#madness combat 🆘

[nevadancitizen]

moved house recently and the movers literally destroyed my insect display case and the specimens inside so i drew the sillies with the insects i think would represent them best to soothe the pain. explanation below the cut (be warned, it’s long and so so fucking nerdy)

(+ sanford bombardier beetle follow-up)

okay so first is doc with a madagascar hissing cockroach. despite cultural connotations, cockroaches are some of the smartest insects (up there with bees, wasps, and termites (which they share an order with — blattodea)), and doc is nothing if not the brains of SQ. madagascar hissing cockroaches are some of the few insects that stay with their offspring for a long while, therefore protecting them. doc is also protective of his men in a somewhat similar fashion, albeit from a distance and behind a cold, stern demeanor. also these roaches can’t fly, and doc can’t drive. there’s a joke in there somewhere but i can’t find it.

then we’ve got hank with an assassin bug. there’s not really any notable species within the family, so it’s just supposed to be a general insect within reduviidae (but not an ectoparasite). some assassin bugs transmit chagas disease, which is mostly always unwanted and detrimental, much like hank’s presence to anyone outside of SQ (or within the SQ, because hank’s loyalty mostly just faults to his own bloodlust). assassin bugs also have one of the most painful insect bites but, unlike hank, they use chemicals (injected via proboscis) to induce pain rather than ripping and tearing. still, the end result is the same.

obviously, what else would sanford have other than a hercules beetle? they’re one of the strongest insects (as evidenced by the horns on their head and prothorax), and sanford is, unarguably, the strongest grunt of the SQ. male hercules beetles use their horns to grapple and fight (both for territory and mates), and sanford also uses very melee-heavy tactics while fighting. they also use their horns to leverage and throw their opponents, and sanford uses his hook with similar tactics. these beetles are very hardy (due to their exoskeleton and hardened elytra) just like sanford, despite his usual lack of clothing and armor.

lastly, there’s deimos and the australian tiger beetle. they’re known as the fastest species of tiger beetle (up to 9 km/h or 5.6 mph) and — not sure if this is canon or a universally accepted headcanon — deimos is the fastest grunt of the SQ. these beetles run so fast and hunt so aggressively that their sensory system literally can’t keep up and their eyes shut off, so they have to stop often (for just a fraction of a second) to regain their faculties, which gives their prey several chances to escape. this reflects in deimos through his jokey demeanor and tendency to not take things seriously until it’s too late. thankfully, the australian tiger beetle is only listed as “near threatened” on the red list, unlike deimos, who is totally fucking dead.

thank you for coming to my ted talk which is just me smushing my two special interests together like a child mixing play-doh

[talos-stims]

the auditor [madness combat] stimboard for @capribornio!

requests are open

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[nevadancitizen]

-> FASCINATION WITH THE ORDINARY

synopsis: your world is vastly different from the nevada native to madness combat. after the main three + 2bdamned get transported to your world, they each find things that fascinate them.

word count: 2.5k

characters: hank, deimos, sanford, 2bdamned, player! reader

trigger warnings: ehh slight yandere/obsession but could also be read as super heavy pining if you're not into that lol

notes: madness combat fandom arise. madness combat fandom come back to me (also set in @/saltymongoose 's self-aware au)

For the sake of consistency, let’s imagine that the Player lives in a big, lonely, woodsy and plain-sy plot of land. There’s little to no outside human interaction, and lots of animals wandering through the area with a river running through it. For the wildlife, I’m basing it on the American South because I’ve lived here my entire life and know how they act.

SUNSETS & SUNRISES

2BDamned would be the most entranced, since he has the most memories from before the fall and before Hank killed the sun. He’s an early riser by nature (since his body has conditioned him so he’s mostly overworked and under-rested, as unhealthy as it is), so he leans more towards the beauty of a sunrise, towards the light that starts to paint the dark sky with hazy orange shades and rosy hues. He likes breathing in the crisp air and the way it almost sends a shock through his lungs.

But the sun stirs a lingering feeling of nostalgia, though, for the way things were before everything fell to madness. Doc tries his best not to let the thoughts get the better of him as you slip through the front door and out onto the front porch, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. 

God, he could imagine staying like this forever: just you, him, a beautiful sunrise, and coffee. Surely the way you pay attention to him, the way you get up extra early to watch the sunrise, the way you doctor his coffee just right – they’re all examples of how you care for him, just as he cares for you. But for now, he’ll just bide his time, blowing the steam off the surface of his coffee and purring, soft and raspy, both at the taste and because of your company.

But that doesn’t stop the others from appreciating the astounding view at dusk, because Sanford and Deimos are more partial to sunsets after long days. They like lounging in the adirondack chairs set up around the fire pit, cracking open a few beers, and simply relaxing with you. (Don’t worry, Sanford will gather firewood and Deimos will set it alight if it’s a little too cold for your taste.)

They’re fresher clones, so they don’t remember the sun well, if at all. They both always go quiet when the sun starts to dip below the horizon. Sanford props his tea sunglasses on top of his head and Deimos sets his cigarette in the ashtray as they both stare at the way the light turns the clouds purple and paints the sky with pink streaks. It stirs something sad in your heart – both of these men are pushing and just over the cusp of thirty, yet they don’t know the simple sweetness of a sunset. 

But as soon as night overtakes the sky, they both turn their attention back to you. Deimos makes some suave comment about your beauty being nothing in the face of a sunset in that rumbling, smooth voice of his, and Sanford gives him a pointed glare. Sanford points out that your beauty and the beauty of nature are two whole different things, but keeps showering you with not-so-inadvertent compliments, leaving you flustered and blushing from both grunt’s words.

Hank is somewhat of an anomaly with this one. All of the grunt’s biological clocks are absolutely porked from their time without a sun, but Hank’s affected the worst by far. (That, and he doesn’t really care for the sun. He literally slaughtered it.) Therefore, he’s more privy to waking up in the middle of the night and dragging you onto the roof to look at the stars. 

He likes laying on his back with you on his chest, pointing out the brightest stars and asking you questions about them. (He doesn’t really care, he just likes hearing your voice.) He loves your vivid descriptions of the constellations and how you describe them in intricate ways. To Hank, they’re just sparkly, unreachable dots in the sky, but it seems like, to you, they’re beautiful: like millions of silver nails driven into a dome of dark blue velvet. 

He savors the moments like these the most, when you’re alone with him. There’s no sound except for the crickets and dog-day cicadas and spring peepers and your voice and Hank’s sputtering purring. Honestly, it’s as it should be – without those other pesky dipshits ruining your time together. (Well, he can tolerate Doc, but that annoying extraction team could go fuck themselves for all he cared.)

ENTERTAINMENT

Sanford hates being lazy. He hates feeling like he’s not doing anything useful, even if he’s being useful by resting. The only real way to make him sit down and stop moving is by trapping him on the couch, laying your head in his lap, and turning on the TV. (Even if, for the first thirty minutes, he’s too focused on you and your body heat and how fast his heart is beating to even consider looking at the TV.)

But the thing he loves watching the most isn’t any sort of movie with amazing cinematography or show with riveting writing – it’s infomercials. Specifically, infomercials from the 90’s to the late 2000’s. He likes seeing what things could’ve been like if there was no madness in Nevada, because things are oddly peaceful (at least, to him) in your world. Billy Mays and Cathy Mitchell make him wonder about domestic life with you (even if the Jupiter Jack and the Xpress Redi-Set-Go are completely obsolete by now), and how these little gadgets would make your life together supposedly go smoother.

He likes combing his claws carefully through your hair as you both watch these people play up how useful these obviously useless inventions are. He tries to avert his eyes and act interested in the TV as you look up at him and point out how the Red Devil Grill was recalled because it got so hot it collapsed and caused fires, but can’t. He just can’t keep his eyes off you when you look up at him so sweetly, and can you blame him? You just make his face so warm and his heart beat so fucking fast…

Deimos has always had a fascination with electronics, but it’s mostly been from a tactical and weaponized standpoint. But he’s discovered (well, really, you introduced him to) video games. He absolutely loves curling up into your side, purring and providing commentary as he watches you play. (Because, despite his trying, he hasn’t really gotten a hang of the controls yet.)

He loves more story-fueled games with characters he can really get attached to. He likes investing himself in things and people that don’t actually affect him, because seeing your favorite character go through dire straits or even die hurts for a little while, but it’s nothing compared to seeing someone get eviscerated right in front of you. And, yeah, he totally cried when Arthur Morgan died (and totally played it up so that you’d comfort him). 

He also likes draping himself over you in the middle of a boss fight, wriggling and nuzzling into your cheek, causing you to giggle, lose focus, and, obviously, die. He strings together half-hearted apologies through his raspy purring, but he’s not really sorry. More deaths means more time spent with him, and internally, he’s completely and honestly unapologetic for his underhanded tactics. 

Due to the nature of his administrative role, Doc spends a lot of time in front of screens. He likes to unplug and unwind by reading, no doubt with a straight-up hazardous amount of coffee by his side. He prefers reading with you with an arm wrapped around your shoulder, whether you’re also reading or working on something else. Though he’s inexperienced (and sometimes even shy) with these types of things, he’s more than happy to ease into affectionate touches and romance that kills his common sense with you. 

His tastes are often cheap, but when he earns enough dough, he likes to splurge on second-hand college anatomy textbooks. No, he’s not planning on going to university, but he wants to know the inner workings of the human system (and, therefore, the inner workings of you). He also likes speculative biology and seeing what humans think about other intelligent species potentially being out there.

He would absolutely be elated (though he tries his best to hide it) if you took his interests seriously and discussed them with him. He tries to keep you in his makeshift office and away from the others so you can continue to spend this precious alone time with him, but that doesn’t stop the red-hot flare of jealousy as one of the others bursts in with a childish ask about something that should be obvious. (Of fucking course you wouldn’t want to go for a walk, Deimos, have you seen the weather out? Leave you and him alone!)

Obviously Hank would love gorefest and splatter film movies because of his all-encompassing and absolute love for carnage, and he’d love them even more if you got scared and hid yourself in his shoulder or chest. It’s clear that he’s your strongest and most capable vessel, so he clearly agrees with your choice to choose him as your protector (even if that choice is based on an instinctive need to hide). 

He also loves WWE and MMA fighting. When given the choice, he opts for MMA because it’s real and bloody and he prefers seeing people push themselves to their absolute limit rather than some predetermined fight that serves a higher storyline. (But, then again, he really likes the clip of Undertaker breaking into Paul Bearer’s house during an interview and throwing a cabinet at him because, what the fuck? He’s never thought of that before! Using things from the environment when out of weapons instead of his fists could be an improvement. Maybe he can learn a thing or two from these fake fighters…)

And, yes, if you give him access to Twitter he will turn your entire timeline into those backyard fight videos and dashcam car crashes. He doesn’t mean to, it just happens.

ANIMALS

Being a natural night owl, Deimos loves keeping a lookout for what critters come out at night. When he’s on the front porch with you, smoking a cigarette and waving away mosquitoes, he makes sure to keep an eye out for weird and unusual wildlife. (While pressed against your side and purring loudly, no doubt.)

He likes watching the whip-poor-wills swoop down and catch the moths that swarm around the overhead porch lights. Yes, he will try to catch one, but backs off when you tell him to. Instead, he opts for digging in the dirt to find beetles and grubs to toss up in the air for the small birds to catch. He will kinda feel bad if the beetles hit the ground but will continue to throw them to the birds when you tell him insects are basically immune to fall damage, so… no harm, no foul.

He’s also absolutely enamored by raccoons. He likes throwing food to them from the safety of the porch and watching them eat with their little grabby hands. He’s very reckless so, despite your warnings, he’ll try to squirrel one away inside the house. (He does this multiple times and, without fail, gets bitten each time. 2B has given him multiple rabies shots after shooing the raccoons out with a broom.)

Speaking of Doc, he enjoys going out in nature and finding decaying things just to see how many buzzards arrive. He excuses it with something about wanting to see if decomposition works the same across both your world and his, but he secretly finds some relation with the birds – something about being deliverers and arbiters and negators of death. (Though the last one really only applies to him.)

He also likes the rare sightings of wild horses. He’ll go out of his way to (carefully, shyly) rouse you from whatever you’re doing to go take a look at the majestic beasts, and he’ll be even more excited if there’s a foal wandering between the stocky legs of the adults. 

He just barely brushes his fingers against yours as you both stand on the edge of the treeline and watch them graze. Seeing the foal break from the herd, kick out and tumble and fall over and immediately get back up sparks… something in his heart. A vision. Just you, just him, linked pinkies, and a future together, with this warm feeling in his chest.

Hank really likes the more dangerous creatures. He gets along well with cottonmouth and other venomous snakes (and “gets along well” really means that they’re mean as can be and strike as often as possible while he just holds them and smiles at you). 

If you don’t keep a close enough eye on him, he’ll wander off and try to provoke larger animals, like bobcats. To him, they’re just tiny little pussycats, even if they pose a real threat and could kill him. Please don’t let him go too far, because if he comes across a bear, he will try to wrestle it, and Doc doesn’t like having to do emergency surgery on the island countertop in your kitchen. 

On multiple occasions, he’s come back to the house after being missing for hours, reeking of skunk spray. He just purrs happily as you tell him to strip and hold still as you spray him down with the hose.

Sanford is way calmer with his interactions with wildlife. He likes sitting on the dock with you and watching the fish swim by (because he’s impressed both by the fish and by the river – he’s never seen water in such great quantity!) Set him up with a hook, lure, and line and he’ll be entertained for hours. Though he struggles a bit with making streamers and fishing knots due to his big hands and claws, he’s more than patient when you teach him (mostly because he gets to spend time with you). 

When he’s fishing, he likes to look around and observe – mostly because fishing is a waiting game. His favorite visitors are herds of whitetail deer, especially when summer is in full swing and the fawns are ready to start exploring. They remind him of his family, mainly because of the way the does don’t really care which fawn is theirs, just that each is getting enough milk. You point at them and discuss them with him in small whispers because you don’t want to spook them. 

Again, it reminds him of his want for a domestic life with you. Just basking in the mottled sun that seeps through the trees, dipping your bare feet in the cool river water as a catfish tugs on the line – it’s all he wants, really. Now if he could just get the rest of the grunts to leave you alone… excluding Deimos, of course.

[nevadancitizen]

“do you think that the world can ever be fixed?

is [nevada] buried? did it ever exist?”

happy international jazz day from the worst jazz band in nevada!!!! kinda rushed but i like it :3 close ups under the cut

[nevadancitizen]

i was out of my room for like seven minutes to check the lock on the chicken coop and i come back and what has my mom done. tucked in my sanford and deimos plushies. she also wants to somehow fashion necklaces with the star of david on them for both of them so “the boys at least have a chance with god.” thanks mom

[nevadancitizen]

GRRRRR soldier reader with a grunt gladiator pit (it's more cockfighting with their size and animalistic tendencies) even though they want nothing to do with it GRHAHHHRRRRRR and hank and sanford being their champions RRGHHGHHHHH and 2b organizing the whole thing with deimos presenting "evidence" of their "treason" against soldier AHHHHHAHAGGHHHGHRRRR

[nevadancitizen]

@poryphoria SHAKES YOU SHAKES YOU SHAKES YOU biggest brain EVER everyone else GO HOME this is the SMART PEOPLE CONVENTION and YOURE NOT ALLOWED (tag in relation to this post)

[nevadancitizen]

“like the tiptop tournée”

synopsis: what would kim kitsuragi be like in the m:pn self-aware au?

word count: 2.7k

characters: kim kitsuragi, sanford, deimos, 2bdamned, hank, player! reader

trigger warnings: canon-typical violence, deimos being a menace

notes: i finally got a free day because everything’s frozen over and got to finish this 😭😭

Nevada really isn’t anything new to Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. He doesn’t consider himself the finest of Precinct 57, but he’s pretty damn notorious for his detective abilities – and he’s been in strenuous situations like this before. 

But, honestly? In his many cases, he’s never met anyone like you. The only god he’s met is Evrart Claire: a man masquerading as the god of the dock worker union’s corruption. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t revere you in the same way the others do – you carry somewhat supranatural power, you have an unnatural warmth about you, and others worship you – but Kim’s never been one to believe in gods, and he’s not about to start now. 

Sure, he felt your presence while in Revachol: some entity looking over his and Harry’s shoulders. Harry described you as “maybe some type of Dolores Dei,” but Kim knew you were more than a political figure somehow dubbed an Innocence.

(Kim looked down at the pinball machine. It was themed after the Dolorian Age – a time of early airships and beautiful, sad, pearl-laden women. He was glad it was broken. 

“How about we fire one of these bad boys up and play some ball?” Harry du Bois asked. He was the partner assigned to him by Kim and Harry’s competing precincts (the 41st and 57th, respectively).

“We can’t ‘fire them up,’ they’re broken,” Kim said. “Only that one machine in the main hall works. The Royalist Pinball.” his voice was ever-so-slightly laced with disgust at the name.

Harry laughed through his nose. “Sounds like you don’t enjoy pinball, Kim.”

Kim was almost too ready to reply. “No, I love it – I love pinball. Who doesn’t love pinball? Let’s move on.”

Their heads turned to the damp ceiling as they heard a quiet laugh. It wasn’t an actual laugh, mind you, not one they could really hear, but one they could feel resonate within themselves.

Kim and Harry looked at each other. They both decided, unspoken, that it was just the wind or the city or the rattling of this old brothel-hotel. But really, deep down, they both knew it was you.)

He’s always known everyone has the capability to murder, but the ease at which it’s committed here almost astounds him. He still keeps his cool, and (before you discover your powers) even defends you.

(It happens fast. You can do nothing but look down the barrel of the rifle. You can almost see the grooves on the inside. Its scope looks like a camera lens, focusing on you. It will take a picture of absolute destruction when the trigger is pulled. 

You hear Kim quickly whisper “God, please.” 

A shot rings out. It takes a moment to realize you’re not dead. Smoke rises from the barrel of his Kiejl A9 Armistice. Kim stands from his semi-crouched position. Your hands shake. His do not.)

It’s a shock when you find the grunts. Deimos and Sanford found you in a – what they thought was – an abandoned warehouse. They were clearing it out, trying to hide. You were too.

(You grip the handle of the broom closet door and try to keep your breath steady. Kim has his gun pointed at the door. You both know that if it opens, you’ll have nowhere to run.

“We know you’re here, bozo!” a voice rings out. They talk lowly to another person. You’re so pumped full of adrenaline you can’t recognize who it belongs to. 

Kim pulls the hammer of his gun back slowly, and it lets out a soft click. The conversation stops.

You’re good as dead.

An axe head crashes through the wooden door. You crumple into the corner. Kim backs into the wall. A hand reaches through and unlocks the door. Kim exhales sharply and shoots it. 

The owner of the arm screams. The next bullet clicks into place. Another arm, belonging to someone else, shoots through and flicks the door handle down. The door opens.

“Stop!” Kim shouts. He grips the gun harder. “I am an officer of the RCM, and have been permitted to use deadly force.”

They laugh and step closer to him. 

You look up to see two grey men. Through the shadows, you can see the one closer to you is wearing a durag and sunglasses. He has a natural pout that’s turned into a twisted smile.

“Sanford?”)

To say they’re overjoyed to see you would be an understatement. They could almost feel you in Nevada, and the wanted posters plastered with your face didn’t help with your poor attempt at stealth. But they were wary of the man you had brought with you, and made it very apparent.

(You barely managed to calm your nerves when you were sitting in the back of a pickup truck. Sanford immediately started the engine and drove. 

Deimos’ breathing was labored, and he clenched his bicep where he had been shot. And yet, he still talked. Some things never change.

“So.” You could hear him gritting his teeth. “Who’s the crackshot?”

“Kim Kitsuragi, Lieutenant of Precinct 57 of the RCM.” Kim answered for you. “And I apologize for shooting you. But I will not hesitate to do it again, if you present yourself as a danger.”

Deimos barked a laugh that was cut off by coughing. “Yeah, right.”

Kim opts to look out the window at the desolate landscape. The wind rolls in through a prominent crack, causing his orange aerostatic pilot jacket to ripple like water. 

Tension clouds the air like humidity.

“The, um,” you stutter. Deimos looks back at you. “RCM stands for the Revachol Citizen’s Militia. Kim knows how to shoot a gun, but he still knows how to holster it: he’s useful both as an officer and as a man. He is useful to us.”

Deimos turns forward. Sanford glances at you through the rearview mirror. If you say so…)

When you get back to base, it’s much of the same. Hank greets him as he does anyone else – with violence. Doc is more formal, of course. 

(“Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” Doc tries the name out on his tongue. It tastes like an old motorpool and authority – an authority he’ll barely respect, surely. “Just call me Doc, or 2B, if you like.”

“So you are the medic?” Kim asks. “What are your qualifications? If you don’t mind my asking.”

You shoot him a glance. There’s no strong-arming someone in Nevada unless you’re waterboarding them. This place doesn’t recognize your authority. Kim, we’re foreigners here – please, don’t do anything too rash.

Doc is curt. “I’m qualified enough.” 

“Yes, of course,” Kim says. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Now, if you’ll excuse us…” 

Kim starts to reach a hand towards your shoulder, but a hand shoots forward and grabs it. You look up. 

It’s Hank… the one man you were dreading introducing to Kim. You’re excited to see him nonetheless, but…

“Hank!” you exclaimed. His red goggles shined in the low light, glaring at Kim. He still held his wrist in a crushing grip. You eased his hand away, so he opted to hold yours instead. 

Kim glanced down at your hands. You could tell he was itching to ask many questions – probably about how you were able to ease the wrath of a psycho.)

Kim tries not to discuss the grunts to their faces. He does his best to keep up his professional persona, as draining as it may be. 

(It should’ve been night by now, but there was no sun in Nevada. You could only tell because of the moon rising in the sky and your biological day/night cycle. 

You sat on the steps leading up to the base. There were footsteps behind you. 

“I thought I told you, I’m gonna be okay. I’m just a few steps outside –”

“You did not tell me anything.”

Kim sits down on the steps beside you, but keeps a healthy distance. He has a feeling someone would know if he was too close, and promptly eviscerate him. 

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. It’s just that… this day…” you sigh.

Kim looks out at the horizon. “Yes, I understand. If I have too many more days like this, I may die prematurely. If I do not die in the line of fire first.”

He reaches into his jacket to pull out a single cigarette and a lighter. You smelt chestnuts when he lit it. He takes a deep pull and lets it settle in his lungs before breathing it out.

You watch the smoke dissipate. “So, what do you think? You like organizing your thoughts on paper. You written anything interesting?”

He brings out his blue Mnemotechnique notebook. Two fat, shiny pens hang from the binder like large caliber bullets hanging from an ammo belt. He flips through it, stopping on a page of importance. 

“Hm. Well, your men are very protective of you. I suppose that connection can only come with being one of your – how do you describe it? – ah, vessels. I understand the basics, but I don’t understand why it would inspire the need to revere you as they do.”

“It sounds freaky, but I can control them. I controlled Lieutenant du Bois. I protect them, and I guess that would deserve worship. Not that I want it, or anything.”

Kim scribbles something down in his journal. 

“So you were with us throughout everything?”

“Yeah. I remember most everything, too… especially standoff-style eyebrow raising matches.”

There was barely a crack of a smile on his face. That was the most you could ask for. 

“Still – those men are guard dogs. Be sure to keep them on a short leash, lest they do anything… unsavory.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Yessir, Lieutenant.”)

The grunts honestly don’t understand why you regard Kim as you do: why do you feel the need to have a man that’s practically an intruder in the base when you have them?

(“Yes, Lieutenant du Bois is… an interesting man,” you laugh. “But he’s Harry, and what more can you ask for?”

“A man with his memory intact would be a nice start,” Kim jokes, deadpan. You laugh harder and agree. 

Deimos cuts into the conversation. “So, what about you, Kim? What’s your background?”

He chose Kim’s first name on purpose, you think, so Kim knows he doesn’t respect his lieutenancy. But he has no interest in Kim’s personal life. Why does he ask?

“Well… I’m half-Seolite. Or – quarter. My father’s father was from Seol – so was my grandmother, but from my mother’s side…” he shakes his head. “But I’m still just a regular, garden-variety Revacholiere. I’m not an interesting topic.”

“Your police work,” Sanford says. “He’s asking about your police work.”

“Ah.” Kim thinks for a second. He’s choosing which cards he wants to reveal out of his entire hand. “Well, I was a juvenile officer for around fifteen years. I had a long-haul job, was successful, and moved into the homicide wing.”

Deimos is desperately trying to play nice. “And what was… this long-haul job?”

Kim spares a barely-detectable glance at you. “I’m not telling you that.”

Deimos sighs out a “Right…”)

They’re frustrated at Kim’s investigative nature, and at your willingness to appease it. They ask themselves constantly, what are his ulterior motives?, even though he has none. He never leaves you alone, and they interpret that as more of a “I’m in love with you,” type of way and less of a “You’re the only human I know, and I’m concerned for your safety. I want us both to get home – you to yours, and me to Revachol – but I’m scared we won’t be able to, though I would never admit it. Let’s stick together for now” type of way.

(“Doctor.” Kim greets Doc as he enters the room. 

“Lieutenant.” Doc’s eyes skip over him and fix on you. “Hey, do you have time to come into my office? I want to do a check-up – maybe learn more about the differences between our species.”

“Oh, okay.” you stand up from where you were sitting. “Maybe Lieutenant Kitsuragi can come with? So you can do a cross-examination.”

Doc is quick. “No.”

“It would be wise to do as they say,” Kim says. “You are a man of science, no? Science needs information. If you had twice the subjects, you would have twice the information.” 

Doc screws up his eyes behind his goggles. “Yes, I suppose you can come by later.”

“I’ve been meaning to have a look at your office and supplies. I would like to know what we have at hand.” Kim stands. “I can take a look while you do your examination.”

“I’d rather you not ferret through dangerous weapons and chemicals without direct supervision. I can bring you an organized list later.”

“C’mon, Doc.” you walk forward and turn him towards the door, letting your hand linger on his shoulder. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi knows what he’s doing – how else would he be so high in the RCM? He won’t make some bioweapon while you do a check-up. And he knows drugs: from a purely knowledge-based standpoint, of course.” you look over your shoulder. “What was that one, the – the d-something?”

Kim’s looking at where you touched Doc. His mind is racing with possibilities, taking too many mental notes to remember. “Diamorphine.”

“Yeah, diamorphine,” you look forward and start leading Doc outside. “See? He’s of stable mind, stable health, stable spirit. He even remembered what diamorphine was even though it was taken off the streets years ago!” you pull him closer. “He’s not that bad of a guy. A cop, sure, but he’s more of a detective anyway.”

Doc’s eyes flicker around the room. He’s flustered, yet you can barely tell. “I… alright. But I’ll be keeping my eyes on you. I don’t want you making some type of incurable disease.”)

God, and they get real fucking angry when you defend him. Why do you feel the need to do so? He’s obviously a non-player human, and he’s weak compared to grunts. 

(“Jeez, these are like magnifying glasses.” you say, peering into the lens of Kim’s glasses. “I’m glad you have them, otherwise we would’ve been dead meat when that guy decided to get smart with us.”

You’re just about to hand them back to him when Deimos swipes them from you. He brings them up to his face and laughs.

“God, you’re right!” he exclaims. “What are you, Kim, blind?”

Kim snatches them back and puts them back on. “No. I’m significantly farsighted.”

“Yeah, Deimos,” you say. “They’re just glasses.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?” Deimos says. “Basically no one wears them here.”

“So you have amazing technology, but no one wears glasses?” Kim asks. 

You can foresee the argument blooming between them. “Almost everyone’s a clone here, Lieutenant. They have identical eyesight, along with identical… well, everything else. Except for personality, tastes, experiences, and the like.”

Kim hummed and wrote something down in his notebook. What you wouldn’t give to be able to take a look inside…  and be able to read his handwriting, of course. 

Deimos notices you staring at Kim. What he wouldn’t give to be able to slaughter him, right then and there… and be able to still build a relationship with you, of course.)

All in all, Kim’s a good companion: understanding, empathetic, and knows damn well how to shoot a gun. But here, he’s a target. He’s used to being one, and has been shot at plenty of times, but sleeping in the same base as four murderers, knowing one of them could knife him quietly in his sleep and blame it on raiders… he’d rather be home. Who wouldn’t?

He contemplates slipping away at night, sneaking out of a window or something like that. But he knows each person has their part to play in the world. His part was to solve crimes, now to stay by your side. He’s under no illusion that his role isn’t a minor one, in the grand scheme of things, but he embraces it because it’s his role. It’s the grunts’ too, whether they accept it or not. This story isn’t about them. It’s about you.

[nevadancitizen]

random player hc’s :)

synopsis: headcanons i came up with when i wasn’t feeling well

word count: 1.1k

characters: sanford, hank, deimos, 2bdamned, player! reader

trigger warnings: cursing and yandere is a blanket statement for all of them but most have a tw in the topic line

notes: @saltymongoose delivers this to you via carrier pigeon (also most of these can be read as either before or after the player enters nevada unless specified)

calling 2bdamned ‘oynon’: (tw: smoking ment.)

after a cutscene or something where doc is doing doctor-ly things, the player says “thank you, oynon!!” and doc just clings to it like a lifeline because he thinks it’s some type of lovey pet name. like spoiler alert bestie it’s literally just a title of respect for doctors in some slavic countries 😭😭

deimos mocks him because he’s mad he doesn’t have a “pet name” of his own so when doc patches him up he says “thanks, onion” really sarcastically and doc is just standing there like “i could literally replace your lungs with plastic convenience store bags and it would be an improvement. honestly 😐”

looking through the camera: (none)

in the middle of some building, hank is about to get rushed so the player is like “look up!!” but hank looks directly at them with a stare that pierces through the camera and while hank is being attacked the player is just like “😀 uh okay” and continues to play despite there being a weird feeling in their gut 

like dude that’s not a feeling that’s a fact!!

other games seeping through: (tw: slight unreality)

if some of the other games on the player’s computer sort of leaked through because of the employer’s tampering.. i think it would be truly absurd teeheehee

like sanford is literally just trying to go out and get supplies but there’s this weird… thing, something labeled the polyhedron that’s shaped like a tornado and defies gravity like one. it reaches up to the skies from one fragile point, but as sanford approaches it, it disappears. the only comfort he has is the player’s voice: “hm, i guess they took inspiration from pathologic. i’ve actually been playing that in my spare time recently – it isn’t exactly stream-able. but the polyhedron… here? maybe the auditor has something to do with this…” so like. at least sanford knows he’s not alone in his confusion!!

but on a less serious note imagine someone like tom nook coming through and speaking animal crossing and the player having to translate for him 😭😭 

tom nook: *top one percent noises*

player: well you see hank there’s this thing called a mortgage

different dialect: (none)

the player’s dialect would be vastly different from the grunts’ so it sounds very different when they threaten other people but to their vessels it’s absolutely hilarious.. 

like imagine the player staring down some huge angry mag and going “i hope you choke on a motherfuckin’ cheesestick you nasty, greasy bitch! you look like you drink white gatorade and smell like nickels. fuck you” by god they would not be able to function properly after that let alone fight a mag

(no they do not know what cheese, gatorade, or nickels are but christ if that wasn’t the best thing the player has said ever)

deimos would try his best to commit that line to memory. as he’s trying to fall asleep that night he’s staring at the ceiling and goes “you look like you drink white gatorade and smell like nickels…” and he turns his head to the side and covers his mouth in an attempt to not laugh as loud as he normally would

i lov him can’t you tell

mentioning other streamers: (tw: jerma985 😧😧 /j)

so the vessels try to remember every place, person, and thing the player mentions and when they mention someone the vessels haven’t heard of before they listen especially closely and spot this:

“tell mister” – they’re laughing too hard to get the words out proper – “tell mister jerma985 that he is a sociopath and that he will not be allowed anywhere near me at the next con!” 

jesus fucking christ that was the wrong thing to say because they are scouring every document and every file they can get their hands on, searching for this absolutely vile man that dared to disrupt your life to the point of a restraining order. judging by the numbers on the end of his name he’s a clone, so he shouldn’t really be a problem

but some time goes by (many clones are killed) and the player is transported into nevada. when they summon their vessels they’re immediately like “we’ll protect you from jerma985, that nasty sonuvabitch” and the player is immediately like “jerma? that scrawny little white boy?? he could get blown over by opening his fridge too fast”

god if jerma got transported into nevada.. he would either be killed immediately or become king. there is no inbetween

being a student and streaming: (none)

this would take place after the player is transported into nevada 

okay so the player is also a student on top of streaming (how do they balance it? plot armor) but their major is really niche. something like restoration ecology or rangeland, wildlife and fisheries management 

and the player is obviously self-aware and is like “yeah most of my schooling doesn’t really apply in this world and i can’t make any real use of it” but their vessels are trying so hard to make them feel more useful than they already are 😭😭 like bro how do you top being a literal god

imagine doc walking up to the player with a handful of dirt and being like “i need to know what’s in this” and the player, who’s studying pedology, not even batting an eye, saying “well it’s red so there’s a lot of iron and clay in here and…” and they just don’t stop talking and doc is standing there with heart eyes 

no he doesn’t need to know what’s in the soil he’s a medicine doctor not a dirt doctor

i can also see doc being like “you said you’re a doctor, right? i need help with this surgery” and the player standing there like “yes i’m a doctor. a doctor in entomology”

bit goals and bedtime stories: (tw: suicide ment.)

the player having bit/sub goals and reading chat a bedtime story when they hit them would send the vessels into the atmosphere i think. or maybe it’s just your voice idk 

even if you were reading something dark or aesthetically unpleasant.. they would love it to the point of recording it. just listening to you reciting the words of a mourning man: “of course, that man can do anything he likes. his daughter has no fingers. did he hand her over? no, he kept her. he probably sees her. watches her grow up. plays with her. and his wife is alive. she didn’t hang herself with her tights. she’s not dangling from the ceiling. with her tongue sticking out… her black tongue.” 

sanford craves comfort and your voice is the perfect scratch to an itch he didn’t know he had. he has the recording as an mp3 and plays it on repeat when he can’t sleep 

if hank heard sanford listening to that without context he would deffo take solace in the fact that he’s not the only psychopath on base 

sorry to end on that note but i don’t have any more ideas 😔👍

[nevadancitizen]

“aggression”

synopsis: after daydreaming of seeing into your camera feed once again, deimos takes initiative and makes his own device that connects with your monitor. 

word count: 774

characters: yandere! deimos, reader

trigger warnings: yandere, stalking, deimos projecting heavily, clones being mistreated by the AAHW

notes: @saltymongoose hands this to you on a chipped dinner plate (also i was the anon that was like “have you any thoughts” on your post about hank, deimos and sanford seeing the player for the first time)

Aggression is just another quality of a hunter.

Those who feed on carrion don’t need it, just as they don’t need to kill. Everything living dies sooner or later: it will all become their food anyway. All they have to do is wait. 

Deimos doesn’t like to think of himself as aggressive, but when it comes to you? Carrion can’t sustain him. The pictures the Auditor had taken of you – the ones that sent euphoric shivers down his spine but still left him awfully disgusted at the thought of violating your privacy – were enough for a while, but few can survive on a diet of scraps. 

Working with AAHW technology wasn’t new to him, but handling the Employer’s own handiwork proved challenging. With enough time and enough patience and enough nicotine, Deimos had recreated the setup he saw in one of the Auditor’s offices.

Deimos had waited for this moment for a long while. He had sacrificed precious moments of being in your presence to create this. It had better work: he wouldn’t know what to do if it didn’t. 

With shaky hands, he plugged the computer into the outlet. It started up without problem, and responded without any lag. Deimos’ heart felt like it was in his throat. 

He opened the surveillance application, held his face in his hands, and prayed. 

The computer made a sound, and Deimos peeked through his fingers. It was connecting fine, and started filtering through the camera feeds to find the one that connected to your monitor. 

Deimos started rocking in his chair, gliding his teeth over his nails. He watched as the app skipped over feeds of empty streets, cafeterias filled with clones, and scientists hunched over experiments on lab tables. 

There was a glance – a half of a second – that Deimos caught of you. When the app skipped over your feed and continued showing other cameras, Deimos was sent into a frenzy.

He made clumsy movements on the keyboard, trying to go back, yelling at the computer – screaming at the computer to please stop, please, no, they were so close, go back, please, why can’t this stupid fucking computer just – 

Your room took up the entire screen. It was warm, comforting, and colorful. Who knew there were other colors besides grey and red?

You moved across the room slowly: it seemed like you were getting ready for bed. The room was dimly lit, and the comforters on your bed had been pulled back. In reality, you weren’t really stylish, just dressed in boxers and an oversized tee-shirt. But to Deimos – oh, to Deimos, you were the shining beauty of the cosmos. He wished he could memorize every frame of the feed, memorize every part of your body, memorize everything about you just because – he didn’t even want to, he needed to. 

When he saw you, witnessed your absolute perfection, everything else seemed to melt away. You wiped away the memories of being a faceless clone, the memories of the automatic riflemen in respirators: being within proximity to fresh clones was dangerous otherwise. The respirators looked like muzzles, as if without them the guards might fling themselves onto the naked clones and rip their artificial flesh from their artificial bone. But the muzzles meant they had to deal with them differently: with chains and whips of barbed wire. 

Isn’t it astounding how the scars didn’t ache when you were there? The scars from the barbed wire whips. You must know what they did to him: why else would you be so lovely, so kind, so gentle and soft with him? You must have witnessed how the clones were killed without compassion: the ones who didn’t want to work, the ones who were dying anyway and couldn’t work, and the ones who tried to be cunning and pretended to be dead already. You must have seen how the barbs were stuck in his skin, clinging to him even as the wardens pulled the wire away. You saw, and you still welcomed him. 

How could you love such a broken man?

Deimos saw it all: the way you laughed at his jokes more, the way you sucked your teeth when he was hit, the way you just looked like you were made for him – it was because you were. It was only a matter of time before you saw your feelings were reciprocated, and fell even further, but Deimos didn’t think he could wait that long. He needed to take the initiative, and start chasing after you, even if that chase is long and grueling, and one-sided and full of fear.

Aggression is just another quality of a hunter.

[nevadancitizen]

“one last retreat”

synopsis: among all the sounds you hear on the front lines, it’s not all that unexpected to hear dog tags chime from an alley. your curiosity is unwavering and is, unfortunately, getting the better of you. just one peek couldn’t hurt, right? it’s not like you’d meet what you thought was your death in an unoccupied alley... right?

word count: 1.2k

characters: denji’s human soldier! reader, hank j. wimbleton

trigger warnings: war, guns, light cursing, talk of the afterlife and its associated religious figures, brief mention of mental illness (ptsd and schizophrenia), disrespecting the dead (mass graves), slightly obsessive tendencies from hank at the end bc he’s just a little creechur

notes: @yansoftie sound the alarm!! bonfire anon is now off anon 😎😎also i had to do an unholy amount of research on how to assemble, disassemble, and clean/maintain an m4 carbine and military occupation in domestic settings for this. i’m probably on some type of list now if i wasn’t before *tucks hair behind ear and giggles cutely*

The camp was jam-packed with soldiers turned fugitives. Lost, pitiful, battered. Their uniforms had gotten soaked in the battlefield and were now drying out, shrinking and getting too small for them. It looked as if they were made for children’s games or theatricals, but grownups had pulled them on and started doing everything in earnest. Their faces were scratched and smeared with mud; their steel-tipped low boots had dried out and cracked. 

You were no exception to these harrowing conditions. Your undershirt was a size too big and your jacket a size too small, both pulled off corpses. One of your boots was stuffed with socks so it would fit properly and the other pressed your toes back into your foot. The only pair of pants you had was stained with blood, vomit, and had a white stain on the pant leg that you refused to identify. Your gloves were a patchwork of fabric, and they were the only article of clothing that fit sort of well. There was no doubt in your mind that once you died, you would be stripped and buried naked in a mass grave that could be mistaken for a mass orgy. 

The only thing you truly felt like you owned was your dog tags. 

When they chimed, it felt like the sound threw you down from the heavens and pulled you up from hell. It was the only thing that could keep you grounded in the forever battle between going insane and going numb. 

That’s why it was so odd when you heard dog tags chime from an alley. 

Whoever was the superior of your superior of your superior decided not to carpet bomb this city, but war and the general displeasure it brought had evacuated it. There weren’t any rules regarding where the soldiers had to stay, but the closer together they were, the more comforted they felt. You were on the edge of the boundary, finding the delicate balance of comfort in the masses and comfort in privacy. 

The dog tags in the alley chimed again. 

Armed with whatever guns were on your person and the weapons in your satchel, you crept over to the alley. Even though it was bright outside, the alley was dark and desolate. It was exactly as a stereotypical alley should be. You assured yourself that there was nothing that could go wrong. You weren’t exactly sure that that statement was true. 

The dog tags chimed from beneath a dumpster. 

Checking over your shoulder and keeping a cautionary hand on your knife’s grip, you pushed the dumpster with your foot. It rolled away dejectedly. The only thing that was underneath it was a puddle that showed you your miserable reflection. 

You rolled your eyes and kicked at the puddle. Now, on top of the guarantee of PTSD, you had to be tested for schizophrenia. War brings out the best in people. 

The ripple in the water settled and a small shine appeared. Kneeling down, you skimmed your fingers over the top of it. A hand made of black flames grabbed your wrist and pulled you through. Before you even had time to scream, everything went black.

You woke up on hard ground with blood in your eyes. 

Sitting up, you instinctually rub down your entire face, pressing your fingers into your eyes a little too hard. Tears seeped out from underneath your eyelids and ran down your face. You opened your eyes again. 

There wasn’t blood in your eyes. There was blood in the sky. 

You decided that you couldn’t lay down and die, even though you were already laying down and probably in the process of dying. With shaky legs, you got up and started walking. The entire landscape was monochrome with splashes of red. The sand was grey and didn’t shift when you stepped on it. It was uncomfortably cold. 

A distant crackling broke up the sound of wind. It came from a fire in a metal barrel that was half your height. You stumbled over, removing your gloves and stuffing them in a jacket pocket. You sat down, got as close as you could bear, then a little closer. The flames reached for your hands, then fell and jumped back up in a desperate effort for contact. 

Footsteps alerted you of someone’s presence. You got on one knee and looked around, unholstering your sidearm. 

“Come out,” you said. “I have a gun and I’m not afraid to shoot.”

A small creature peeked out from behind a rock. He looked like he barely reached knee-height. Tentatively stepping closer, he revealed the rest of his body. He was dressed in a tiny trench coat, fabric covering his head and mouth. Red goggles covered his eyes, concealing emotions you didn’t really try too hard to decipher. 

You holstered your sidearm and turned back to the fire, sitting back down. “Great. I’m dead, I’m in hell, and the demons are tiny and nonthreatening. Just put me back on the field.”

The grey little imp scurried around you and sat next to the fire. He warmed his tiny, floating hands before pulling out weapons that matched his size and started cleaning them. 

You let your head loll to the side and watched him work. “What’s your name, demon?”

“Hank,” he said in a low grumble. 

“Hank.” you repeated, then laughed. “Such a… normal name for a demon.”

He gave you a look before finishing cleaning one of his weapons and pulling out another one that looked like a miniature M4 Carbine. After he separated the upper and lower receivers, he sat the lower receiver aside, cleaning the flash hider with an old toothbrush. 

“Doesn’t the Dark Lord give you better tools to clean your guns with?” you asked. 

Hank shrugged and grumbled. “Don’t serve Dark Lord. Not much choice for cleaning.”

You pulled your satchel to your lap and opened it, pulling out an oil bottle and a double-ended nylon brush. Gently taking the tiny upper receiver from Hank, you oiled the flash hider and started working at cleaning away the carbon residue. 

“I think toothbrushes are made of nylon, but this is the real top-notch shit. I got this field cleaning kit a few weeks ago and I’ve only gotten the opportunity to use it once. Nice to have a break and just to get your mind off everything,” you mumbled. The way you talked was stream of consciousness, and you missed the way Hank started to pay more attention with every word you said.

When you were satisfied with your work, you handed the upper receiver back to Hank. You almost laughed at the way he briefly marveled at it before reattaching it like he didn’t care. 

“Got more?” Hank mumbled.

“More stuff in the cleaning kit?” 

“More guns.”

You thought for a second about revealing your entire hand to Hank. Pulling your lips into a thin line, you sighed. He was a quarter of your size, and his guns were even smaller. 

What damage could he truly do if he only saw one card?

[nevadancitizen]

OK, Fae / Fairy Anon here again bc I just had a great idea and I just had to tell u bc I like how u write. I don't care when you write this, but just imagine this. Reader having a VERY sensitive sense of hearing (kinda like Dolores from Encanto) dating a VERY loud Deimos. Will Reader tell Deimos to shut up or just suffer in silence? We will never know 👀 (and maybe Reader just tells Sanford the problem, imagine the drama, poor San wouldn't know what to do either lmao) OK, I'll go now! Bye! ^w^

"recovery"

synopsis: when a trigger sends you into a spiral, you decide to confront the one who brings you comfort: deimos.

word count: 1.1k

characters: deimos, reader

trigger warnings: mistreatment of prisoners, reader spiralling from a trigger, reader having survivor's guilt

notes: GAHAHAGHA this is my first time writing partial angst so grahg :)

At first, things seemed like they would never change: all the people who worked with guns and adrenaline were invincible and if you died, you could just be brought back to life. But it’s never that simple, is it?

Well, at least Deimos didn’t change: a maze of scars crossed his body, he created enough acrid smoke to clear a building, and smiled as if he’d just tied your shoelaces together and was waiting for you to stumble. He was twenty-seven, but his demeanor belonged to a ten-year-old. He was fireproof. 

You were different, however. How could you not be? Sleepless nights and shaking hands became a staple after what you went through and no one could blame you for it. You freeze at the slightest sound relating to gunfire, and preferred to sit in corners where you could see the whole room. You were both combustible and flammable, unstable and unmedicated in the prolonged traumatic experience that was existing. 

2BDamned retired you from the field to lab work. You didn’t particularly mind: it was better than being in constant danger and waiting for someone to blow your goddamn head off. The quiet clinking of glass equipment was good, but silence was even better. 

Silence only came at night, in the solace of your bed that was just a mattress on the floor. It seemed that within the darkness of your closed eyes, nothing could touch you – but that wasn’t true. You knew it wasn’t. In the blanket of night, everyone is as helpless and naive as a child. People can click their flashlight on and off as much as they’d like, imagining that they’re the master of darkness, but even the very blackest darkness around them can be full of seeing eyes. 

That’s what happened, wasn’t it? The eyes in the black saw you before you saw them. It was crowded and hot and sweaty in the prison, and the automatic rifles up above began howling down onto their heads. Fellow prisoners started going limp here and there, but in the crush they couldn’t fall anymore and remained standing on their feet, even after they had died. No one here was afraid of death. Maybe they wanted to be slaughtered, in order to do something at last with their lives that they were sick and tired of, and be at peace. You and them simply chanted “Have mercy!” until your voices became one and carried on walking towards the stairway that led upwards – towards the bullets. 

You jolted awake. It wasn’t uncommon, waking up like this, but it still made your heart jackrabbit in your chest and the awake parts of your brain crazed. You heaved a breath – more out of annoyance than anything – pulled your knees to your chest, and cried. 

Sometimes you wished you’d died. You wished you died instead of the man that shared his ration with you when you first arrived, instead of the mother-to-be that cried happy tears when she saw two lines on her pregnancy test, instead of the child that was forced to be there because his shit father was. 

Red crescent moons from your fingernails digging into your palm formed as you thought. Your gaze skittered across the room, watching shadows rise and fall in the corners. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to constantly be burdened with this drunken stupor of guilt, to be plagued with thoughts of ‘what if…’ and ‘if I just…’.

The noise of dragging footsteps sounded outside your door. You supposed – you hoped and prayed, actually – that it was Deimos. 

“I’m back!” he said. “N’ I’m comin’ in. If you don’t have pants on – I don’t care.”

Your fingernails dug into your palm further and tilted your head away from the door, wiping your tears on your sleeves. Even though your heart beat against your chest when the door opened, you knew you were safe. You couldn’t help it. You wished you could. 

Deimos closed the door behind him, prattling off about how recon went and how it was the most boring thing he’s ever experienced without you by his side. He wasn’t being particularly loud – just his normal speaking voice – but it still set off alarm bells in your head of this man is a sadist in a guard’s uniform, this man has a gun, this man is going to kill me. 

It was only when Deimos touched you, a light brush against your shoulder, that you actually acted on your thoughts. 

“Have mercy,” you whimpered. Your voice was barely above a whisper, something far from an actual cry for help. It was the only thing you could think to say. 

Deimos recoiled immediately. “What?”

“It – I…” you hugged your knees tighter. “At the prison… there was a rally. And the guards, and their automatic rifles, and the people… I didn’t want to die. I think the others did. We begged for mercy. There was a child, Deimos, a child in a prison, and there was so much blood. I know blood’s easy to wash off with cold water, but… can’t I just wash my brain instead, and get rid of this feeling? This feeling of shame. It burns hot, and it hurts, Deimos. Everything reminds me of them… I don’t know what to do.”

Deimos settled beside you, stealing glances at your face. He had the oddest look on his face, like he had seen it all happen, too. He laid a hand on your knee. “Am I – do I – I yell a lot, is it – am I making it worse?”

You took one look at his face and started crying. Deimos wrapped an arm around you, making circles on your shoulder. He strung together apologies and whispered them in your ear, a constant rumbling voice that helped pull you away from the prison. 

“I could only think of you,” you admitted. “It was this one thought: I hope Deimos is warm and fed. As if you wouldn’t be. I had more pressing matters, obviously, I was being shot at. But I just… thought about you. At least it would’ve been a romantic thought to die to.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to, I… why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I thought you wouldn’t care,” you said. “You have other things to worry about. Things like work, and maintaining your guns, and… other things that aren’t me.”

“Why wouldn’t I care about you?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden. Not to me. Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes… I love you.”

“I love you too, Deimos.”

[nevadancitizen]

Hello, Fairy anon here! (random Lil name to identify myself!) If requests are still open, may I ask for a Hank x reader where Reader has wings? (kinda like an angel!) I feel like Hank would see Reader like "Pure angel... Must protect..." lmao. Sorry if my English is not the best, I'm actually Spanish! I hope you have a good day! (/^u^) / (oh, before I forget, she/her pronouns would be nice but I'm also OK with gender neutral pronouns so anyone can enjoy it!)

“angel”

synopsis: hank listens to your woes about being forced to become an angel.

word count: 1k

characters: hank, angel! reader

trigger warnings: reader being an experiment

notes: i actually just avoided pronouns on this one so you're good fairy anon dw (also i saw angel and went insane ig? send another ask if you want something lighter. soz) (also also your english is fine dw!! my first language is asl so i have trouble sometimes too)

Experiments were common – hell, it was actually rare not to be a part of them. Whether you were the scientist conducting the experiment, an intern tracking data, or the experiment itself, you would inevitably be exposed to the horrors they excused in the name of progress.

That’s why it hurt so bad to see the fresh trauma from the new experiments.

You weren’t actually in the buildings where they conducted these atrocities – you knew what would happen if you were. Instead, you could close your eyes, project your consciousness to another place, and see what was happening. Such things became normal when they tried to turn you into an angel.

They couldn’t make you a god: the Auditor already existed. The next best thing was an angel. The scientists – the ones barely disguised as religion-obsessed freaks – practically obsessed over the project. When they had acquired the appropriate wings, they didn’t take anything you had to say into consideration. They didn’t care that you felt lightheaded from the new limbs demanding blood, or, more importantly, the mental strain it put on you. Them frying your nerve endings to force you to “ascend” was just another tally on a wall of countless crimes.

You opened your eyes, staring at the flickering flame of the candle you held. “It hasn’t changed. Nothing like me, but…”

Hank took the candle and fanned the flame until the wick was left smoking. He set it aside and ghosted his hand over yours. “Good?”

“Yes. It’s good.” you grabbed his gloved hand, running a thumb over the black leather. “It’s just… what if they do try? Try to make something like me. It always hurts. I can’t sleep properly because I can see through my eyelids. I always see somewhere else. The base of those damned wings are always sore and raw: they weren’t meant to be put on my body. I’m not an angel. I was never even meant to be. Can’t they take their perverted, twisted take on the Bible and apply it somewhere else – literally anywhere else? It doesn’t belong in science. Nothing fetishized to that extent should belong in science.”

You collapsed onto Hank, tears beginning to form in your eyes. Everything hurt like hellfire. “Why did they think this would work? I think, deep down, they knew it wouldn’t. But they tried anyway. How dare they? How dare they take my body and violate it so?”

Hank took your hand and held it in both of his. “I think… they’re pretty. You’re so lovely. Won’t let them take you again.”

You turned your head so you could hear Hank’s heartbeat. It was slow and calm. He ran a hand up your back, but stopped before he reached the base of your wings and settled for rubbing soft circles there. You could feel his hands shake a little.

Hank stayed like that for a minute before you whispered, “Can you – purr for me?”

He just pulled you closer, almost trying to meld your already close bodies together, and let out a soft rumble. It was scratchy, like his voice. You guessed he hadn’t had a reason to purr until now. He started out soft – like he was warming up – before he pushed his face into the top of your head like a cat. After he got comfortable, his purr was at a pleasant volume.

“Thank you,” you said. “You’re… the only one I can feel like this around. I feel safe. You can – if you want to… you can touch my wings.”

Hank gasped quietly, and his hands started to shake more. Still, he wasted no time dragging his fingers up to your shoulder blades. Each centimeter he covered felt like electricity, until he slowed to a stop just before the inflamed base of your wings.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “You can go ahead. I don’t mind.”

He glided a hand over the base, gauging your reaction. When there was none, he continued upwards. You let out a sigh of content: you couldn’t even remember the last time your wings had been touched softly, and without malicious intent.

“Thank you,” Hank said through his purring. “So nice…”

He ran his fingers across the bone and you instinctively spread your wing. It felt good to not have to worry about a needle being jammed into your wing for a blood sample, or to hear the whip of a measuring tape as they pulled your wing as far as it could go. It felt good to trust again.

There was no one outside of the facility that knew or remembered you: you weren’t a hostage, a prisoner or an experiment any longer – but, at the same time, you weren’t a nameless freak, or a disposable slave. There was no point in waiting for anything any longer, nothing left to be afraid of, no straws to clutch at. You were lost here, in this boundless madness, and it seemed like everyone wanted to take you back.

But Hank… Hank was always there. You didn’t want him, not at all: you didn’t want a psychopath, a man who saws a man’s head off with a dull knife and doesn’t even blink when blood spurts out. You wanted a good, decent, normal person. That was something Hank could never be. He didn’t lose sleep over it – in fact, he slept with blood under his fingernails and didn’t particularly care about disease.

And yet, he was still here. You were laying in his arms, and he was touching your wings – ones he could tear off with his bare hands if he wanted to – and you trusted him. It was an absurd concept, one you could hardly fathom, and it was wonderful.

“Hank…?”

“Hm?”

You stayed silent for a second. Hank just petted the edge of your wing. It felt blissful. You hoped he felt the same way.

“I think I love you.”

Hank sucked in a breath and went quiet. “I… love you. Love you too.”

[nevadancitizen]

“darling daughter”

synopsis: taking care of a human child is awfully hard when she’s been conditioned to gather resources from dead bodies. it only gets worse when the man you promised to be an informant for comes to collect.

word count: 1.8k

characters: employer! reader, child named lapis, sanford

trigger warnings: children, cannibalism, corpse desecration, guns, slight child neglect, brainwashing

notes: this is heavy on exposition because i want it to be. also inspired by “little sister” by miracle of sound go check that out

As the weakest of the five Employers, it’s only fair that all of the anomalies that come to Nevada are pushed onto you. You’ve seen it all: people combined with abnormal flora and fauna, supertech that mortals couldn’t even begin to decipher, otherworldly beings that die upon entering the atmosphere. But never before had you seen this. 

A human child that couldn’t be older than six calling herself – what was it? – a Little Sister. 

She had immediately latched herself onto you in what seemed to be a bout of relief. “I thought the monsters would get me, but you always save me,” she claimed. 

And so, with muffled laughter from the other Employers, you were stuck with the girl. 

Within the first week, she asked to be named. You couldn’t bear to give her her file number, so you decided to take something out of it to name her. Classification L-803 became Lapis. 

“Lapis!” she stomped her feet happily. “Like the rock. Thank you!”

Through the months you worked with Lapis, she began to display symptoms of depression and signs of other underlying conditions. When asked what would make her feel better, she said, “I can’t hear all those angels singing in a pretty choir. Have they all gone to bed? The lights are still on, silly – let’s go tuck them in.”

So, with your supervision, Lapis wandered throughout the facility. When she came across the entrance to the medical wing, she pointed and said “I can hear the flapping of wings.” before pushing the door open and skipping inside. 

Deciding to satiate her curiosity, you let her. Patients and doctors alike cleared a path for her when they saw you trailing behind. Lapis made her way through the unit, as if on instinct, babbling to herself about angels and roses. “Nearly there,” she said. “I can smell a ripe one.”

You stopped her when the door to the morgue came into sight. 

“Lapis,” you said cautiously, “we can’t go in there. That room is very, um, special, and secret. Even I don’t know what’s in there.”

“You’re silly,” Lapis giggled, pointing at the brown, dried blood splattering her surroundings. “There’s rosies all around and sunshine in the cracks beneath the door. All the angels are having a big slumber party, I just know it.”

“Lapis, please.” you put a hand on her shoulder and slowly started to guide her away. “Let’s go somewhere else. There’s – the angels are having a very private moment. We weren’t invited to the slumber party. We can do anything else, Lapis, just –”

She screamed and ran, shaking your already loose grip free. You shot after her and nearly slammed your head on the closing door. 

“Lapis! Do you have any idea…?”

Lapis had stopped in her tracks, looking around the room with wide eyes. “So many angels!” she exclaimed. “So much to gather.”

She approached the body on the dissection table, analyzing it with a gaze that mixed careful calculation and childlike wonder. She moved around the room confidently, going through the assortment of syringes and choosing one with a thick needle.

You slowly inched closer as Lapis conducted her preparations, shutting the door to protect her from prying eyes. “What are you planning for, Lapis?”

“Oh, it’s just an itsy-bitsy now, don’t worry,” she said. She dragged a stool over next to the dissection table and clambered onto it. 

“Do you know what you’re doing? All those instruments are… very sharp,” you said, making your way to her side. You couldn’t deny that your curiosity was just barely outweighing the innate need to get Lapis out of the morgue and keep her out.

“Of course.” Lapis picked up an empty syringe. “I promise the angel won’t even feel it, see?”

Lapis grabbed the corpse’s leg with one of her tiny, chubby hands and plunged the syringe into the femur. Without the proper medication and muscle relaxants in the body, the bone cracked with a horrible sound, but it didn’t seem to bother Lapis in the slightest. She hummed happily about watching over sleeping angels, swaying back and forth on the stool as she gathered bone marrow. It sloshed around in the barrel, mixing red stem cells with traces of yellow fat. 

She pulled the syringe out of the femur with surprising ease, squealing out a giggle as she did so. “Ta-da! This angel’s all done now.”

You were too shocked to speak, nevermind move, as Lapis brought the syringe to her mouth and eased her head back, suckling on the needle. She slowly pushed the plunger back in, consuming just the slightest amount of bone marrow. 

Lapis pulled away from the needle, her face screwed up in disgust. She smacked her lips. “This angel’s nearly gone to heaven. It tastes like outer space.”

With shaky hands you could barely control, you took the syringe away. “Yes, it’s gone… to heaven. I’m… we have to…”

You dropped the syringe on the cadaver and scooped Lapis up into your arms. “We need to leave, Lapis. We’ll get lots of… lots of angels another time. I promise.”

Lapis wiped her face and spread the mess further. 

And so, with muffled giggles from the girl in your arms, you set out to let her find a healthy source to gather from. 

It wasn’t nearly as frightening the second time, or the third. By that point, gathering had become part of a normal routine for Lapis. You had her outfitted with a special set of clothes that she could get dirty when gathering and a new invention that combined a syringe and a nursing bottle. That way, she couldn’t accidentally cut her lip or tongue when she was done. 

Lapis sat on your shoulders, humming and patting the top of your head to the rhythm. “The angels are singing a pretty song only I can hear,” she mused.

You patted her leg. “Then let’s go gather.”

Lapis giggled and cheered, pointing you in the direction of the angel she sensed. It took a few minutes before you came upon the corpse of an agent, sprawled across the ground with his head cracked open. 

“Right here!” Lapis said. “Can’t you see it glow?”

You smiled softly and set her down. Sure, you can’t understand half of the words she says, but if saying these things while gathering kept her stable, then so be it. 

As soon as Lapis inserted the needle into the agent’s leg, gunshots started popping off nearby. Your head shot up and you internally started to panic, but you needed to keep Lapis calm as she gathered. 

You kneeled next to her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “Keep gathering.” you said. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

Lapis nodded and started swaying in place, muttering softly about how licorice wasn’t fried, but pulled like taffy. She was solely focused on gathering, and didn’t even look up when footsteps thundered past the door. 

As soon as it was quiet outside, you creaked open the door. The barrel of a gun eased its way between your eyebrows.

You closed your eyes and sighed. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure this time?”

“You know damn well who it is,” a gruff voice answered. 

Sanford. You felt a smile ghost your lips and pushed your face into a neutral position. Sometime ago, you had agreed to let him in on insider information you picked up in exchange for help bringing down the AAHW. He had come to collect.

“The Auditor’s not here,” you said. “He’s been at one of the underground laboratories for a few days now – no, I don’t know which one. One of the experiments didn’t go as planned and he’s overseeing damage control.”

Sanford withdrew the gun and held it to his chest. “Do you have an idea of the area he might be in?”

“Somewhere near Deadhorse Well, or the Nevada Scheelite Mine.”

Sanford frowned. “That’s nearly nine miles of land, just from one to the other. It’ll take over three hours just to scout it out on foot. We can cover ten times more land in the same amount of time if we can drive it.”

You shook your head and rubbed your face. “Sanford… we never said anything about transportation. But they probably won’t notice if you and Deimos take a cargo truck… maybe there’s a regular truck somewhere in the back. I’m really not sure, that’s not –”

You felt a pressure hug around your calf and your heart leapt into your throat. “The angel’s all done dancing.”

“The angel…yes, the angel.” you bent down and combed a hand through Lapis’ brittle hair. “Can you double-check for me? It’s – I’ll be there to check in a few seconds, okay?”

“A child? In this facility?” Sanford asked.

You patted Lapis’ back as she returned to the corpse. “It’s hard to explain. She just… showed up one day. And the responsibility was pushed onto me. I don’t hate it, just…” you watched Lapis play with the dead man’s hand. “She’s different from all the other anomalies. She’s a child. You can’t expect me to push off a child.”

Sanford rolled one of his shoulders and looked away, thinking. “And she just does that? On her own?”

“Gathering?” 

“If that’s what you call… that.” he pointed at Lapis as she stabbed the needle into the corpse’s other leg. She hummed happily about Sanford (described by her as “the big meathook man”) smelling like yesterday.

“Yes. It started about three weeks ago. It seems like she needs the bone marrow to survive, and is conditioned to extract from corpses,” you sighed. “I’m looking into ways to reverse the… well, there’s no other way to describe it except for brainwashing. But, unfortunately, for the foreseeable future, she’ll be gathering.”

Lapis tugged on your hand and thrusted her syringe in the air. “I’m for sure all done now!”

“Oh! That’s wonderful, Lapis.” you took her hand. “Have you had your fill?”

Lapis nodded and let the syringe fall to her side. 

“We need to wait an hour or so until we can properly dispose of it. Do you think we can wait that long?”

“But I can smell so many more angels,” Lapis said. “So fresh. So new.”

You looked back up at Sanford. “Excuse us for a moment.”

Sanford just nodded and left. As you watched him go, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest. Lapis deserved so much better. She deserved an organic upbringing, not one in a sanitized institution. Childhoods are supposed to be messy, unsafe, happy. 

This facility is not childhood. 

Sanford left your line of sight. You had hoped that he would be an effective assassin, but assassins are not supposed to help with raising children. 

And so, with the sound of his muffled footsteps disappearing, you held Lapis’ hand tighter.