to fire one last blast in my face, sending me careening away.

I recovered in the air and landed, blinking away the floaters obstructing my sight.

He was gone. I knew it before I got there. His energy was gone but there was no body. He was alive and he slipped away yet again.

I sought to finish him off, trying to find him but failed even with my senses as sharp as they were. He was alive. I hadn't killed him. It would take more than that to finish him. I concentrated, trying to find him but to no avail. Then, the noise of roaring engines from behind me and I spun around to see a craft piloted by the purple-haired mortal rising into the blackened sky.

I fired a blast at the craft hovering low in the air but in a flash of light, it vanished. I glared at the spot and did a sweep with my senses again but he was well and truly gone. There was no trace of his energy. He wasn't merely masking his energy in hiding. He wasn't on the planet at all.

A pulsating light on my hand caught my attention. The Time Ring. That pulsating became a single thin beam connecting me to the spot he vanished in. He wasn't just running. The ring behaved like he ran to a different time, reacting to the unnatural disturbance his time-traveling craft created.

A thunder-like crackle and a rip in the sky appeared before me, the thin beam of light disappearing into the center.

Letting my ring guide me straight to him, I was pulled into the tear. When I opened my eyes, I looked out over the familiar dome shaped buildings from where I hovered high in the air, those iterations unharmed. No matter. I could fix that.

I noted the presence of my counterpart, Vegeta, and the God of Destruction with his attendant, but decided I would deal with them later.

The purple-haired pest was first.

He flew up to me, glaring. "Black! What are you doing here!?"

"I came here the same way you did, through the same tear in time. I'm here because of you. I'm here because you called me here – however inadvertently."

Trunks summoned his power with a yell and attacked, but in his weakened state, he did not pose much of a challenge and I knocked him down with a swift blow to his stomach.

My counterpart was next. As our fight progressed, we revealed more and more of our power to one another – until his power went to a level that outmatched Trunks'.

His Super Saiyan transformation offered a tremendous boost of speed and strength. For the first time since taking Son Goku's body as my own, I met my match. I strived for victory, pushing myself to the limits of my formidable power but to no avail. The growing frustration of realizing he was stronger than me.

Then the growing thrill.

I shook myself of that thought, struggling to hold my eventual, inevitable defeat at bay.

That was ridiculous. Mortals were never supposed to be stronger than deities. Yet, Son Goku was. I should have been disgusted. Some part of me was. Another part of me… the dominant part of me was… electrified.

In our fight, I felt more alive, more thrilled than I have at any other time of my life. Killing Son Goku with my own hands would have been a great step toward my ultimate goal of utopia. Fighting Son Goku was the ultimate test of my strength.

I blocked Goku's kick but my whole body was yanked backwards and out of range, giving me no chance to retaliate. I glanced behind me, our fight halting. The tear in time created by Trunks was mending itself and required me to return to my world. I didn't have a choice. His defeat would have to wait for another day.

Trunks and Son Goku stared in shock at a point on the ground. The time travelling craft was on its side, narrowly missed by a blast. I destroyed it and then was yanked into the tear.

When the rip in time deposited me in the atmosphere of my world, I dropped out of the sky and landed on my feet, loose gravel crunching under my shoes. My heart was pounding but not from exertion. I was… elated. In that elation was a drive to push myself to new heights. In my counterpart, I found my challenge, anticipating our next match and his defeat.

Leveling other human population hubs upon my return accomplished my two goals at first, but very soon grew insufficient for the more intense training my body craved.

With a yell, I summoned my power in the middle of the smoking rubble of another destroyed city, blowing it away completely as my massive power exploded around me, blowing out a massive crater. My energy crackled around me and through every inch of my being – formidable but not enough to defeat Son Goku.

I shifted through martial arts forms I observed him using, the movements suiting my body perfectly and melded them into my own forms learned through my extensive training on the sacred world of the Kais. I delighted in my progress – in the increase in my power in just that brief time.

"Black."

Snarling at the interruption, I whirled on him.

Zamasu raised an eyebrow. "Stay focused on the objective, Black. Stay focused on bringing justice to the world."

"I am focused!"

He shook his head. "You've been slacking. I've been observing you from afar. You've been back in this time two full days and have only destroyed a few cities."

"Destroying Son Goku will bring justice to the world!"

"You are correct. But you mustn't forget about the rest of the vermin. I observed Trunks leave on a craft and that your Time Ring reacted to that craft's whereabouts. That was a time-traveling craft then, was it not?"

I nodded once. "It was but I destroyed it while in the past moments before the tear in time repaired itself."

He raised an eyebrow. "Saiyans are a stubborn, battle hungry lot, never backing down from a challenge. They will find a way to return. Until he arrives here, focus on ridding this time of those blasphemous pests."

My eyebrow twitched and I crossed my arms, recalling the interruption of my training. "Fine. I'll destroy cities until Son Goku arrives at our time. But I wont move until you spar with me."

Zamasu's lip curled in mild disgust. "Careful, Black. You're behaving no better than those mortals. And remember, Son Goku is mine to destroy when it comes time to." He sighed, his expression relaxing. "But fine. I will fight you."

After staring in equal portions disgust and ravenous hunger at the mountain of food covering the entire table and my own very full plate for several moments, I ate almost everything in sight, silencing my roaring stomach. I had to admit, the food was quite delicious. Food prepared by a fellow deity was far and away superior to anything I had consumed thus far.

Several plates later, I was uncomfortably full, having eaten a great deal more than I ever had in that form, every serving dish on our overcrowded table wiped clean. I anticipated having that body's vast reservoir of power at my disposal. I was unprepared for the amount of sustenance that power required – the amount only increasing proportional to my energy output.

Zamasu took my last plate from me, his small smile amused. "My, aren't you quite the gluttonous mortal."

Despite his comment being in jest, I narrowed my eyes at him in warning.

His smile only grew.

After eating, an itch to train gnawed at the back of my mind. I stood up from my seat at our outdoor dining table, vaulted over the deck railing of our cabin over looking the forest, and floated in the cool early morning air, drifting backwards. Once a good distance, I summoned my power and released my newly acquired transformation, and – engulfed by my beautiful rose pink aura – worked through several forms, melding Son Goku's style with my own.

After clearing the table, Zamasu stood on the deck, observing me in silence.

I stuck my hand out toward him, palm up, and twitched my fingers in a brief gesture to join me. He obliged and gave me the fight I needed to sate my newly awakened thirst for battle. Fighting Zamasu held the worst of the yearning at bay, but not all of it, for my ultimate prize would be the defeat of Son Goku by my hands.

Whenever he decided to come to me, I would end him.

I occupied my time destroying cities, but it was hardly satisfying since my thirst for intense battle had been awakened.

I charged a large blast, leveling most of a sprawling, ugly metropolis in one fell swoop when I sensed a surge of energy off in the distance.

It had been only a couple days' time. Not a long wait by any means. It was time to test my new transformation against Son Goku.

However, Vegeta was the first to engage me in battle, rage burning in his eyes because I had killed the future incarnation of his wife and critically injured his son. I warned him to learn his place as a lowly mortal. In his refusal, he earned himself impaled by my mighty Split Cut technique. Despite the fact he wielded the power of the gods, he was all too easily defeated and left for dead.

As Vegeta fell from the sky, Son Goku charged me after nodding at Trunks to tend to Vegeta.

Even Son Goku's own usage of the ki of the gods proved inferior to the might of my recently attained Super Saiyan transformation. Not even the combined efforts of Son Goku and Trunks were a challenge. All three met their defeats by my hand and fled to their time.

It was only the next day when an energy surged in the distance and a great pillar of light shot into the smoke-darkened sky – a brief but obvious signal. Son Goku, Vegeta, and Future Trunks had returned.

Moments later, I touched down on the roof of a crumbling tower, smirking down at them.

Vegeta charged me as his power exploded into Super Saiyan Blue, rage burning in his eyes yet again. "I WILL KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME!"

He was knocked down again and I laughed. "Bruised your pride, have I?"

He roared, firing blast after blast, using the explosions as cover to get in close, but I gave him no openings, knocking him out to the ground once again with a blow to his stomach – one so hard his power fluctuated, nearly losing control of his transformation.

Son Goku and Trunks rushed to his assistance but I would not give them that chance. It was time I finished off Vegeta.

Using one of Son Goku's choice techniques, I landed on a high rooftop and settled into a stance. I cupped my hands together at my side until a brilliant, warm light bathed the area, and Zamasu descended from the clouds, making quite the entrance for the sake of the mortals. I allowed the energy to slip away harmlessly as he joined me on my lofty perch.

Son Goku glared up at us. "Zamasu!"

Zamasu smiled down at them. "Yes. It is I. I will bring you to your ultimate destruction."

Son Goku's glare gave way to a cocky smile. "You can try." His expression darkened again. "Before we get started, there is something I want to know. Tell me… how did you get my body?"

I smiled. "A wish on the Dragon Balls of the gods."

He raised an eyebrow. "You made a copy of me?"

I laughed. "No." I put my hand to my chest. "This is the real Son Goku. It's your body, but the soul that resides within this body is that of Zamasu."

Son Goku crossed his arms. "Clearly, you made a wish to have my body. How?"

I gritted my teeth at his insolent tone, but gave him the answer he desired. "In another time, I wished for my body and yours to be switched."

"Why?"

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Don't you see, Son Goku? I was the one that shamefully lost to you, a mere mortal. I needed more power so I abandoned my old body for yours and the power you possess." I prepared to blast into the air. "Now, prepare to pay for your insolence, mortal!"

A brief touch on my arm stopped me.

I glanced at Zamasu and he shook his head.

Son Goku's frown deepened. "Then… what happened to the me in that time after you stole my body?"

I cracked a smile and held out my left hand. "I killed you with this very hand."

He uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists at his sides. "What time are you from, Zamasu? And Lord Beerus killed you. I saw it. So why aren't you dead?"

Zamasu placed a hand on his chest. "I am of this time. Trunks' time. Or what you call the Future. I arrived here after Black came to me and killed Gowasu. Before coming here, we destroyed every single one of the Kais – including Gowasu of Black's time – to make them pay for their folly and to assume the role of Supreme Kai for ourselves. All of this is made possible by our Time Rings – which prevent us from being affected by anything done to other iterations. All of this is necessary to bring about our paradise."

I nodded to my counterpart. "Shall we, Zamasu?"

He sneered. "Certainly."

With that, we each charged large blasts and launched them at the mortals, beginning the fight. Goku charged, engaging Zamasu with a pointblank energy blast, his head badly damaged. I was unconcerned. Zamasu's immortality meant he healed in moments, Son Goku snarling in frustration.

He'd pay dearly for his attempt to kill a deity. Using one of his techniques, I translocated behind him, catching him by complete surprise, flipping up kicking him down, and he landed hard by his friends.

Vegeta glared up at us, shifting a foot forward, ready to fight. "What paradise is that?"

Zamasu smiled down at him. "One without mortals. None deserve the beautiful gift of life we have bestowed. They're all the same – barbaric, and evil. But none are as awful as humans. Humans must face a heavy penalty before they are driven to extinction. We brought about despair and fear the likes of which they have never experienced. They will never be able to rise again."

I grinned. "The Zero Mortals Plan."

Vegeta smiled humorlessly. "What a dramatic name. All you want to do is massacre mortals."

I nodded. "Yes. And we've killed countless thousands on this world alone – not to mention the others."

The sound of a foot shifting against the roofing and Zamasu said, "And now it's time to erase humanity for breaking the taboo of time travel and the unending violence in wars and in the streets."

The three of them explode into their mightiest transformations with angry roars, charging us as one, resulting in a chaotic exchange of hits from fists, feet, knees, and elbows as the three of them strived to defeat us, but at every turn, they were out-matched, out-paced, and easily overpowered but still we toyed with them.

Toying with them, my mind began to drift, pulling up images of Trunks in his rage when I nearly killed that girl and killed his mother.

Vegeta's anger when I took his ego down to where it belonged…

Their horrified yet angry expressions as Zamasu and I divulged our dream…

Their determination to prevent the inevitable demise of the last humans hidden on that world – determination that was driven by a misguided fury…

Fury.

That dreadful emotion was the root of all of it – one that drove humans to commit unspeakable atrocities against one another.

One that I would use to my advantage.

Firing a great blast on Son Goku, he crossed his arms in front of his face, shielding himself from it, the blast shoving him back in increments of movement. Sending him toward a ruined building and his back met it, his slow backwards movement ceasing and in a last push, he shoved the blast up and out of harm's way.

I gave him no time to move, planting myself inches away from him.

"Aren't you wondering what happened to your family after I took your body and killed you?"

His glare met my smirk, his voice low and hissing between his clenched teeth. "What… did you do… to Chichi and Goten?"

I laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" Charging up my energy blade, I drove it straight through him, pulling a scream out of him, his power fluctuating, his head bowed, and then, leaning in, I whispered directly into his ear, "I killed them as effortlessly as I killed you in my old body. And I'd do it again."

His head snapped up, his teeth bared, his power stabilizing and then growing – even with my blade protruding out his back. His aura flaring up around him, he reached down, and broke the blade as easily as one would snap a twig before throwing his head back in an agonized, furious roar, his power skyrocketing out of control, then moving with alarming speed, landed an uppercut with more power behind it than he had ever used, sending me flying. Despite the gaping wound through his side, his power was stunning, driven to new heights by his fury.

I had my fight, my worthy opponent unleashing his fury in a blitz of powerful hits, and for the first time since attaining my own Super Saiyan transformation… I hurt. And I loved it.

He seemed to find some enjoyment in causing my pain, his eyes hard and cold. Gone was the calm confidence he displayed earlier. In its place was blood-thirst – intense, unadulterated blood-thirst.

He loathed me, channeling that hatred into every single one of his strong hits. Hits that came too fast for me to successfully block – the pain worsening. A fist was driven into my gut with so much force my breath whooshed out, my stunned diaphragm unable to pull air into my lungs, his attack not over yet as fists drove into my back while I was doubled over in the air, sending me crashing to the ground.

Pain that would only push my own power to new heights and it was already working.

He dropped down to stand over me, his face still twisted into a foul display of bloodthirsty loathing, static sparks crackling around him, the first hints of the blast he charged, moments before the familiar glow started down his outstretched hand, the energy gathering into a bright sphere, and then he released it but I was ready, melding my own energy into a protective shield. With his close proximity, the contact – and resulting explosion – was instantaneous.

Despite the smoke hanging stagnant in the air and obstructing my sight, his energy remained hovering before me with his guard down, and I fired a quick blast, delighting in the explosion and pained yell as his energy dropped. I seized the opportunity to charge him, driving my fist straight into his wound and he screamed again as he careened away but I would not let him go, using Instant Transmission to place myself directly above him, flipping down to slam both feet into his stomach, his energy falling.

His momentum forced him through many buildings, and well out of sight – and even just out of sensing range, his energy so low I had a vague sense of life but could not pinpoint his location.

His death was imminent – if I could but find him.

Zamasu joined me in the air – evidently having finished off the others. "Killed him, did you?"

I glanced at him. "Almost." I closed my eyes, extending out tendrils of energy, searching every last nook and cranny in every direction, my complete concentration making my senses far sharper, sharp enough to – "Ah! There he is! Seems you didn't kill the others, either." With that, I touched two fingers to my forehead, grabbed Zamasu's shoulder, and appeared right next to the Time Machine hovering in the air somehow well behind where I had just been.

We couldn't use the Time Rings to get to Son Goku's time. However, there was one other way. The three weak and unconscious energies inside were none the wiser to their stowaways each gripping a leg of the time travelling craft.

While the time machine hovered low in the air a moment, Zamasu and I released our holds and dropped, touching down on the clean grounds of the Capsule Corporation.

A quick sweep of my senses alerted me to a short man with short black hair staring at us, shocked. His energy was inconsequential. Zamasu would take care of him.

I only had minutes in Son Goku's time.

Knowing exactly where he lived, I extended my senses, finding the familiar, weak energies of his mate and youngest child.

I touched two fingers to my forehead and found myself in a small kitchen. A petite woman in a sunshine yellow dress worked at the sink, her back to me.

She turned around, her smile falling into a look of confusion as she eyed me up and down. "Goku…?"

I smiled slyly. "Yes."

She pressed herself into the counter behind her, a suspicious frown on her face.

I took a step toward her and her eyes darted first to one side and then the other, looking for an escape route.

She picked one and darted to my left, but I grabbed her arm and the blood drained from her face.

Light footsteps came into the room and she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I already knew who it was.

I turned and smiled down at the small mortal, his eyebrow raised in a look of vague confusion.

His confusion darkened into a slight frown. "Dad…?"

I shook my head, chuckling slightly. "No, young son of Goku. I am Goku, however I'm not your dear father anymore than I am her husband."

Chichi shuddered in my grip and tried to pull herself free, but I tightened my grasp on her arm and she sucked in a breath.

His frown deepened as he reached toward the little black-haired woman. "Hey… you're hurting her! Why are you hurting her?"

My smile widened. "Oh, I intend to do a lot more than hurt her."

Focused on the little boy, I didn't see the hard kick she aimed at my shin. It actually stung enough to nearly make me drop her arm. I was surprised a weak human woman was capable of such strength.

My eyes narrowed as I turned my attention to her and tightened my hold further, stopping just short of causing damage to the bone. "One more move like that and I'll shatter your arm easier than one would crush an autumn leaf."

Tears sprang to her eyes, her face contorted in pain and fear, her breathing shallow and fast.

Goten's energy exploded as he charged me and landed a surprisingly strong right hook on my cheek, making my head snap to one side. "I don't know who you are, but let go of my mom!"

His powerless mother screamed, "GOTEN! NO! DON'T!"

I twisted to the side, charged my Split Cut technique and struck out intending to impale him but he dodged it… partially. The crackling energy blade sank deep into his side. His energy dropped as he screamed, his hair fading to black and falling to its original shape. His small body hit the floor facedown with a thud.

The woman went hysterical, kicking out, screaming in anguish and anger, punching, fighting harder than ever before with a strength I didn't know she possessed.

I smiled down at her as she fought to get free. "Time to summon Son Goku."

Leveling his home sufficed. I dropped her – allowing her to scramble to the bleeding child – and reduced their small home to a smoking crater as she made it outside with the small, limp boy.

It was time to force Son Goku to the pinnacle of his power.

[aleornheirofcinder-blog]

Post 2: A New Tale Begins

Aleorn rose, ash streaming from his body, heart dark and cold as the ruined world around him. Grooves in the stained iron of his armour wept tears of soot, the remains of his dearest friend now as lost as everything else that once gave Aleorn joy.

“Keeper?” He spoke more to break the silence than anything else, knowing that she would hear him whether his words were conveyed upon breath or thought.

I never meant for this to happen. Never did I think my selfishness would end his life, ruin yours. The Keeper’s voice was frail with sorrow, its soft tones sounding a fractured plate appeared: weak and trembling, on the verge of irreversible ruin. She was in many ways as broken as he, distraught for she felt his anguish as her own, and knew that her own avarice, her blindness had destroyed that which she sought only to preserve.

“Now is not the time for sorrow,” Aleorn rasped. “Only vengeance.” Or’do crumbled away beneath his touch, ashes swirling into a small almond shaped orb of soft, pale light. This Aleorn took in reverent hands, casting it into the vast reservoir where his armory dwelt, its glow ebbing like frail breath, its dim moonlight fading to nothing between his dark, ironclad fingers.

You cannot remake him; death is permanent for those who lack Signs

“Or’do cared not for this world’s rules.”

But he is bound by them all the same.

“When blades shatter, where are they taken?”

Andre?

Aleorn snorted, envisioning Or’do lying upon Andre’s anvil as the confused blacksmith stared on as if his lap had caught fire or his legs had turned to writhing tentacles.

“He would not appreciate that.” A flash of embarrassment emanated from the Keeper’s presence.

What were you expecting?

“’Forge’, I was expecting you to say forge.” Aleorn chuckled. “Take fractured steel to the proper flame and it can be restored.

Or’do is not steel. She said flatly.

“No, yet Flame restores us, and the First is mightiest even among these.”

Us perhaps, but not him.

“Light collects in the Kiln, Dark in the Deep Sea, and Void at the fringe where worlds fray. If I seek the world’s end, the Dreg Heap and the squalor beyond, I shall find the Void’s last wisp, and from its ruin dredge life.”

You will find only pain in those foul places.

“Pain is the price of redemption.” He turned, striding into the bleak night. “And it is one I will gladly pay.”

A new world lay before him, its scent a cloying mixture of steel and blood. The Lords had crumbled before him like sculptures of sand built too close to the shore, each branded with the Voidsign, ending not only their lives, but those of every copy across every world. Now - in astonishingly quick fashion - he stood before the Gate to Pontiff Sulyvahn‘s domain.

It was here that he froze, remembering the first time Or’do spoke.

“You’re shaking, dear Host.” Or’do observed. The pair stood before Pontiff Sulyvahn’s domain, Aleorn regarding the gate of fog with no meager amount of trepidation. “Of what could you possibly be afraid?”

“Death is not permanent, yet pain, pain lingers.” Aleorn murmured. “So many times have I fallen.” He turned, his features grey and gaunt, nearly hollow. “I cannot summon the courage to face him again.” Behind those dark eyes a deep, horrible pain gleamed. “You might as well be on your way, Phantom Or’do. There is no victory to be had this day.”

“Well there is where you are wrong.” Or’do said with his characteristic mirth. He smiled, eyes two almonds of glittering amber beneath his gold tinged helm. “But there is more to life than conquest; you are neither the first nor last to seek another path when the one ahead is too much to bear.”

“If I do not fight, I do not live.” Aleorn’s voice was troubled, his warring emotions clear in the tremor of his breath, the fragility of his words. “My purpose is slaying Lords and Linking Flames. Without those things my life has no meaning.”

“An absence of detection is not an absence of condition." Or'do said, chuckling at Aleorn’s confused expression. “Just because you fail to notice something does not mean it does not exist.” He paused, contemplative. “Look not on my, not on the world, but on your own heart, and you will discover your purpose.”

“It is not that simple.” Aleorn’s voice was bleak, empty.

“Oh it is.” Or’do said conversationally, striding through the veil of mist and thereby casually defying this realm’s most basic rules. “Pain is worse than death, my friend. If you fear it, you are not weak but sane. Think on that a moment, you will see its soothing truth in time. Meanwhile, I shall crush the Pontiff. No one can hurt my friends without swift, relentless retribution, and from the sound of it, his is long overdue.”

Or’do had followed through on that threat, caving Sulyvahn‘s chest with a single, barehanded blow. Perhaps it was his kind words, or merely the allure of his awesome power that had shown Aleorn his purpose. It mattered little. From that day forth he fought at Or’do’s side, and for the first time in his long life, he had lived.

The familiar mists parted around him, whispering incoherently as in long ,vaporous serpents they slid across his battered armor.

This world is not like those before it. The Keeper warned. As you near the Origin, foes of ever mightier caliber will seek to stop you.

“Let them try.” He felt the Bleak Blade Lacrimosa straining within him, a palpable energy arcing along his arm, distorting the air like sun baked pavement. Rows of ornately carved pews stretched out to either side, ranks bracketing the path to Sulyvahn, who stood with blades of shadow and flame crossed over his chest, a foul eagerness glinting in his merciless eyes.

Aleorn rested a hand upon the ashes of his dearest friend, their cold stillness filling his veins with dangerous heat. He stalked forward, and in a swift, fluid motion drew Lacrimosa, its slim form broadening as he fixed an image in mind, its length splitting in two and widening still, forming two rough hewn greatswords that despite their size, weighed no more than Lacrimosa. Flame wept from its edge like worms shaken from soil, splattering in writhing heaps upon the tiles as he brandished both, fury turning his muscles to steel and his eyes to cold, hard frost.

He charged, tears of hate trailing like falling stars, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that filled his breast.

Steel clashed with steel, the fury of their union nearly jolting Lacrimosa’s left half from Aleorn’s grasp, his arm falling limp and numb at his side. At once, the blade crumbled back into marbles of shadow that evaporated before they struck the floor.

Before his eyes could register the flash of descending steel, a deadening impact crushed his ribs to dust, tearing muscle and doing far worse to the bones beneath. His Unkindled flesh reforged itself swiftly, but not swiftly enough.

Relentless, merciless, the blows rang against his ironclad body, stripping muscle from bone, smashing organs apart. Aleorn’s vision flickered and he fell to his knees as if genuflecting in solemn reverence. Blood gushed between his lips, trickled from the cracks in his armor which while battered was sufficiently intact to hide the ruin beneath.

Not here. Aleorn’s arm blurred as it arched overhead, and upon his forearm he caught the Pontiff’s flaming blade; sparks rippling over his buckling plate, rivers of metal branding themselves into his flesh.

Not like this. Tattered and worn, his muscles screamed in protest as he heaved and strained, throwing the immense weapon aside, wrenching Sulyvahn‘s arm from its socket with a sharp, sickening crack.

Or’do dodging between blows, graceful and swift as wind. Perspiration beaded upon his brow like globes of glass, yet upon his lips was a broad grin, in his eyes a strange, soothing light.

Is this hope? Aleorn had wondered. How have I lived so long without this? His iron fingers creaked as he curled them against his palm. And what will I do when it is gone?

Like a jagged edged spear, a scream of fury and sorrow shredded his throat, startling the wounded Pontiff, raking claws of razor frost through his ancient heart. For the briefest of moments, Sulyvahn‘s eyes showed true, primal fear: the terror of a cornered beast as its hunger descended. Then Aleorn was twisting forward, driving his fist through the man’s jaw, spraying blood and splinters of bone against the far wall. Around Aleorn’s buried wrist, a Voidsign blazed. In that instant all worlds were bound, a whole cloth woven of a thousand disparate threads. Then, Sulyvahn was slumping to the ground, flowing from his armor in long rivers of pale white ash.

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24, 2022

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24, 2022

End Times Prophecy Report HEADLINES THURSDAY March 24, 2022 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky ===INTERNATIONAL UKRAINE: Ukraine thwarts Russian advances, fight rages for Mariupol RUSSIA:  Kremlin Refuses to Rule Out…

[supernatural-schism]

Episode 4: Chicago Fire

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Suspended hundreds of feet above the Chicago pavement, as the first cold beams of light began to illuminate the sky, Jesse Peterson the window repairman loosened chunks of broken glass from a skyscraper’s shattered window.  Inside the (currently open-air) office, a tall blond man was speaking angrily into a cell phone, pacing back and forth.

“Yes I know that, it’s a huge mess up here!  I’m not just leaving a big hole in the side of my building for people to -- yes, it’s being fixed right now, what do you think I’ve been doing all night?”

Jesse Peterson the window repairman sighed.  His gloved hands carefully pulled out another chunk of broken glass, setting it down in a box with the others.  Lioncourt Luxury Hardwoods had always seemed like a mighty dodgy incorporation to him -- and being called in to fix a gaping hole in this office was only verifying his suspicions -- but all the same, he tried to keep his mind on the job at hand.  He wasn’t being paid to eavesdrop.  

... Well, in a very literal sense, he was.  Mr. Oscar seemed to have zero fear of being overheard, however.

“Miraculously, nothing else is off track.”  Oscar listened to his phone for a moment before speaking.  “No, no change of plans.  We keep going.  If that bitch Suzie in New York one-ups us, I’ll kill everyone in this building.”

Seemed a little harsh, Jesse Peterson the window repairman thought.  But then again, business types tended to be.  Thank god he didn’t have to spend hours on the phone with a boss like that.  He was just here to fix a window and ignore the ominous stains on the floor.

“Good.  Good.  You see to that.  I’m going to grab some dinner and I’ll be right there.”  

Seemed a little peculiar to be talking about dinner when the sun had barely risen, but Jesse Peterson wasn’t about to question the eating habits of someone this rich and this irritable.

Oscar hung up, and his humorless gaze fixed on Jesse.  “Peterson, right?”

Jesse put down the last shard of glass.  “Yes, sir?”

“Are you almost done?”

“Broken glass is all gone, sir.  Two guys should be by in another fifteen minutes with a replacement window.”

“Good.”  Oscar walked up to him so they were face-to-face, Oscar in the office and Jesse Peterson on his suspended swing outside.  “Terribly sorry about your fall.”

Jesse Peterson the window repairman blinked.  “Sir, I’ve never fallen in my whole career.  What fall?”

Oscar grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him through the empty window pane.  Long, needle-like fangs slid out of his gums.

“The one you’re about to have.”

-

Dean stared at the screen of the laptop, his jaw tense with concentration.  Under the words “enter password,” a cursor flashed in an empty box.

Rufus’s voice made him jump.

“Don’t matter how long you stare, it ain’t telling you the password.”

“I’m thinking,” Dean snapped.  There were answers on this laptop, answers that he and Rufus needed.  For starters, it might be able to tell them just how big this vampire-run company was, how far the influence spread.  The laptop might hold secrets to bringing the company down.

... It might have an explanation for what the company was planning to do with Ben.

“Aren’t you younger generations supposed to be all about computers and technology?”

In frustration, Dean typed goddamn fucking vampires into the password box.  No game.  “Shut up, old timer,” he grunted.

He could totally crack this.  He had to.  Even though there were plenty of people in Bobby’s network who could’ve done it in a heartbeat, none were close enough to drive to Chicago in a reasonable timeframe.  No one except...

“Y’know who’s good with computers?” Rufus brought up, for only the third time that morning.

Dean twitched.  “We’re not bringing him here.”

“Sam.”

“We don’t have a Sam!”

“Right, right, he’s ‘different’ now.”

“He’s not different.”  Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead.  He was getting a headache.   “It’s not him.”

“Thought you said that he -- or whatever it is that ain’t Sam -- had Sam’s memories?”

“He does, just not... anything else.”

The couch shifted as Rufus sat down next to Dean.

“Look, kid, I know this is a sore subject for you.  But this here is life and death.  Tell me straight: could this whatever-the-hell-it-is at Bobby’s place hack this bad boy?”

Dean slumped forward, completely burying his face in his hands.  Just days ago, he’d been sitting across from what used to be his little brother, watching him win at poker.  Sam’s retention of the rules had been immaculate.  It stood to reason he’d remember his computer stuff as well.

“ ... I don’t want him coming here, Rufus.”  Dean looked up reluctantly.  “But yeah, he probably could.”

“He ain’t any safer at Bobby’s than he is here, Dean.”  Rufus stood up.  “Bobby’s only a day’s drive away.  We’re calling them in.”  Rufus picked up his phone.  “It’ll be good to have that old codger on the job too.  You know any extra muscle we can call in?  Anyone who can get here fast enough?”

“Cas,” Dean replied automatically.

“Never met him.”  Rufus dialed.  “Hope he’s a badass motherfucker.”

Dean managed a snort and settled back on the couch, closing his eyes.

Rufus spread his arms.  “You gonna call your buddy, or take a nap?”

“Calling him right now,” Dean replied without opening his eyes.

-

On the outskirts of Heaven, slinking through willow trees and over still waters, a pale curl of smoke drifted.  It weaved through the cool evening landscape with a sense of agency foreign to most plumes of mist.  Above, the skies of Heaven were a soft lavender fading to blue, a few stars peeking out through the twilight and reflecting in the still lake below.  A cool breeze wafted through the balmy air.  Through it all, in an innocuous vaporous form, the angel Castiel drifted.

Castiel would have preferred to manifest a human body than reduce himself to a puff of mist.  Even more than that, he ached to enjoy the serenity of this peaceful place in his natural form, raw and receptive to the splendor of Heaven.  But to do so would most certainly have attracted attention.  In this wispy form, he was less likely to draw the unforgiving eyes of his of his brothers and sisters.  No matter how tender or holy the angel, orders trumped all else, and Raphael had ordered Castiel not to linger in Heaven.  There would be angels, Castiel knew, who saw the need to enforce this order harshly.  But gentle angels he must find, if he was ever to figure out what had gone wrong when he saved Sam Winchester.

As Castiel drifted through hanging willow fronds, he began to sense a warmth, something bright and clean and golden, existing on a separate plane from the mild weather.  It was the sensation of a nearby angel.  The aura felt familiar, but this was not an angel Castiel knew intimately.

Still, it was worth a try.

Castiel followed the aura until he found a wooden bench on the bank of the lake, shadowed by swaying willow trees.  A boy sat on the bench, his back straight and his body still, gazing at the deepening purple of the sky with pale blue eyes.  As Castiel approached, the boy’s head turned, and he blinked in surprise.

“ ... Hello,” he began, addressing the general landscape.  “You don’t need to hide.  We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

Castiel’s wisp of smoke drifted up to the bench, and he manifested his preferred form next to the boy.  Human illusions of volume and weight filled his new limbs, and the wood and wrought iron of the bench became tangible textures as he leaned back against them.  “Yes,” he replied to the boy.  “We have met before.  It is good to see you again, Samandriel.”

“It is... peculiar to see you again,” Samandriel mused.  Wind gusted, and the willows rustled.  “You are not the same angel I met before.  Not truly.”

“I hope you will still hear me out.”

Samandriel meshed his fingers and clasped his knee.  Reeds bowed in the breeze, and ripples danced across the glassy water.  “I see no reason not to.  Whatever mistakes you may or may not have made, you do not seem violent.  And I do not believe you will be able to seduce me away from my loyalty to Heaven.”

“Nor do I intend to,” Castiel assured him quickly.  “I merely seek knowledge on human souls, knowledge that angels are most likely to have.”  Castiel shifted his gaze, looking out over the quiet, dusky lake.  In the distance, a heron was flying with slow, powerful wingbeats, its plumed head held high.  Even when he was sitting there on that weathered bench, feeling the lake breeze on his face, it was easy for Castiel to remember the icy black grip of Hell.  “I attempted to rescue a soul from Hell recently,” he continued, pulling his gaze away from the view, “and I believe something has gone wrong.  He is... not himself.”

“You rescued a soul from Hell?  Alone?”  There was no small degree of awe in Samandriel’s voice.  “Stories of your ability have not been exaggerated.  Tell me, are you certain that the soul you saved was the correct one?”

“I could not be more certain.  I felt it, the soul was him.”  The memory was vivid, the hot queasy pulses of agony radiating from Sam’s soul as he cupped it to his chest.  Castiel tried to push the memory aside, wincing.  “ ... I returned it to his body and healed the decay, as I have done before, but it did not go as it should have.”

Samandriel cocked his head.  “He is alive now?”

Castiel sighed.  “On a sheer biological level, yes.  He moves, he eats, he speaks... but he is not the man I tried to rescue.  I do not even think he has a survival instinct.”

Samandriel pursed his eyebrows.  “ ... That is very strange.  Have you consulted Balthazar?  I have heard that peculiar events like this are his speciality.”

Castiel stiffened, turning his eyes away from the other angel’s.  “ ... You never heard.”

“Heard?”

“Balthazar.  He was killed in battle some time ago.”

“ ... I had not heard.”  Samandriel looked back over the lake.  “I did not know him well.  Were you close?”

“Very.”

“Then I am sorry.”  Samandriel sighed.  “And sorry too that I do not know what is wrong with this human of yours.  But you must have examined his soul: What does it feel like?”

“Torn.”  Castiel blinked at the still waters.  “Shredded.  Like... ”  His eyes dilated.  “Wait... that’s not right... ”

His thoughts were cut off by Dean’s voice, a crisp prayer in his head.

Yo, Cas, get your feathery ass down here, yeah?  We’ve got a job that might need a little angel power.  Amen.

Samandriel was peering at him with mild concern.  “Is something wrong?”

Castiel stood up as wind rustled through the willows.  “Forgive me, I need to go.  But you have been helpful.”  He hesitated.  “It has been... good to speak with one of my kind again.  More than I can express.  Thank you.”

“You are not unpleasant to converse with.”  Samandriel leaned back in the bench.  “You are leaving Heaven now?”

Castiel didn’t want to.  The power and serenity here beckoned to him, the beauty and familiarity of it all, and so did the company of another angel.  He sighed, pulling his eyes away from the star-scattered sky.  “ ... Yes, I am leaving.”

“Good.”  Samandriel turned his pale eyes towards the still lake.  “Raphael does not want you lingering, and I did not want to have to drive you out.  I advise you not to make a habit of visiting.”

Castiel’s smile faltered.  The willow fronds swished as wind blew through them.  “ ... I understand.”

Giving the peaceful surroundings one more longing gaze, Castiel melted back into smoke and seeped down through the floor of Heaven.

Through the inter-universal veil, Castiel sunk.  As he finally dropped away from the void between Heaven and Earth, his wings caught onto the math and physics of the mortal plane like air currents, and he soared across time and space.  He landed as a human-shaped glob of organized matter in a drab motel room on a drizzly Chicago morning, surrounded by peeling wallpaper and tasteless upholstery and beige.

On one of the ill-designed couches lounged Dean, eyes closed, hands loosely clasped on his knees.  His usual prayer position.  There was another man in the room, sitting in a battered wooden chair with his back to Castiel, cleaning a shotgun.

“You called, Dean?” Castiel spoke into the silence.

With a barked curse, the man in the chair spun around and fired off the shotgun with a bang like a thunderclap.  The blast caught Castiel in the chest, shredding through his clothes and flesh, tiny led balls burying themselves in his manifested body.  Castiel lowered his gaze to the wound, then turned his eyes to Dean.

“You hunters need to stop shooting the first angel you see,” he chastised.

The older man already had his gun reloaded and raised for another shot, looking alarmed but no less trigger-happy.  Dean just sighed, waving a hand.  “Easy, Rufus.  This is Cas.  Cas, Rufus.  Yeah, he’s normally like this.”

Rufus didn’t seem soothed.  “What the hell are you?” he snapped, not pulling his eyes away from Castiel.

“I’m an angel.”  Castiel waved his hand over the shotgun wound, and at his command, both cloth and flesh knit themselves back together.  He held his closed fist out towards Rufus, and opened it to show the lead balls clinking on his palm.  “I suggest you not waste ammunitions on me.”

“Yeah, suggest all you want,” Rufus shot back.

With a sigh, Dean wrenched himself off the couch.  He walked over to Rufus and put his hand on the barrel of the shotgun, struggling to lower it.  “This guy is the muscle I’m calling in,” he explained slowly, impatiently.  “He’s on our side.  His name is Castiel.  We do our best not to shoot him.  And yeah, he’s really an angel of the lord and all that.”

“Like the sons of bitches who whipped up an apocalypse?” Rufus growled as Dean pushed his shotgun down, his eyes still locked on Castiel.

“No, not like -- well, yes, he’s technically one of them -- ”  Rufus’s shotgun snapped up again and Dean shoved it down roughly.  “Damn it, Rufus, he fought for us in the apocalypse!  Me and Sam and Bobby and this guy, we’re the ones who shut it down!  Show some goddamn respect!”

Giving Castiel one more assessing look, Rufus finally allowed Dean to wrench the shotgun out of his hands.  Without warning, he barked a laugh.  “Badass motherfucker indeed!  A fuckin’ angel!  Good to have you here, angel man.  And shit, sure am glad you’re on our side.”  Still chuckling, he clapped Dean on the shoulder and walked back to his chair.  “Dean, you gotta introduce me to your other friends some time.”

Castiel watched Rufus sit down and pick up another gun.  The grizzled hunter whistled as he started cleaning it.  Castiel cocked his head.

“Is he... ”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupted, flopping back down on the couch.  “Always like this.  Come over here and lemme catch you up on the case.”

-

Bobby had taken more than his share of road trips in his life.  Sometimes the company was loud or smelly.  Sometimes they had shit taste in music.  But Bobby would have taken just about anyone in the passenger’s seat over this emotionless husk with Sam’s face.

Sam stared unseeingly through the windshield as they drove.  He was so still and so quiet that Bobby would start to forget he was there.  For a few miles, he would fall into the dull serenity of a long voyage alone.  Then he would glance to the side and nearly jump out of his skin when he remembered there was another warm body in the car.

Sam didn’t seem inclined to talk.  Bobby didn’t initiate.  It was a quiet ride, but not a restful one.

-

“You’re sure you can’t do anything?”

Castiel squinted at the glowing laptop screen while Dean loomed over the back of his chair.  “Positive.  This is not my field of expertise.”

Dean threw his hands up.  “Can’t you angel-mojo a password into it?”

Castiel ran his fingertips lightly over the colorful pixels, reaching gently into it.  He could feel all the inner mechanisms of the computer, the patterns of electricity that made the device function.  It was a simple language, clear-cut and binary.  0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 0.  On off, off on.  Nothing more.

“I could attempt to manipulate it,” he relented.  “Potentially, I could make it think that the correct combination of electrical impulses had fired.”  He closed his eyes, reaching a little deeper, looking but not touching.  The code was crisp, mathematic, refreshing.  Like the clockwork of Heaven.

“ ... Cas?  You makin’ progress there, buddy?”

“0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 0,” Castiel replied.

A silence stretched out.  Finally Dean broke it with, “ ... You wanna try that in English?”

Castiel pulled his hand back from the warm screen, clearing his throat.  “ ... Um, I think it would be unwise for me to tamper with it.”  He stood up.  “This is a complicated and delicate device.  To manipulate it, I would have to feed it tiny electrical impulses from my own grace.  A risky endeavor.”

Dean blinked.  “ ... Ah.  So it’d be like roasting a marshmallow on the sun.”

“I am not certain what a marshmallow is, but I will take your word for it.”  Castiel glanced at the computer again.  “It’s possible that I could retrieve the information we want, but I could also damage the device beyond repair.  I suggest going through the normal mortal channels of unlocking this machine, leaving me out unless we have no other choice.”  

Dean huffed, pacing away with clear disappointment.  From across the room, Rufus scowled.

“We don’t need the angel to do it,” he reminded Dean, not for the first time that day.  “We already got Sam and Bobby coming up.”

“It’s not Sam,” Dean snapped.  He walked across the room and grabbed his jacket off a chair, making for the door.  “I’m getting us breakfast.”

The door slammed, and Rufus turned back to his his gun cleaning with an unimpressed grunt.  

Castiel eyed the door Dean had left through, then looked back at the computer.  He sat down and brushed his finger experimentally over the silvery, rectangular pad under the keyboard.  A small black and white arrow moved across the screen.  It moved again when Castiel touched the pad again, following the direction of his finger.

Huh.

-

Bobby and Sam drove through the day and made it to Chicago sometime in the evening.  The first sign of their arrival was a muffled scream through the motel walls.

Dean was out of his chair in an instant and bolting for the door, nearly knocking over his Chinese take-out dinner.  He ran out into the hall in time to see the elevator doors ding open, revealing a trembling Sam curled up in the corner with Bobby kneeling over him.  Sam was breathing hard, staring at the stained linoleum floor with wide eyes, but at least he wasn’t screaming any more.

“What the hell happened?” Dean blurted.

Bobby looked up.  “No bleedin’ idea!  He’s been a statue the whole ride here, then we get in the elevator and he loses it!”

“Ascending,” Sam sobbed under his breath, staring sightlessly at the elevator floor.

Bobby wrenched himself to his feet and took Sam’s hand, trying to pull him up.  “C’mon, kid,” he urged, wearier than Dean remembered.  “Up you come.”

Sam shook his head, closing his eyes.  “Up,” he protested.  But he let Bobby haul him to his feet all the same.

By then, Rufus and Castiel showed up.  Rufus looked ashen, staring at Sam with a horror that Dean had rarely seen in those stern eyes.  Castiel instantly rushed to Sam, holding his chin and looking in his eyes, clinical but worried.

“What happened?” Castiel demanded.

Bobby threw his hands up, an exhausted gesture.  “We got in the elevator.  He started screamin’.”

“Elevator?”  Castiel pursed his eyebrows, still examining Sam.  Sam was still breathing hard, but his face was slack and his eyes had gone glassy.  “Sam, why did the elevator upset you?”

“Ascending,” Sam repeated, deadpan.

Dean felt Rufus give him a nudge.

“I’m sorry,” the man grunted, looking at Sam with something like grief.  “I had no idea.”

Dean squeezed his fists and nodded stiffly, trying not to look at Sam’s face.  It had stilled like the ocean after a storm, no trace of the panic that had overwhelmed him just seconds ago.  “ ... Don’t sweat it,” Dean murmured back reluctantly.  “You were right.  We need him.”  He waved in a gesture for everyone to follow, raising his voice.  “Come on, let’s do what we came here for.”

They walked back to the room together, Sam following and staring placidly at the gaudy red wallpaper as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Surprised we’re not gettin’ grief about the racket Sam kicked up,” Bobby grunted, glancing at the doors they passed.  “Boy was screamin’ bloody murder the whole way up.”

Dean blew out a breath between his lips.  “The people in this dive are pretty jaded.  Rufus fired a shotgun earlier and no one gave a shit.”

After some patient urging that nearly became impatient urging, Sam seemed to latch on to the task at hand.  He sat down with the laptop and attacked its security with determined precision, keyboard clicks filling the otherwise silent room.  Bobby and Rufus wandered to a corner to catch up, and Castiel peered curiously over Sam’s shoulder to watch him work.  Dean was left sitting on the couch, trying not to let himself fall for the comforting familiarity of Sam at a computer.  

Sam leaned over it like he always did, clacking away, his broad shoulders slightly hunched.  At one point he must have gotten stuck, because his brow furrowed and he typed more frantically.  Dean had gotten stab wounds that hurt less than that little, familiar brow furrow.

“I’m done,” Sam announced tonelessly after the better part of an hour, pushing the laptop away.  

Dean wrenched himself off the couch, relieved.  “Awesome.”

They gathered around Sam, three men and an angel, and Dean pointed to an icon on the desktop titled Itinerary.  “That folder first.  Let’s get a tour of this bad boy.”

-

“May I offer you a tour?”

The moon was high over Astor street, Chicago, clouds creeping by overhead on a stiff wind.  Packed between the lavish condos, a Gothic mansion towered towards the sky, spires clawing at the stars.  A sleek black limousine was parked in front of the mansion on the dark street below.  Standing before the arching doorway, dressed in his very best suit, Oscar the vampire extended a hand towards the ornate doorway, inviting in the Esteemed Guest.

In response, the Esteemed Guest nodded once.

Through gilded halls and under vaulted ceilings, over rare hardwood floors and priceless carpets, the Esteemed Guest was guided.  His polished shoes left wet footprints behind Him.

“Every evening, you will have a wide variety of human meals to chose from,” Oscar assured the Esteemed Guest as the tour progressed.  “Of course, we are well aware of your... specific tastes, and have a well-stocked pantry ready for you.”

Under sprawling chandeliers that cast glittering orange candlelight on the walls, past tall windows of black, lightless glass, the Esteemed Guest was guided.

“The house is sealed as tightly as any coffin.  No sunlight penetrates.  We made certain of that.”

Through a wide and ornate door frame into a massive dining room, the Esteemed Guest was guided.  Long wood tables spanned the room, set with silver forks and knives that would never see any use.

“ ... You may take your meals anywhere, of course, but this room is... well, specially designed.”  Oscar coughed, turning to face the Esteemed Guest and steepling his fingers nervously.  “I hope it is... acceptable, Father.”

The Esteemed Guest gazed at his surroundings silently.  Sprouting from the wall like new plant shoots were stainless steel meat hooks, slim and sharp, sturdy enough to hold a cow carcass, all polished to perfection.  The Esteemed Guest lifted His hand and tapped one long, pointed nail against a fine crystal goblet, making it ring softly.

“ ... It will do,” He stated.

-

By the time the sun had properly set and streetlights were shining through the gauzy motel curtains, every corner of Oscar’s laptop had been scoured.  Bobby had pulled Sam away from the computer and coaxed him into sharing some Chinese takeout, but Dean, Castiel, and Rufus were still hunched over the computer.  It had raised more questions than it had answered.

“Shit,” Dean breathed.  “The place is a fortress.  How the hell do we get in and out alive?”

“I believe I may be able to assist,” Castiel offered.  “Perhaps I can provide some sort of reconnaissance and get us more information on this ‘Father’ person.  I can remain unseen if I wish to.”

Dean grinned.  “Cas, you’re a godsend.”  When Castiel squinted, Dean cleared his throat.  “Just a figure of speech, buddy.”

“I will return shortly,” Castiel announced.  He stared at the far wall.  

Seconds ticked by.  Dean cleared his throat.

“ ... Were you planning on doing that today?”

Castiel looked back down at Dean.  “I have bad news.”

“No kidding.”

“The mansion must warded against angels.  I can’t get in.”

“ ... Angel warding?  They were anticipating angels?”

“Well, I think we can all agree on one thing,” Bobby grunted, box of Chinese takeout in hand.  “We’re in way over our heads.”  He put down his chopsticks and pulled out his cell phone, dialing.

Dean looked up from the computer.  “What’re you doing?”

“Phonin’ a friend,” Bobby grunted, holding the phone to his ear.

-

Sitting at a rickety desk that creaked and moaned under the monstrous weight of books piled upon it, Methuselah Nimrod Schmul stooped with his sharp nose an inch from the page.  He nearly fell out of his seat when his cell phone -- buried under another few books -- buzzed harshly.

“Goodness,” he murmured, uncovering the poor device and flipping it open.  “Robert Singer, is that your cellular number I observed?”

“Just get caller ID, Met.  Look, we need some long-range research, and we’re gonna need it quick.”

Methuselah clicked on speakerphone and rested the cell lovingly on top of a high, unstable stack of books.  “We?”

“Me and Rufus.  And that brat I’ve been telling you about, Dean Winchester.  And, uh, a guy named Cas.”

Two fresh voices came over the phone, one young and brash, the other cool and clipped.

“Good meetin’ you, Met.”

“Hello.”

Bobby’s voice again, sadder than before.  “And... I guess that’s everyone we have here.”

Methuselah adjusted his glasses, skimming the tome before him while listening.  “Ah, more friends of Robert’s.  All very good.  That crusty old bat would benefit from some companionship.”

“I can still hear you, nitwit,” Bobby growled over the line.

Methuselah steepled his long, gnarled fingers.  “What appears to be your conundrum, Mr. Singer?”

“Not sure, but it’s somethin’  that makes vamps go gaga.  Does the name ‘Father’ ring any bells?”

In a flurry of long-limbed movement, Methuselah snapped his book shut and shuffled around the desk for a more useful one, sending loose sheets of paper flying.  “Oh my, that is a very vague term, Mr. Singer.  The most obvious answer is that the vampire in question was referring to their sire; that is, the vampire who created them.”

“That ain’t the vibe we’re gettin’.  They’re treatin’ this guy like he’s some kinda vampire god.”

Methuselah flipped a book open, licking his finger before turning the pages.  “So there is a spiritual element to their treatment of him?”

“Yeah, financially spiritual.  They had a huge-ass mansion personally made for him on a little place called Astor street.  If that ain’t religious worship, I don’t know what is.”

Methuselah’s eyes widened and he adjusted his glasses on his crooked nose.  “Oy gevaldt.  Such a construction would have required no small quantity of money.  Perhaps I would do best to leave my dusty books behind and get into vampirism, it seems to be a more lucrative career than I gave it credit for.”  

“Like you could leave your books behind, you old geek.”

“Ah, I’ve been caught.”  Methuselah closed the book and grabbed a new one.  “Can you give me any further description of this ‘Father’ person?”

The younger voice introduced as “Dean” came over the phone.  “Nada, we haven’t seen him yet.  Just readin’ up on him.”

“On a computer Dean stole from a vampire secretary,” Rufus’s voice added eagerly.  “If you can believe that.”

“A vampire secretary?  You kids are on quite the adventure.”  Methuselah flipped through his book.  “This could very well be some sort of demi god that the vampires have chosen to worship, or perhaps a separate entity entirely that merely has them convinced it is such a demi god -- ”  Methuselah cut himself off, freezing on a page.  “ ... Oh dear.”

“Don’t do that dramatic pausing thing, Met.  What’dja find?”

“ ... I don’t suppose this Father figure feeds on human blood and eschews sunlight?” Methuselah began hesitantly.

“ ... Yeah, they’ve got the mansion light-proofed and there are plans to bring him humans nightly.”  Dean snorted over the line.  “But this can’t just be any old vampire that they’re getting so excited over -- ”

“Oh no, not just any old.”  Methuselah scanned one long finger over the page.  “The oldest.  And the first.  Singer and friends, I believe you may be dealing with the very first vampire ever created.”

Silence over the line.  Methuselah turned a page and kept reading.

“They call him Father because he is the eldest of their race, the one who gave rise to all others.  You may also see him called the ‘Alpha’ vampire, or perhaps given terms of royalty like ‘his grace.’  You were not far off: to the vampires, he is a spiritual figure.”

“So he’s bad news, huh?” Bobby sighed.  

“Oh, yes yes,” Methuselah replied briskly.  “Terribly bad news.  If you do get a better look at him, could you write down your observations for my records?  Oh, it has been a very long time since someone has encountered an Alpha monster and lived to tell the tale, and more relevantly document it -- ”

“I think we’ll be a little busy,” Bobby growled.  “Trying to kill the damn thing without gettin’ our heads bitten off.  ... Please tell me it can be killed.”

Methuselah snapped his book shut and stood up, circling his desk and searching through the piles of scrolls and books and rubble on it.  “Oh yes, I am quite certain that there is a way to send it back across the mortal veil.  Let me find the proper literature so I can corroborate this.”  Methuselah brushed his hand over an old book, kicking up a cloud of dust, and he coughed.  “Ugh, shmutz everywhere... ”  He picked up a leather-bound tome and flipped through it before putting it down.  “I hope you are not planning to kill this Alpha vampire any time soon, because the materials for such a ritual may not be sold at your local convenience store -- ”

“Do not concern yourself with materials.”  That was the voice introduced as “Cas.”  “I am more than capable of acquiring whatever we need.”

Methuselah took off his glasses, squinting as he cleaned them on his tie.  “Ah, very well, very well.  Sit tight, now, and I will relate the ritual to you just as soon as I find it... ”

-

Amy had an awful feeling that this was why Dad was constantly telling her not to talk to strangers.  Which wasn’t fair, because she hadn’t even talked to them.

They’d just shown up in her room one night, big swooping shadows with huge hands, like monsters from under her bed.  Maybe that’s what they were, those big strangers with the weird eyes and too many teeth who grabbed her and carried her off.  Monsters from under her bed.  She supposed that Dad must’ve been lying when he said they didn’t exist.  Or maybe he didn’t know.

He probably didn’t know where she was right now either.

Amy huddled further into her hiding place behind an armchair, trying to choke down the tears she could feel.  She was tough, and tough girls didn’t cry.  Even though she could hear other kids in the room sniffling, and that made it so much harder to be tough.  The room reminded her of Dad’s study, with big leather furniture that she would have loved to jump on.   None of the kids were jumping on it.

In one corner of the room, avoided by all the other kids, was the only kid who hadn’t been untied when he was brought to the room.  Chains shackled him to the wall.  Amy thought he might be sick or something, because he was breathing really funny and kept twitching.  And he had sharp teeth like the big strangers.  Looking at him made her want to cry again, so she tried not to look.

She would be tough and not cry.  She had to be.

She might attract His attention if she started crying.  He watched from His corner of the room, and Amy didn’t know what would happen if those dark eyes found her.

The door creaked, and all of the sniffling in the room stopped.  One of the big strangers stepped inside, a tall woman with a grim face.

“Okay, brats,” she snapped, rolling up her sleeves.  “It’s dinner time.  Who wants the honor of being Father’s meal tonight?”  

A painful silence stretched.  Amy tried not to look at the big stranger while also looking at her so she wouldn’t get her attention but could still see what she was doing.  Amy shivered as the big stranger’s eyes scanned the room.

“If I don’t get a volunteer, I’ll take whoever I can grab first,” the stranger threatened.

A low voice rumbled through the room, emanating from His chair by the door.

“Do not touch them.”

The big stranger spun around, her eyes going all wide.  “Y-your Grace!  I was told you were upstairs -- ”

“I am observing the children.”  He tapped one long, pointed nail against the leather of his armchair and slowly scraped it.  “You have frightened them.”

“I-I only meant to -- ”

“Hush.  From now on, no one is to touch the children but me.”  He slowly lifted a hand, one taloned finger pointing at the boy chained in the corner.  The one that looked sick.  “Do you know why he is here?”

“ ... No.”  The big stranger frowned.  “Wait, is he turned?”

“Yes.”

“Well what good is that?  ... With all due respect, Father.”

He chuckled, a low and rich sound.  Amy pressed back against the leather of the chair, hugging her knees.

“Do you remember Purgatory, young one?  Can you feel the call of it in your bones?”

The big stranger looked confused.  “Purgatory?”

“Ah, no, I see you are too young.  You do not understand the core of what it means to be a predator.”  He beckoned, slowly curling two fingers.  The big stranger approached uneasily. “What does the word ‘predator’ mean to you?”

“Um.  Something that feeds on prey?” the big stranger ventured.

“Oh no.  That is a weak predator.”  His hand shot out, quick as lightning, and grabbed the big stranger by the skull.  She screamed, and one of the kids screamed too.  Amy couldn’t scream, her heart stuck in her throat as He dragged the big stranger’s neck down to his mouth, opening into a cave of sharp teeth --

“A true predator eats everything,” He hissed.

Amy shut her eyes.  She didn’t open them for a long time, and didn’t ever want to describe the noises she heard.  Eventually there was silence, and then the shuffle of something heavy being dragged away.  Amy heard the door latch shut, and she thought maybe He had gone, but she didn’t want to open her eyes.

“No need to cry, little one.”

Amy nearly screamed when she opened her eyes again.  He was kneeling in front of her, smiling gently.  Like a grandfather.

“I do not harm children.”  He reached his taloned hand towards her head, and Amy shut her eyes again, but he only gave her a soft pat.  “What is your name?”

“A-Amy,” Amy managed.  She sniffled.  “I’m not crying.  Tough girls don’t cry.”  

“I can see that.”  He pulled His hand back.  “Do you know what a predator is?”

“A p-predator is an animal that eats other animals,” Amy supplied quickly.  She had learned that at school.

“Good.  You understand more than my henchmen do.”  His smile broadened with pride.  “Do you know what the best predators eat?”

Amy thought.  “ ... The best predators eat... other p-predators?”

His warm chuckle made Amy relax a bit.  “Very, very good.”

-

“I think that’s everything.”  Castiel deposited an huge armful of objects onto the motel bed.  He wrinkled his nose as the three hunters gathered around.  “I’m sure this goes without saying, but take care to perform the spell correctly.  I may not be able to gather these ingredients a second time.  Manticore lice are rare, and gathering them is not pleasant.”

Rufus snorted in displeasure.  “Head lice, I hope?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Strewn across the motel bed, in addition to the small vial of wriggling manticore lice, were a variety of spell reagents, three lengths of wood, and three fake handcuffs.

Dean picked up one of the handcuffs, cringing.  “Uh, why the handcuffs, Rufus?”

“Fake handcuffs, big difference.  We put ‘em on to get smuggled in with the rest of the human victims and then we -- ”

“No, I mean why did you have them?  Why do you have so many fake handcuffs?”

“You know how useful it is to look cuffed and not really be cuffed?  Everyone oughta carry ‘em.”

Dean flipped the handcuffs over, squinting at a label.  “‘Kinky play cuffs,’” he read out loud.  He dropped the handcuffs back on the bed like they had burned him.

Rufus snorted and looked away, crossing his arms.  “Useful.  S’all I’m sayin’.”

“No one is disputing the utility of handcuffs,” Castiel cut in.  He picked up the three lengths of wood: one oak, one birch, and one ash.  “I’m going to craft these into a weapon, but that is as far as I will be able to assist you.  I cannot come with you.”

Dean’s eyes wandered to the window where Sam was sitting.  The shell of his brother was staring outside, looking down at the street below.

“You’ll keep an eye on Sammy, yeah?” Dean asked, turning to Castiel.

Castiel gave Sam a worried look.  Sam leaned closer to the window, staring in apparent fascination at the pavement several stories below.  Castiel stiffly strode across the room and grabbed Sam’s shoulder, pulling him back from the window.

“Yes, I think that would be best,” he agreed.

“Dean, you take the fancy weapon when Cas is done,” Bobby grunted.  “You’re the young spry one with the good aim.  Don’t you miss.”

Dean nodded.  “Don’t plan to.”

Bobby picked up the stack of papers that they had written the spell down on.  He sighed.  “Well, Rufus, wanna rock-paper-scissors for pullin’ off the spell?”

“You can take care of the spell,” Rufus snorted, shuffling through his duffel bag and and pulling out a short length of pipe.  “I’ll handle explosives.”

“We’re not using explosives,” Bobby growled.

“Bullshit.  Always bring explosives to Big Bad fights unless the monster is fire-themed.  That’s hunter one-o-one, that is.”

“No, no explosives.”  Bobby walked over and whacked Rufus over the head with the papers.  “So stop makin’ a pipe bomb!”

“We should get some sleep,” Dean cut in, wandering over to the couch and flopping onto it.  “We’ve got about five hours before we need to be moving.”

-

Each night, as the sun went down, the glossy black vans of Lioncourt Luxury Hardwoods poured out of the company garage like an oil spill and began to prowl the Chicago streets.  Some of them wandered at random, scooping up unsuspecting pedestrians, but others had strict schedules.  At five in the morning, they all returned to deliver their nightly haul.

At precisely four forty-five, one of the company vans pulled up and parked on the curb the Sleeping Beauty café, as Dean nursed a steaming paper cup of sharp black coffee under the awning.  Right on schedule.  Dean watched, sipping his coffee, as a scruffy, sour-faced man climbed out of the van and walked into the café.  As soon as the door closed, Dean dropped his stained paper cup into a trash can and darted around the back of the van.  He probably had ten minutes tops.

The doors to the back of the van were bolted.  Dean slid the thick iron bar out of its lock, and creaked the door open slowly.  The van was full of bound, wide-eyed civilians, staring at him in terror out of the darkness, and Dean quickly held a finger up to his lips.

“Don’t say anything,” he hissed.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the van, he realized they were all gagged, thick strips of cloth shoved in each mouth.  “ ... Oh.  Guess that’s not an issue.”

Dean climbed into the van and shut the door, locking it.  In the darkness, he groped around until he had wedged himself onto the leather seat between two captives.  

“Everyone act normal,” he urged as he pulled a strip of bandage fabric out of his pocket.  “Pretend I’ve been here all along.  I’m here to break you guys out.”  When he was met with an incredulous silence, Dean grinned.  “Perfect.  You guys are real naturals.”  

He stuffed the fabric in his mouth, tying it around the back of his head.  Next came the handcuffs, latched behind his back.  Dean had barely settled in when he heard footsteps approaching the van, and the doors were unlocked and thrown open.

“New bunkmate,” the vampire snapped, shoving a sobbing young woman inside so that she stumbled to the floor.  “Play nice, bloodbags.  Next stop is home.”

The doors were slammed shut, leaving them in pitch darkness again, and Dean blew out a breath through his nose.  So far so good.  He hoped Bobby and Rufus had fared as well with their respective vans.

Soon the engine was revving up, and then they were moving.  As he was jostled against the other bound captives in the blackness, Dean wondered if anyone would believe that he rode into battle against the father of all vampires wearing sex shop handcuffs.

The grind of the van’s breaks and the sudden silence of the engine cutting off were the only sign they had arrived.  The doors of the van opened and Dean blinked in the sudden, harsh light.  Outside he could see incandescent bulbs, concrete, more black vans.  A scowling vampire with graying hair hauled himself into the back of the van, and the captives all shrunk back in alarm.  The vampire grabbed the young woman on the floor and hauled her to her feet, dragging her out of the van as she struggled.  Dean could see her sneakers fighting for purchase on the smooth floor.

“All right, bloodbags, I’m missing dinner for this!” a vampire bellowed from outside the van.  It sounded like their driver.  “The first person to make a problem of themselves is gonna make it up to me personally!”

One by one, the captives were pulled, squirming and whimpering, out of the van.  When a powerful, calloused hand wrapped around Dean’s arm, he let himself be wrenched to his feet and led out of the van.  What he stepped into was a large garage, cold and clean.  Black vans were parked in a row like kenneled dogs.  Corralled by several vampires, the captives from Dean’s van were led in a line across the bare cement towards a door, clustering there.  Dean looked around the vast garage, but they were the only unloading van.  No Bobby or Rufus in sight.

Dean hoped there wouldn’t be pat-downs involved.  Under his jacket, he had a machete and an ancient weapon crafted from three holy woods by an angel, specially designed to destroy the most powerful of vampires.  That might raise some questions.

Dean was shoved roughly in the direction of the other captives, and he grunted in displeasure.  The gag was taking on a sour taste in his mouth, and he had a burning urge to spit it out.

“Get ‘em down to the pantry,” the driver barked, waving his arm and directing the other vampires.  “We’re already late!”

Late was good news.  It meant that Bobby and Rufus were probably already here, stowed away in the “pantry” and ready to start performing the spell.  Dean shuffled towards the other humans, doing his best to look scared and defeated.

A rough hand grabbed Dean’s shoulder, halting him.  He was wrenched around, and found himself staring at the scowling driver.  Between the cracked lips and unkept stubble were needle-sharp fangs.

“This one from my van?” the driver barked to the room in general.

Another vampire snorted.  “Course he is, your van’s the only one here!”

“Really?”  The driver leaned close, his lips curling, his voice lowering.  “Now that’s real funny.  Cause I don’t remember pickin’ you up.”

Shit.  Dean’s thumb found the safety latch of his cuffs, ready to flip them open.  

“Now, I know every bloodbag I pick up,” the driver growled, his fingers digging painfully into Dean’s shoulder.  “E’ry one.  I don’t make mistakes.”

“Except being late,” snapped one of the other vampires.  “We’re missing dinner for this!”

The driver whirled around, still gripping Dean’s shoulder, and Dean was nearly yanked off his feet.  “I keep track of my stock!  I never put this one in the van!”

“Oh, so he put himself in there?  Genius plan!”

Dean clicked the cuffs open, slipping his hand free.  C’mon, Bobby.

“Well, I guess he did!” the driver spat, giving Dean a rough shake and turning back to face him, face twisted in rage.  “So which is it, pal?  You a vamp fetishist, or a filthy little hunt--”

Out of time.  Dean reached under his jacket and grabbed the machete, swinging it up above his head and driving it down into the vampire’s neck with all of his strength.  The head toppled to the floor with a harsh thud, followed shortly by the rest of the body.

Dean ripped the gag out of his mouth as the vampires snarled at him, baring their fangs.  Five, six, seven... shit, eight vampires.  Dean took a step backwards as they closed in slowly, keeping his machete raised.  C’mon, Bobby!

“Don’t know what your plan was, hunter,” came a voice behind him.  Dean spun around, cursing under his breath as another vampire emerged from the group of captives.  “But it was a bad one.”

Dean backed up, turning, trying to keep all the grinning vampires in his field of vision at once.  He stumbled and barely managed to hold his balance.  Did the ground just move?

“I take it back,” one of the vampires sneered as they closed in.  “I’m glad we missed dinner for this.  Dibs on his jugular.”

This time Dean was certain that a tremor passed through the cement beneath his feet.  Instead of fading, it intensified, and Dean could tell from the vampires’ confused faces that they felt it too.

“The hell is that -- ”

A bang like a firing canon thundered through the walls of the room, shaking dust from the ceiling.  Dean nearly fell from his feet, throwing up an arm to shield his eyes as the rumbling faded.  When he looked up again, every vampire in the room was limp on the floor, collapsed.

Dean blew out a weary breath and lowered his machete.  “Damn.  That spell has some kick.”  He checked his watch.  They had forty minutes before the spell wore off and this overpriced place turned back into vamp central.

The crowd of captives were staring at him like he was on fire.  Dean sighed and put his machete away, stepping over the bodies on the floor and approaching the captives.

“All right,” he called, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, “let’s get those gags off, and then you’re on your own.  Please, just... don’t start screaming or anything.  Just leave through any door you find, no one’s gonna stop you.”  He heard a squelch beneath his boot and winced.  He’d stepped in the blood spreading from the decapitated vampire.  “ ... Okay, I know this looks bad,” he admitted as the captives stared at him in horror, “but please don’t call the cops for the next forty minutes.”

-

The mansion reeked of money.  Dean’s boot left sticky bloody footprints over the expensive carpets and hardwood floors as he navigated his way through the house, following a quickly-drawn map from his pocket.  Bobby and Rufus must have been delivered to the “pantry,” if they had pulled off the spell.  Hopefully, they hadn’t gone far from there.

He checked his watch.  Thirty-four minutes left.

Dean rounded a corner and nearly collided with Rufus.  Both men cursed and staggered back, machetes drawn, as a singed-looking Bobby caught up.

“Easy, boys,” Bobby grumbled.  “We oughta be the only conscious ones around here, ‘sides the Alpha.  Unless that spell had the teeth to take him out, which I doubt.”  He nodded at Dean.  “You sure took your time.”

Dean sheathed his machete.  “Bus ran late.  Didn’t you used to have eyebrows?”

“Har de har.”  Bobby rubbed soot off his cheek with the back of his hand.  “Spell had some kick.  If you’re done joking around, we’ve got a vampire god to gank and not a whole lot of time to do it.”

The doors to the dining hall alone were impressive.  They arched twice Dean’s height in a blood-red wood, carved with a writhing mass of human bodies, all bleeding.

Bobby snorted as he craned his neck.  “Ain’t that charming,” he breathed.

It took all three of them to move the massive slab of wood.  There was no way to do it stealthily; it creaked like a ship in a storm.  As the three men pushed and the massive door slowly dragged open across the marble floor, the dining hall stretched before them, all black glass windows and scarlet walls.

“Slow,” scolded a low voice from inside the room.

Dean froze, his shoulder pressed against the door.  

“It has been eight full minutes since you cast your spell,” the voice continued.  “Wasteful of you to take so long.  Of course, one way or another, this fight will be over in a matter of seconds.  So perhaps it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Dean cursed under his breath and slumped against the door.  No point in hiding.  He reached under his jacket and pulled out the sharpened wooden stake, two feet long, banded with the three different woods.

“Come out, children.  I could hear your hearts beating from down the hall.  Stealth was never a weapon you had.”

Bobby grumbled and pushed through the crack in the door.  Dean grunted and followed him, stepping into the grand room.

Between the tall, dark windows, meat hooks jutted from the scarlet victorian wallpaper like silver antlers.  All but one of them was clean.

“I must congratulate you on the spell,” spoke the Alpha vampire as He stood beneath the still-dripping corpse impaled on the wall just above Him.  Dark blood had drenched her denim jeans, her head hanging limp on her neck, dark hair crusted with drying blood.  

“That is some very old magic you used,” the Alpha continued.  “I have not seen it in quite a long time.  A good choice.”  In one dark, clawed hand, he swirled a fine crystal wine glass.  Something red that definitely wasn’t wine sloshed inside.  “It’s always a pleasure to meet competent hunters.”

Dean’s fist tightened on the wooden stake as he strode closer.  Bobby and Rufus started fanning out on either side.  He could see them both pulling out machetes.  Probably not enough to kill this son of a bitch, but better than empty hands.

The Alpha vampire turned.  His face on another man may have looked no older than fifty.  But there were centuries behind his eyes.  His ancient gaze settling on each of them in turn.  “Tell me, hunters.  Do you know why dead man’s blood is toxic to vampires?”

“Don’t talk to him,” Bobby grunted under his breath.  “The old vampires hunt with words as much as fangs.”

The Alpha vampire frowned.  “Watch yourself, hunter.”  He turned back to the corpse dangling limp on the meat hook.  “It’s about the power of taking a life.  The spark of fire inside all living things.”  He swept a hand up at the slumping corpse.  “If I were to drink from her now, the taste would choke me.  It is the taste of cheating, of settling for mere scavenging when one is capable of a true hunt.”  He lifted the wine glass.  “But this blood was taken as she hung gasping and dying, still drawing the breath of life.  Even though she now lies dead, this blood does not, for it was wrenched from a living body that still had fight in it.”  He lifted the glass to His lips, taking a long, slow sip.  He seemed to savor it.

“Fascinating,” Dean ground out.

The Alpha looked down into His wine glass, swirling it.  “Dead pray is no challenge at all.”  His voice was thick with disgust.  “How appropriate that the blood of the dead makes us weak, just as a lack of challenge will weaken us.  Most vampires are too young to understand this.  The highest calling of all is to devour the strong.”

Dean continued approaching, his knuckles white on his weapon.  Bobby and Rufus had closed in on either side of the alpha, and they were nearly within striking distance.

“ ... So perhaps you understand what a good deed you are doing me by being here,” the Alpha concluded.  He turned to face them.  “Will you be the ones to kill me?  Who knows.  Probably not.  But you might.”  He slowly tipped up His glass and downed the rest of the blood, staring into the empty crystal.  “It is not often that I find myself hunted.  Much less by someone with even the slimmest chance of besting me.” His hand tightened around the glass until it shattered in His fist, bloody shards tinkling to the marble floor. “And I do not believe that you can fathom how deeply I thirst for the blood of a fellow hunter.”

“We live to please,” Bobby growled dryly, making the Alpha’s eyes snap towards him.  In that instant, Rufus charged.

The Alpha barely seemed to move, but somehow Rufus’s blade was flying out of his hands and he was knocked to the floor.  Dean leapt over the table that barred his way just as Bobby raised his machete --

The Alpha spun, grabbing Bobby’s wrist and twisting.  A scream wrenched out of Bobby, followed by a sickening pop.

“Too reckless,” the Alpha chided calmly, grabbing the front of Bobby’s shirt.  He flung his arm out, and Bobby was thrown violently across the room.  He hit the expensive dining table and crumpled.  “You are not fighting a common vampire.  If you do not use some creativity -- ”  

The Alpha turned just as Dean was raising the stake to strike Him in the chest, and His hand shot out.

Blinding pain ripped across Dean’s face, crushing his nose and tearing across his eyelid and sinking into his cheeks.  He felt the stake being ripped out of his hand as stars of pain danced in his vision, and he was pretty sure he was screaming but could only tell by the noise bouncing off the walls.  The Alpha watched calmly, His hand splayed across Dean’s face, grinding shards of glass into the flesh as He squeezed.

“Don’t interrupt,” He ordered softly, holding Dean at arm’s length and watching blood drip down his chin.  “I do not appreciate my lessons being disrespected.”

Dean’s left eye felt like it was boiling.  His hands were shaking as he grabbed the Alpha’s wrist and tried to wrench His hand off.  Struggling hurt like fire, ripping the wounds across his face, but the Alpha’s fingers tightened and wouldn’t let him go.

“I told you,” the Alpha murmured, shifting his grip on the wooden stake.  “This would be a short fight.”  He held it up, ready to drive it into Dean’s chest.  “Any final words of defiance?”

“Fire in the hole!”

Dean couldn’t see Rufus through the rough fingers grabbing his face, but he recognized the man’s voice and knew what it meant.  He reached into his jacket and pulled out his machete, swinging it up as hard as he could --

The Alpha’s only response was to blink in surprise when His severed hand thumped to the floor, rolling and stopping next to the pipe bomb at His feet.  Dean didn’t have time to notice the hot pain on his face because he was running, vaulting back over the table and throwing himself behind an toppled table --

The blast rattled the floor and shattered one of the tall black windows, sending a cascade of glass outside and letting the first, golden rays of dawn shine into the room.  Dean felt the impact against the table he was hiding behind, hard as a tumbling boulder.  He huddled with his arms over his head as the dust settled and the chandeliers overhead swung and tinkled like wind chimes.  There was no sound from the Alpha vampire.

Dean lowered his arms and cautiously peered over the table, viewing the damage of Rufus’s bomb.  The crimson wallpaper had been blasted away, and the nearby wooden furniture had been charred or was actively burning.  Where the Alpha had been standing, there was only a black blast on the marble floor, the incinerated remains of an expensive carpet.  Dean craned his head up and flinched.  The huge steel meat hook on the wall had a second occupant.

“ ... Bobby?” Dean called, getting to his feet without taking his eyes off the impaled vampire.  “Rufus?  You okay?”

A pained groan from Bobby.  “I’ll live.  It’s nothing that -- nnnnnnahfuck -- popping my shoulder back into its socket won’t fix.”

Dean could hear Rufus moving to help Bobby.

“On your feet, old man.”

“You’re one to talk, codger... ”

"You ever gonna lecture me ‘bout ‘splosives again?"

"Stuff it, you old bat."

Dean lifted a hand to his bleeding face, wincing when he touched it, as he approached the Alpha.  There was blood dripping from the vampire’s mouth, and the polished steel of the hook jutted out of His chest, but His dark, ancient eyes were open and locked on Dean.

He whispered through the blood.  “ ... Let me taste.”

Dean grimaced and leaned down to pick up the wooden stake.  There wasn’t a scratch on it.

“How’s your throwing arm, kid?” Bobby called.

Dean lifted the wooden stake and gauged his shot.  Depth perception was tricky with one if his eyes swollen shut, but he could manage.  “Good enough.”

“Just one taste... ” the Alpha pressed.  He grabbed the meat hook with His one remaining hand and leaned forward, hungrily, towards Dean.  “No one has ever done this well against me.  I must know what such a predator tastes like.”

“I’ll pass,” Dean grunted.  He heaved the wooden stake like a spear.

The Alpha’s hand shot out and snatched the stake out of the air.  He slowly cocked his head as Dean stepped back in alarm.

“One taste,” the Alpha repeated.  “I will taste at least one of you before you die.”  His arm moved, and the wooden stake shot like a javelin down the length of the hall and clattered against the far wall of the dining room.  The Alpha grabbed the steel of the meat hook with his one good hand and and pulled himself up it.

“Dean!”  Rufus drew his machete, standing between Bobby and the Alpha.  “Stake this son of a bitch!”

Dean turned and ran, away from the smoldering furniture and the shattered window, leaving footprints of ash and blood across the pristine marble floors as he sprinted down the length of the vast hall towards the distant promise of his weapon --

There was a solid thump as the Alpha’s feet hit the scorched marble floor.  Dean could hear pounding footsteps, pursuing him faster than any human could.  The wooden stake was just a few feet away.  

Dean dove for it, grabbing the stake and rolling over as he jabbed it upwards with the same motion.

The Alpha panted down at Dean with glazed eyes, his hand locked around Dean’s throat.  Dean's chest heaved.  The wooden stake was buried so deep in the Alpha's chest that it jutted out of his back.  

“ ... One taste,” He whispered in awe.  “Please.”

Dean grunted and shoved the vampire off.  There was no more life in the Alpha’s eyes when His body hit the floor.

Bobby hobbled over, helped by Rufus, as Dean wrenched out the bloody wooden stake.  He heaved an exhausted breath.

“Y’know, it really could have gone worse.”

Bobby scowled.  “Tell that to my rib.”

Dean touched his face and winced.  “Well, we’re walkin’, aren’t we?  Or limping, in your case.  Let’s get out of here before -- ” Dean cringed as he saw what Rufus was holding.  “Ugh, Rufus, why the shit do you have his hand?”

Rufus gave Dean a disappointed look.  He lifted the bloody severed hand.  “Hunter one-o-one,” he explained slowly, as if afraid Dean wouldn’t follow.  “Always nab yourself a body part or two.  You never know when a ritual is gonna call for ‘em.”  He checked his watch.  “I’d be grabbin’ the whole corpse, but we got twenty-nine minutes to get out of here before the spell wears off.”  He cast a glance over his shoulder, where the curtains and a good number of chairs were burning.  “ ... Assuming the whole place doesn’t go up in flames first.”

In a jolt of panic, Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his map.  “Kids,” he said in a rush, “the Alpha kept kids here.  We can’t leave without busting them out.”

-

Something bad was going on outside.  Amy was sure of it.  First there was a loud, loud boom that she thought was going to break the walls, and since then no one had been in the room to check on them.  Father was supposed to visit them and bring them dinner, but he hadn’t come.  Had they done something to make him angry?  The thought chilled Amy.  Her tummy was rumbling and she didn’t know what was going on and she was having a hard time being tough and not crying.

... Plus, that creepy kid who was chained in the corner hadn’t moved since the loud bang, and she thought maybe he could be dead and she wished someone would come do something about that.

The sound of footsteps outside the door were the sweetest noise Amy had ever heard in her nine years of life.  She wiped her eyes off and stood up.  She didn’t want Father to see her crying.  That would make him very disappointed.

There was a lot of clicking at the door, and then it creaked open.  But the scruffy old man who peered inside wasn’t Father.

“Shit,” the man breathed, looking around the room.  “I mean fudge.  He was drinking from fudging kids.  What kind of sick bastard... ”

He opened the door further, and Amy could see there were two more men outside.  One of them had a beard and a hat, and one of them had his face all cut up.  They were all splattered in a red liquid that made Amy’s stomach twist.  Amy was scared, really scared, but she stood up straight.

“Where is Father?” she demanded.

The man with the beard stepped into the room.  He looked sad.  “Don’t you worry, munchkin, no one’s gonna hurt you any more.  We’re taking all of you home.”

Amy’s scowl faded and her shoulders eased.  “ ... Home?”

The bearded man nodded.  “Round up all your little buddies, all right?  Let’s do this nice and orderly, walk right on out of here.”

Amy pointed to the kid chained to the corner.  “He can’t walk.  He’s sick.  Or sleeping.”

The two older men looked sad as they turned their eyes to the boy in the corner, but the younger one with the hurt face looked like he’d been shot.  Amy could hear his breathing.

“Dean,” the bearded man said gently.  “If you’re not up to it -- ”

“We can’t do it here,” the man named Dean choked out.  “I’m not -- I’m not doing it in front of the kids.”

The bearded man sighed.  “ ... All right.  Scoop him up and let’s be on our way, we’re running out of time.”  He looked around the room, at the scared kids huddling behind the furniture, and turned back to Amy.  “You seem like a tough cookie.  Can you help me round up all these pipsqueaks?”

Amy puffed out her chest.  She was glad he had noticed.  “Yes I can!”

-

The smoldering furniture on the scorched floor of the dining hall gave way to dancing flames.  They licked their way across the expensive carpets and the decorative tables and leapt like gazelles to the curtains.  There, the flames blossomed into a blaze, roaring up the velvet until they could reach the wooden rafters.

By the time three hunters and a flurry of uncoordinated children fled out the main doors of the mansion, there were flames leaping out through the broken windows as if straining towards the golden light of dawn.  Before long, half the mansion was ablaze, pouring smoke into the sky.

Across the street, under a tree that kept off the worst of the morning sunlight, an immaculately dressed blond man stood calmly and watched a decade of planning and billions of dollars burn to the ground.

“I am done,” Oscar declared to no one in particular as another window shattered under the roaring heat.  “That’s it.  Suzie wins.  I’ve had it with America and its batshit hunters.  I’m going back to Venezuela.”

With that, Oscar turned his back on the inferno and pulled out a phone, dialing his travel agent and keeping to the shadows as he strode away.

-

Dean stared out the backseat window as they drove home.  The harder he pressed his forehead against the cold glass, the less he had to look at the seat next to him.  It hurt his wounded face, but it was better than seeing the small, limp body crumpled in the back seat.

“Glad you stashed the truck, Rufus,” Bobby grunted through obvious pain.  “I’m in no mood for a stroll.”

“Especially not with -- ”  Rufus cut himself off, and Dean didn’t need to see the man’s face to know why.  “ ... lookin’ like we just came from a slaughterhouse.”

Running around in broad daylight with an apparently-dead kid was the issue.

Dean kept his eyes out the window and a hand on his machete the whole way home.

-

The motel elevator dinged as it opened, and Dean prayed no one was awake yet as he and Bobby and Rufus walked down the hall to their room.  The last thing they needed was someone calling the cops because three grown men covered in blood were carrying a dead child down a motel hallway, tracking soot all over the cheap carpet floor.

The hall was blissfully quiet.

Rufus opened the door, and Dean heaved a deep breath of relief as he followed Rufus inside.  He had barely gotten through the door when a panicked Castiel was in his face.

“Good, you’re back, you all survived,” the angel spilled out.  His face was pale.  “I think I’ve done something wrong.  Very, very wrong.”

Dean blinked with his one good eye, wincing.  “What are you talking about?”

Castiel seemed to notice the blood.  “You’re hurt,” he remarked.  He pressed two fingers against Dean’s forehead, and a flood of cool relief washed through Dean’s face, erasing the pain.  Dean blinked again, with both eyes this time.  Castiel gave Rufus and Bobby got the same treatment, then gazed sadly at Ben.

“I can’t do anything about that one.”

“Cas, what do you mean you’ve done something wrong?” Dean demanded.  He looked around the room.  “Where’s Sam?”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”  Castiel’s voice was miserable.  “I -- I need to confirm this.  I need to see if this is even possible.  It shouldn’t be.”

“Cas, what -- ”

Castiel vanished.  Dean groaned.

“ ... Great.  Very helpful.”

There was a sneeze from the bathroom.  Dean dumped Ben’s limp body on the couch and raced across the room, hurrying through the bathroom door.  Sam was standing in front of the sink, surrounded by offensively yellow tiles and holding a glass of water.  He took a sip without acknowledging Dean.

“ ... Sammy?” Dean tried.

Sam looked at him, face blank.  Dean sighed.

“ ... No more screwed up than before, I see.”  Dean gestured for Sam to follow.  “Come on, out of the bathroom.  We’ve got a kid more sick than you who needs to be in here.”

-

There was a clock in the bathroom.  It was yellow with a big happy sun on it.  Sitting on the yellow tile floor next to the bathtub, Dean watched in agony as the little red hand ticked from one second to the next.  Ben lay in the bathtub, motionless.  The sun’s smile refused to get any less ecstatic.

The bathroom door was shut and locked.  Dean could hear Bobby and Rufus murmuring in the main room.  They'd both begged him to take care of things before the vampire spell wore off, to not make things harder, but he couldn’t.  Dean knew he could gank a monster that was looking him in the eye, but not a sleeping kid.  Dean drummed his fingers against the hilt of his machete and watched the seconds creep by.

Even though he was expecting it, the first soft noise from Ben made Dean’s heart race.  He got up on his knees and peered over the edge of the tub as Ben pulled himself clumsily upright.  

“Hey,” Dean tried gently, reaching out to grab Ben’s shoulder.  “Hey, kid, it’s me.”

Ben was wobbling like he was drunk, breathing raggedly.  His dilated eyes found their way to Dean's.

Dean swallowed and gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze.  "H-hey.  Ben.  You in there?"

Lurching, Ben grabbed the rim of the tub and leaned towards Dean.  He was gasping like his small body was trying to breathe for a much larger creature.

Dean tightened his grip on Ben's shoulder, holding him at arm's length.  "Easy -- "

Ben's lips pulled back and his fangs slid out of his gums.  He pushed harder against Dean's hold on his shoulder, straining towards the man.  His pupils were blown so wide his iris was barely visible.

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath.  " ... Y-you're not in there at all, are you, kid?"

A thin, strained noise pulled itself out of Ben's throat.  He made another hungry lunge for Dean, nearly slipping off the rim of the tub.

" ... I'm so sorry."  Dean pushed Ben down in the tub, ignoring his hiss of rage.  His hand was shaking on Ben's shoulder and his eyes were burning.  "I know you weren't my kid, but I always thought of you that way.  I should have saved you.  Should have been a better dad and I -- I'm so sorry."

Dean lifted the machete and shut his eyes.

-

The wind blew, cold and crisp.  It stung Dean's eyes as he tossed the last shovel-full of dirt over the fresh grave.

Chicago was far behind.  Rufus had taken off on his own again -- this was more socializing than he was accustomed to, he said -- so Dean and Bobby and Sam were heading home alone.  Dean needed them to make one detour first, to a nice open field a reasonable drive from Lisa's house.

"You need a moment?" Bobby asked as he took the shovel from Dean's limp hands.

Dean nodded.  Bobby turned and left him alone under the single oak tree with the fresh grave at its roots.  Dean supposed he ought to say some words here, but nothing was coming.  So instead he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he'd been avoiding.

It went to voice mail, as he expected.

"Lisa?  It's me."  Dean watched wind whisk trails of dirt off the top of the grave as he spoke.  "I don’t wanna bother you, I just... just thought this might bring you some closure."  He took a deep breath.  "I found what was left of Ben.  He's -- "  Dean blinked when he heard the phone click.  "Lisa?  Are you there?"

"Don't give me details," Lisa cut in.  "All I need to know is whether or not he suffered, and if he's still suffering."

Dean stared at the grave.  " ... I don't even think he was conscious, Lisa.  I think... no, he didn’t suffer.  And... no."  He pulled his gaze away from that soft mound of earth.  "He's not suffering any more."

Silence from the phone.  Dean pressed on before she could hang up.

"I've buried him, Lisa.  It’s about two hours out from the old house, I don't know about your new place.  I can text you the lat and long."  He looked up at the oak tree, at the rustling leaves overhead.  " ... It's pretty out here, Lisa."

Still nothing.  Dean pressed the phone closer to his ear.  "Lisa?  You still there?"

" ... Thank you."

Dean let out a long breath that the wind carried away.  He stood in silence with the phone pressed to his face for a long time before Lisa said, "Goodbye, Dean."

"Goodbye, Lisa."  Dean hung up, and turned his feet towards the Impala and away from the grave under the tree.

[keevansixx]

The Ultimate Muggle of Muggliness...

I used to have a reoccurring daydream where J.K.Rowling pens a novel about a muggle interacting with the magical world. The twist is, this muggle is so devoid of magical ability or sensitivity that magic ceases to function around them. curses won't work on them as their bodies just absorb the curse, and anything magical they touch ceases to function as intended. Of course, this young person draws the attention of the aurors, the ministry, and almost all the magical world, as the sheer notion of a genuine "hollow" is unheard of in polite magical society, and sends shivers down the spines of everyone that depends on magic to live and thrive. This young person doesn't know they are "Hollow" and was content living their lives as a normal person (going to school, hanging out with friends, playing games, sports, ect.....average life) until they came across an unfortunate encounter with disenfranchised death eaters carrying on in spite of Voldemort's demise. The death eaters were obliviating a bunch of muggles they just robbed, and enjoying a little spitefull creative punishment in the process (after all, just because old voldy is gone doesn't mean the muggles are any less repulsive to the purebloods as they were with him around)

 Anyhoo, our hollow rounds the corner heading home, only to cross the scene of the crime...and seeing one of their friends just standing there slack jawed, and lethargic, in a small crowd of muggles, while some menacing brutes cackle ominously while waving little sticks in the air, and the painfully torturous screams of one of the victims pierces the night air.  The hollow gets right pissed at seeing one of their friends hurting and charges in swinging a cricket bat at the nearest thug.

*thwack* the brute goes down, and some of the holding spells containing the victims release. A few of the victims come to their senses and start screaming and running, basically...mass panic and they flee from the scene. Our hollow reaches out to their friend and grabs an arm...there is a brief shimmer in the air, and shattering of magical weaves when they touch leaving our hollow's hand slightly numb and cold at the exchange.

In that brief moment, their friends rouses, and they run off down the street chased by death eaters hades bent on killing the hollow one way or another. Every curse flung at the hollow disappears on contact. Every time a death eater tries to apperate ahead of the pair, they fall out of the sky and land heavily against whatever happens to be in the path of their trajectory. One smacks into the side of a building and crumples in a heap at the base of the structure. Another gets trapped within the bars of a nearby gate screaming in agony. A third reaches out to grab the pair, only to reappear in mid-air, and momentum crashes him into the hood and windshield of an oncoming taxi.

Sometime during the chase other people start the appear seemingly out of nowhere, there are flashes of light, arcs of glowing spells, hubcaps popping off of rims, manhole covers flying off their foundations and being slung across the street by unseen hands.

Our hollow and their friend witness the entire battle behind a parked Bentley with looks of amazement and slight terror as the Aurors and Death eaters battle it out on the streets of London until only the Aurors remain. There is a brief hush in the air as the Aurors weave the spells of remaking and wipe away any trace of the recent battles.

"Sir, there seems to be two muggles who witnessed the events..."

"You know the drill, obliviate, and send them on their way."

A slender gentleman in a black leather trench coat approaches the pair, takes out a slim stick from an inside coat pocket and waves it in the air in front of the pair. A small wisp of blue light emanates from the tip of the stick and floats across the sidewalk towards the hollow and their friend. The blue vapor engulfs the hollows friend and they go glassy eyed for a moment while appearing in a trance. The hollow looks puzzled at the vapor, then sneezes violently as the spell shatters the moment it touches their head.

"*AHHHchoo* What tha? *sniff* [wipes forearm across their nose] well that was right strange. Do you lot always go around waving little sticks about that shoot sneezing powder?"

"Sir......SIR!......Mr. Potter sir!  I think we may have a problem...."

[aleorntheheirofcinder-blog]

Post 2: A New Tale Begins

Aleorn rose, ash streaming from his body, heart dark and cold as the ruined world around him. Grooves in the stained iron of his armour wept tears of soot, the remains of his dearest friend now as lost as everything else that once gave Aleorn joy.

“Keeper?” He spoke more to break the silence than anything else, knowing that she would hear him whether his words were conveyed upon breath or thought.

I never meant for this to happen. Never did I think my selfishness would end his life, ruin yours. The Keeper’s voice was frail with sorrow, its soft tones sounding a fractured plate appeared: weak and trembling, on the verge of irreversible ruin. She was in many ways as broken as he, distraught for she felt his anguish as her own, and knew that her own avarice, her blindness had destroyed that which she sought only to preserve.

“Now is not the time for sorrow,” Aleorn rasped. “Only vengeance.” Or’do crumbled away beneath his touch, ashes swirling into a small almond shaped orb of soft, pale light. This Aleorn took in reverent hands, casting it into the vast reservoir where his armory dwelt, its glow ebbing like frail breath, its dim moonlight fading to nothing between his dark, ironclad fingers.

You cannot remake him; death is permanent for those who lack Signs

“Or’do cared not for this world’s rules.”

But he is bound by them all the same.

“When blades shatter, where are they taken?”

Andre?

Aleorn snorted, envisioning Or’do lying upon Andre’s anvil as the confused blacksmith stared on as if his lap had caught fire or his legs had turned to writhing tentacles.

“He would not appreciate that.” A flash of embarrassment emanated from the Keeper’s presence.

What were you expecting?

“’Forge’, I was expecting you to say forge.” Aleorn chuckled. “Take fractured steel to the proper flame and it can be restored.

Or’do is not steel. She said flatly.

“No, yet Flame restores us, and the First is mightiest even among these.”

Us perhaps, but not him.

“Light collects in the Kiln, Dark in the Deep Sea, and Void at the fringe where worlds fray. If I seek the world’s end, the Dreg Heap and the squalor beyond, I shall find the Void’s last wisp, and from its ruin dredge life.”

You will find only pain in those foul places.

“Pain is the price of redemption.” He turned, striding into the bleak night. “And it is one I will gladly pay.”

A new world lay before him, its scent a cloying mixture of steel and blood. The Lords had crumbled before him like sculptures of sand built too close to the shore, each branded with the Voidsign, ending not only their lives, but those of every copy across every world. Now - in astonishingly quick fashion - he stood before the Gate to Pontiff Sulyvahn‘s domain.

It was here that he froze, remembering the first time Or’do spoke.

“You’re shaking, dear Host.” Or’do observed. The pair stood before Pontiff Sulyvahn’s domain, Aleorn regarding the gate of fog with no meager amount of trepidation. “Of what could you possibly be afraid?”

“Death is not permanent, yet pain, pain lingers.” Aleorn murmured. “So many times have I fallen.” He turned, his features grey and gaunt, nearly hollow. “I cannot summon the courage to face him again.” Behind those dark eyes a deep, horrible pain gleamed. “You might as well be on your way, Phantom Or’do. There is no victory to be had this day.”

“Well there is where you are wrong.” Or’do said with his characteristic mirth. He smiled, eyes two almonds of glittering amber beneath his gold tinged helm. “But there is more to life than conquest; you are neither the first nor last to seek another path when the one ahead is too much to bear.”

“If I do not fight, I do not live.” Aleorn’s voice was troubled, his warring emotions clear in the tremor of his breath, the fragility of his words. “My purpose is slaying Lords and Linking Flames. Without those things my life has no meaning.”

“An absence of detection is not an absence of condition.“ Or'do said, chuckling at Aleorn’s confused expression. “Just because you fail to notice something does not mean it does not exist.” He paused, contemplative. “Look not on my, not on the world, but on your own heart, and you will discover your purpose.”

“It is not that simple.” Aleorn’s voice was bleak, empty.

“Oh it is.” Or’do said conversationally, striding through the veil of mist and thereby casually defying this realm’s most basic rules. “Pain is worse than death, my friend. If you fear it, you are not weak but sane. Think on that a moment, you will see its soothing truth in time. Meanwhile, I shall crush the Pontiff. No one can hurt my friends without swift, relentless retribution, and from the sound of it, his is long overdue.”

Or’do had followed through on that threat, caving Sulyvahn‘s chest with a single, barehanded blow. Perhaps it was his kind words, or merely the allure of his awesome power that had shown Aleorn his purpose. It mattered little. From that day forth he fought at Or’do’s side, and for the first time in his long life, he had lived.

The familiar mists parted around him, whispering incoherently as in long ,vaporous serpents they slid across his battered armor.

This world is not like those before it. The Keeper warned. As you near the Origin, foes of ever mightier caliber will seek to stop you.

“Let them try.” He felt the Bleak Blade Lacrimosa straining within him, a palpable energy arcing along his arm, distorting the air like sun baked pavement. Rows of ornately carved pews stretched out to either side, ranks bracketing the path to Sulyvahn, who stood with blades of shadow and flame crossed over his chest, a foul eagerness glinting in his merciless eyes.

Aleorn rested a hand upon the ashes of his dearest friend, their cold stillness filling his veins with dangerous heat. He stalked forward, and in a swift, fluid motion drew Lacrimosa, its slim form broadening as he fixed an image in mind, its length splitting in two and widening still, forming two rough hewn greatswords that despite their size, weighed no more than Lacrimosa. Flame wept from its edge like worms shaken from soil, splattering in writhing heaps upon the tiles as he brandished both, fury turning his muscles to steel and his eyes to cold, hard frost.

He charged, tears of hate trailing like falling stars, their light a stark contrast to the darkness that filled his breast.

Steel clashed with steel, the fury of their union nearly jolting Lacrimosa’s left half from Aleorn’s grasp, his arm falling limp and numb at his side. At once, the blade crumbled back into marbles of shadow that evaporated before they struck the floor.

Before his eyes could register the flash of descending steel, a deadening impact crushed his ribs to dust, tearing muscle and doing far worse to the bones beneath. His Unkindled flesh reforged itself swiftly, but not swiftly enough.

Relentless, merciless, the blows rang against his ironclad body, stripping muscle from bone, smashing organs apart. Aleorn’s vision flickered and he fell to his knees as if genuflecting in solemn reverence. Blood gushed between his lips, trickled from the cracks in his armor which while battered was sufficiently intact to hide the ruin beneath.

Not here. Aleorn’s arm blurred as it arched overhead, and upon his forearm he caught the Pontiff’s flaming blade; sparks rippling over his buckling plate, rivers of metal branding themselves into his flesh.

Not like this. Tattered and worn, his muscles screamed in protest as he heaved and strained, throwing the immense weapon aside, wrenching Sulyvahn‘s arm from its socket with a sharp, sickening crack.

Or’do dodging between blows, graceful and swift as wind. Perspiration beaded upon his brow like globes of glass, yet upon his lips was a broad grin, in his eyes a strange, soothing light.

Is this hope? Aleorn had wondered. How have I lived so long without this? His iron fingers creaked as he curled them against his palm. And what will I do when it is gone?

Like a jagged edged spear, a scream of fury and sorrow shredded his throat, startling the wounded Pontiff, raking claws of razor frost through his ancient heart. For the briefest of moments, Sulyvahn‘s eyes showed true, primal fear: the terror of a cornered beast as its hunger descended. Then Aleorn was twisting forward, driving his fist through the man’s jaw, spraying blood and splinters of bone against the far wall. Around Aleorn’s buried wrist, a Voidsign blazed. In that instant all worlds were bound, a whole cloth woven of a thousand disparate threads. Then, Sulyvahn was slumping to the ground, flowing from his armor in long rivers of pale white ash.

[spookypastatoo]

The Night Wire

“New York, September 30 CP FLASH:

Ambassador Holliwell died here today. The end came suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study…”

There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore - they’re your next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to sleep.

Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.

Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You’ve heard of someone you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they’ve been promoted, but more probably they’ve been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting enough to get on the news.

But that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.

Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven’t got over it yet. I wish I could.

You see, I handle the night manager’s desk in a western seaport town; what the name is doesn’t matter.

There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober, hard-working sort.

He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a “double” man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a mistake.

Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a  wizard, a mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but without imagination.

On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about himself, and I had known him for three years.

It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he spoke.

“Jim,” he said, “Does it feel close in here to you?” “Why, no, John,” I answered, “But I’ll open a window if you like.” “Never mind,” he said. “I reckon I’m just a little tired.”

That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.

It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little unusual, as there was nothing very “hot” coming in. On my next trip I picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the duplicates.

The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked over it hurriedly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of: “Xebico.” Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:

“Xebico, September 16 CP BULLETIN:

The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over the town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.

Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the city.

At 7 PM last night the municipal authorities… (more)” That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the town.

It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batch of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top of the two typewriters.

Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batch carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in “takes,” meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together, perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This second story was marked “add fog.” Here is the copy:

“At 7 PM the fog had increased noticeably. All lights were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.

As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced here.”

Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials of the operator, J.M. There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:

“2nd add Xebico Fog:

Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly. Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical condition and declared that the fog originated in the village churchyard.

‘It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to the earth above the graves,’ he stated. 'Then it began to rise, higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in billows, which split up and then joined together again.

Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into queer forms and figures. And then, in the very thick midst of the mass, something moved.

I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the graveyard.’

Although the sexton’s story is generally discredited, a party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital, unconscious.”

Queer story, wasn’t it. Not that we aren’t used to it, for a lot of unusual stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhaps because it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a great impression on me.

It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy. Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of the sounders. It was ominous, nerve-wracking. There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized it anxiously.

“New Lead Xebico Fog CP:

The rescue party which went out at 11 PM to investigate a weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late yesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed to return. Another and larger party has been dispatched.

Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier. It seeps through the cracks in the doors and filled the atmosphere with a depressing odor of decay. It is oppressive, terrifying, bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead.

Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered in the local church, where the priests are holding services of prayer. The scene is beyond description. Grown folk and children are alike terrified and many are almost beside themselves with fear.

Amid the wisps of vapor which partly veil the church auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his flock. They alternately wail and cross themselves.

From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of unknown voices. They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced minor keys. The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind whistling through a gigantic tunnel. But the night is calm and there is no wind. The second rescue party… (more)”

I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires have I been known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair and walked to the window. Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me did I see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.

In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the tempo of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His head sunk between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the typewriters with one finger of each hand.

He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the two machines rattled off line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as death itself. There was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriter keys that fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, reading over his shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.

Ah, here was another:

“Flash Xebico CP:

There will be no more bulletins from this office. The impossible has happened. No messages have come into the room for twenty minutes. We are cut off from the outside and even the streets below us.

I will stay with the wire until the end.

It is the end, indeed. Since 4 PM yesterday the fog has hung over the city. Following reports from the sexton of the local church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate conditions on the outskirts of the city. Neither party has returned nor has any word been received from them. It is quite certain now that they will never return.

From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me. From the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly the entire city can be seen. Now I can see only a thick blanket of blackness where customarily are lights and life.

I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly from the outskirts of the city are the death cries of the inhabitants. They are constantly increasing in volume and are approaching the center of the city.

The fog yet hangs over everything. If possible, it is even heavier than before, but the conditions have changed. Instead of an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, there now swirls and writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost human agony. Now and again the mass parts and I catch a brief glimpse of the streets below.

People are running to and fro, screaming in despair. A vast bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds.

The fog has again swept over the city and and whistling is coming closer and closer.

It is now directly beneath me.

God! An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a glimpse of the streets below.

The go is not simply vapor - it lives! By the side of each moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of strange and vari-colored hues. How the shapes cling! Each to a living thing!

The men and women are down. Flat on their faces. The fog figures caress them lovingly. They are kneeling beside them. They are - but I dare not tell it.

The prone and writing bodies have been stripped of their clothing. They are being consumed - piecemeal.

A merciful wall of hot, steaming vapor has swept over the whole scene. I can see no more.

Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors. It seems to be lighted by internal fires. No, it isn’t. I have made a mistake. The colors are from above, reflections from the sky.

Look up! Look up! The whole sky is in flames. Colors as yet unseen by man or demon. The flames are moving; they have started to intermix; the colors are rearranging themselves. They are so brilliant that my eyes burn, though they are a long way off.

Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out, twisting in intricate designs and patterns. The lights are racing each with each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance.

I have made a discovery. There is nothing harmful in the lights. They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness. But by their very strength, they hurt.

As I look, they are swinging closer and closer, a million miles at each jump. Millions of miles with the speed of light. Aye, it is light of quintessence of all light. Beneath it the fog melts into a jeweled mist, radiant, rainbow-colored of a thousand varied spectra.

I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people! The lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am enveloped. I…”

The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my eyes in the narrow circle of light from under the green lamp shade, the black printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the page. The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely impressive, powerful. I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his sides, while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lamp shade back, throwing light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed.

Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and called Chicago on the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer. Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire Two had not been used throughout the evening.

“Morgan!” I shouted. “Morgan! Wake up, it isn’t true. Someone has been hoaxing us. Why…” In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder.

His body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be that his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to record impressions even after the end?

I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was that killed John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24, 2020

End Times Prophecy Report HEADLINES TUESDAY March 24, 2020

And OPINION

“And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4

It is the beginning of the third week of the 24/7-AROUND-THE-CLOCK coronavirus crisis campaign. Has the reader experienced any disruptions in his everyday life due to the various coronavirus orders?

===INTERNATIONAL

EUROPE: UK, France,…

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24,2021

End Times Prophecy Headlines: March 24,2021

End Times Prophecy Report HEADLINES WEDNESDAY March 24, 2021 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison.” —Fyodor Dostoevsky ===INTERNATIONAL FRANCE: Paris says NON to lockdown: Streets and parks are packed with people enjoying the spring…