#may extend to ascensions. which is kind of fucked up

[illuminatedferret]

ascensions lian

one of my favorite things about rereading tgcf is finding little bits of info where MXTX showcases how crazy strong xie lian is. like in the PROLOGUE we learn that if people trying to ascend fail their Heavenly Tribulations they either die or are (socially? physically?) ruined. like, nevermind the rigors of cultivating to ascension, the act of ascension itself is lethally dangerous.

and XIE LIAN

this motherfucker ascended for the first time IN HIS SLEEP. the second time he was so busy pummeling bai wuxiang that he didn't even notice it!!! what the hell!!! what the hell is this guy on and how do i get some

[caeli0306]

chapter 14 of castles crumbling (aka Tales from the Airport Bathroom extended version) now posted!

Chapter 14: This is Kind of Insane is now up on AO3: READ HERE

WE'RE BACK WITH XADEN'S POV!!!!!!! It's rescue mission time besties, and Xaden's about to get his first taste of what it's actually like to work for the NIA :)

Summary:

Violet should already be dead. People whispered about her weak body and how she would never live up to her family's martial accomplishments. Violet rose above them all, however, fighting and killing to survive the Navarrian Intelligence Agency's brutal BASGIATH training protocol. Now, people whisper about Violet's swift ascension through the NIA's ranks as one of its most valuable operatives and assassins. The whispers don't matter to Violet: She has her own agenda, and it's a dangerous one - finding out what happened to her father.

But one mission changes everything: Suddenly, Violet finds herself in the crosshairs when she stumbles on information Navarre wants buried, and the country she fought for begins to turn on her. Violet knows too much, but she's determined to do what she does best: Survive. Her only hope is the son of the man who they say killed her brother, but their partnership is far from assured. Some grudges run deep, and trust is a currency too valuable to give freely. Xaden realizes Violet may be the key to everything, but with enemies seen and unseen closing in on all sides, the consequences of failure are deadly.

===

“That’s Xaden Riorson,” she points out, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you heard about what happened to Brennan. It was big news at the time.”

“No shit,” Ridoc replies, still wide-eyed. “That doesn’t explain how you know him.”

I hold my breath. She’s either going to give him – and by extension, the rest of her squad which I’ll be overseeing – reason to drive a dagger through my back if I let my guard down, or she won’t. It wasn’t like I could hide my name anyways – her squad probably would have figured it out eventually. It’s probably for the best that she’s heading with the his dad killed my brother thing. That’s what the world knows.

“I met him when I was hunting Devera,” she states lightly. “He’s a pain in my ass. I’m still deciding if I’m going to stab him when we stop driving.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement. To a normal person, it would be downright threatening, but clearly something about that introduction puts Ridoc at ease, because he relaxes a moment later.

He turns in his seat again, nailing me with a surprisingly serious look.

“I’ve got my eye on you. I’ll end you if you hurt Violet,” he warns, then his expression breaks when he grins, a shiteating smile that would give Garrick a run for his money. “Luckily for you, Violet threatens to stab everyone she likes. If she really had a problem with you, you’d be dead already. Welcome to the team!”

I’m pretty sure there’s something seriously fucked up about that statement, but I leave it alone, don’t bother to examine it closely. This entire situation is fucked up. No point in trying to make sense of it.

[crowtrinkets]

Barista’s Adventures in Wonderland

Chapter 2: An Elf, a Manor, and a Catman

The Barista is still trying to find a way out of this strange dream, but they meet even stranger people on the way

Word Count: 3,789

Pt 1

Whooooo chapter 2, I stopped at like 2000 and was like yknow what lets keep going ;u;. Enjoy, gender neutral Barista as always

The dirt crunches under my feet as I follow down the path. Thank god I bought nice shoes for work otherwise I would be covered in blisters by now. As I continue down I spot something in the brush of trees. I get closer and realize it’s a door inlaid into a rock wall. The bushes surrounding it unfortunately are all white giving it an ominous look.

"Go through the creepy door? Or continue in this creepy forest in a strange place?" I ask out loud. Weighing my options I grab the key Felix handed me earlier and put it in the lock. Wincing for a second in fear that this door too will scream at me. But nothing happens and the key turns to unlock the door for me. I walk in and close the door behind me and stop to observe the room I've entered. A yellow couch and a desk sit in the center. There's a large bookcase that extends across the walls and reaches the ceilings, but despite its massive size, there are still piles of books stacked everywhere. Some reaching half my height. In the corner, I spot a kitchenette.

"Man this guy likes to read," I mumble to myself. "What was he asking for again his relic? And Glass-" I stop mid-sentence. Patting the pockets of my apron I pull out the book and glasses I picked up earlier and held them in front of me.

"Right I had them all this time… This is awkward," I mutter and place the items on the desk. "Maybe I can wait here and when he comes looking for me I can ask for a way out of wherever here is," I speculate. My stomach rumbles and I place my hand on it in an attempt to console complaints. My eyes travel to the kitchenette I saw earlier.

"I mean maybe a snack couldn't hurt, he did ask me for a favor," Approaching the cabinets I open them only to find, a small wine bottle that says drink me.

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," I grab the bottle to inspect it, opening the lid I take a whiff, sure enough, coffee. Just like the bottle from before. Running a hand over my face I let out a frustrated groan.

"This is the weirdest dream I've ever had!" I look back at the small bottle still open and still in my hand.

"That’s right… a dream," I ponder for a second and then. "Fuck it," I upturn the bottle and empty its contents into my mouth swallowing it like a cheap tequila shot. The flavor of lattes and espresso fills my taste buds and then it's gone. I put the bottle down and inspect my hands, trying to determine if I have grown or shrunk this time. Nothing.

"Well, I guess that wasn’t so-" I stop when my head smacks something hard above me. Letting out a slew of curses I crouch and cradle my poor crown.

"Ow ok, I guess I grew," Still crouching I look around the room, in my rapid growth it seems I had knocked over a few of the many stacks of books. I adjust so I'm sitting on my bottom and try to gauge my situation.

"Ok well I definitely cannot fit through the door," I say as I see my shoe is now much larger than said door. As I shuffle uncomfortably I hear voices approach.

"Well I don't know where he went I asked him to fetch my things but he has yet to return," a familiar voice grows closer, muffled behind the door.

"But the Duke-" an unfamiliar voice.

"Yes! I am aware the Duke is still expecting me but I cannot leave without my glasses or my relic, I will only be a moment," I let out a small gasp when I realize it's Felix. The door suddenly is pushed open but is stopped by the heel of my shoe.

"Oof! What in the heavens," Felix sounds annoyed and confused. I move my foot so he can open the door properly. He pushes the door open and lets out a gasp when he sees me.

"Hi Felix as you can see I'm kind of in a sticky situation," I attempt a joke.

"The giant!" he yells. Felix lifts a fist and green fire emits from his palm when he opens his hand.

"Oh! No thanks," I say and I quickly kick the door closed careful not to break it. I hear shouting and banging on the other side of the door as I use my foot to keep it closed, trying to find some way out. I grab the couch, which might as well be the size of a Barbie's in comparison to my large size, and place it in front of the door.

"I am ordering you to apprehend this giant!"

"Sorry sir you're not Miss Anka you can't order me to do anything," an exhaustive groan escapes Felix.

"Must I do everything myself?" he grumbles. I crawl over to the desk and start to search the drawers hoping I can find anything to shrink me or even to defend myself. I am not in the mood to be burned by green fire. I finally open the bottom drawer and I find a familiar item. A desert case with flan inside labeled "eat me". Without making any second guesses I upturn the case and drop the flan into my hand, throwing it into my mouth and praying I shrink to a decent size. Squinting my eyes closed I wait and wait, the desert case seeming to grow larger in my hand. When I open my eyes it's bigger than before, not comically so but much too large to appear normal. I stand and realize I'm about as high as the desk.

"Ok toddler size is better but still not great," I sigh. The sound of the door cracking startles me and I run to hide behind the desk. I hear the sound of the couch creaking against the wood floor as it is suddenly pushed a few feet back. I hold my breath and peek around the desk. In walks Felix and a man dressed as what I am assuming a knight.

"Where is it?" Felix mutters under his breath. He lets out a yelp when he notices a pile of books, all open and laying on top of each other. When Felix's back is turned as he attempts to right his collection I make a run for the door.

-

I run and run until my legs ache, not even bothering to keep track of where I am going, I stop to catch my breath, doubling over in a heaving mess. After catching my breath I decide to look at my surroundings, I am caught off guard when I realize I am not surrounded by trees but in fact large mushrooms. I look up and inspect the telltale gills many mushrooms have on their underside, backing up I try to take in the scope of just how large this mushroom is.

"Oh my god," I whisper. I suddenly hear the shuffle of fabric on top of the mushroom and a person peers over the edge. The first thing I notice about this person is that they have pointed ears. I try not to stare but I'm so amazed that I forget to speak.

"Well, who might you be hm?" They lean into their palm looking at me with a sort of annoyance crossed with curiosity.

"Oh um, I-I am uh," I'm still a little shocked and the person seems to take note. They let out a sigh.

"Never seen an elf before have you?" They ask. I decide to refrain from speaking and give a slow nod, flushing with embarrassment.

"I would be surprised if you did, you don't seem to be from around here, in all honesty, you look lost and a little naïve," Suddenly they disappear and toss a rope ladder over the side. "Come, join me," They say. I observe the ladder with a sort of hesitance, giving it a slight tug to be sure it won't fall whilst I climb. Deeming the ladder worthy of my ascension I climb up and onto the mushroom cap. Once I am at the top the person I met is sitting, long draping clothes cover their body. Multiple glass jars of different sizes and shapes surround them. In close proximity, I realize just how tall they are, although I am now the size of a child they still appear to be at least 6 feet in height. Once I settle down next to them, they tilt a glass container in my direction.

"Uhm what is that?" I ask.

"Lotion," they say. I mumble thanks and take some in my hand. It smells of lavender.

"Thank you uh-" I hesitate.

"Saaros," they respond. "So what are you doing here? You appear to be a traveler although that get up is not very travel friendly," I look down at my apron and sweater letting out a laugh.

"Oh yea uh, no I'm just lost and looking for a way out," Saaros eyes me, a smirk forming on their lips.

"Oh? And perhaps it isn't because you are looking for love?" they question. A small undignified escapes me as I feel my face warm.

"N-no, I'm lost and I just need to find a way out, I've only met a few people here and besides it's not like I'm- I'm looking for a man named Felix. He has a red waistcoat and messy looking hair, a-and I think he does magic?" I trail off thinking about Felix. I guess he wasn't bad-looking but he mistook me for someone else and then got scared of me as well. What a strange man Felix is. Saaros leans towards me, their smirk never leaving.

"No! I am not looking for love," I avoid eye contact, hoping to see something that will drag me out of this awkward situation. Saaros lets out a hum.

"Very well then, I however must get going," they stand and start to gather the bottles surrounding them and placing the items into a bag.

"But wait, I'm still lost!" I plead. Without another look at me, Saaros begins to climb down the step ladder they tossed down earlier. I lean over the edge and watch as Saaros descends.

"Could you at least tell me how to get back to my normal size? I'm not usually this small," I call out. Saaros looks up at me, an annoyed expression plastered on their face. They sigh.

"Very well," With one arm holding themselves on the ladder they point with the other. "The right side will allow you to shrink, while the left will allow you to grow, simple enough?" They ask. I give a small nod. They then point their hand in the opposite direction from where I came.

"If you go that direction you may find Blackthorn Hall, there you may find your dear Felix," I flush at their use of "dear" but elected to ignore it.

"Thank you," a small smile forms on my lips. Saaros gives me a nod and continues down the ladder, eventually reaching the floor, and disappearing into the forest. Turning back around I look at the mushroom I am sitting upon.

"Right to shrink left to grow," I mumble to myself. I grab a tiny piece of the left side and take a bite. Suddenly I grow much larger, way too large. My legs now dangling over the side of the mushroom cap.

"Too much," I yelp. I take a bit of the right side, even smaller than the last and I shrink down once again, I look at my surroundings trying to gauge if I am at least my normal height. Deeming myself as being back to normal I ascend down the ladder as well, heading the direction Saaros pointed me to.

-

I follow the path Saaros gave me and once I round a bend I stumble across a creepy-looking manor. It's not that it is unkempt or dirty, it's actually rather beautiful, but something about the particular building is giving off an unsettling aura. I let out a slow long sigh and approach its doors. Once I approach the front I find I am not alone. I see a very very large woman standing in front of the door. The door opens slightly, barely giving me a view of who is on the other side. The woman and whoever is on the other side of the door exchange a few words. I can make out the woman's name is Orion, and that the letter she hands him is an invitation meant for the Duke by the Queen, to attend a dinner. The man thanks Orion and then closes the door. Her posture remains stiff and upright, almost military-like, and as she turns around she spots me.

"Oh uh, hello, is the Duke in there?" I ask. Orion's expression remains inscrutable as she looks down at me from atop the steps. She gives me a slow nod and then sits on the stairs.

"Are you waiting for him?" I question, slowly ascending towards the door.

"I am but a messenger, and the next time a letter is sent I will send it again, it's all I do," She responds.

"Oh um, ok," I respond. Ok, that was strange and kind of cryptic. "Well I'm just gonna-" I point towards the door, but Orion's eyes still look forward into the distance. I let out a small nod and walk up to the door, and then I lightly rap on it.

"He won't answer," Orion suddenly speaks up, never bothering to look at me. Just before I can respond I hear the sound of broken glass and yelling. I open the door and a glass bowl suddenly flies out and narrowly misses Orion's head, who doesn’t react.

"What the hell," I mutter. I run inside to see what the commotion is, not even bothering to second guess myself. The door closes behind me and I am suddenly shrouded in darkness.

"Hello?" I call out, my nerves slowly start to build as I attempt to see through the darkness. Walking forward I hit a wall. Running my hands on it I hear a sound to my right. I look over and once my eyes adjust to the darkness I realize I see the outline of light poking out from under a door. Feeling along the walls, I approach the door until my hand finds a doorknob. I turn it slowly, allowing the door to open, squinting my eyes as the light that comes through blinds me.

When I finally open my eyes I can see the room in front of me. A green dining room with a long table with only two people sitting in it. On the left side is a hearth, a woman with long pale blonde hair slaves over a pot mixing its contents. The two at the table however catch my eye the most. They sit across from each other on the short end of the table, whispering and glaring at the other across from them. The man on the right has long dark hair that is greying, his heavy black and green robes compliment the room perfectly, almost as though this may be his house. The woman on the left has dark leather pants and a white shirt with mesh sleeves showing off her plethora of tattoos. I can't help but think they look familiar. The food in front of them consists of soup and wine, a strange dinner choice. My attention moves back to the woman at the cooking pot. No one has seemed to have noticed me yet. Are those… cat ears? On her head? My face twists with confusion. But something moving in the corner catches my eye. A man with a long purple coat and dark pants perches on a windowsill, high up. I realize he is not wearing a shirt and he too has cat ears. His ears are white to match his long braided hair, and the thing that caught my attention was his equally as whitetail. He catches sight of me and gives me a toothy smile, then winking.

"Why does that man have cat ears and a tail," I catch myself thinking out loud.

"He's an Ilpheta of course," I quickly turn my head and realize the man at the table has taken notice of me. An almost sinister smirk creeps onto his lips.

"Well, I didn't know cat boys existed," I attempt a joke, feeling awkward that I've been caught in this man's home.

"You don't seem to know very much do you?" The man says it's more of a statement than a question. Feeling insulted I clench my fists. He's technically correct, I really don't know anything about this place but I don’t need him telling me that.

"Now now Escell, no need to insult our guest," the woman says, peeking a glance at me.

"I hardly remember inviting them Scylla," He responds. Suddenly the sound of broken glass catches me off guard. The cook, who I have confirmed now definitely has a tail and ears, is throwing plate wear at the catman on the windowsill. However, he doesn’t respond when they make contact with him. He just continues to pick at something in his teeth while the woman furiously chucks items at him.

"Be careful you're going to hurt someone!" I shout. The sound of the chair creaking across wood startles me and I see the woman Scylla begins to approach me.

'Well you out to be careful lost one," she says, a flirty trill dances across her lips. Scylla stops at the end of the table and picks up a glass of wine, then holding it out to me. Her smile never leaves her lips. I begin to reach for the glass but I stop midway when the cat man speaks up.

"It's poisoned yknow," he says without looking at me.

"What?" Scylla then grabs my wrist and pulls me towards her.

"Just a sip dear, it couldn't hurt," She begins tilting the glass towards my mouth as I struggle to getaway.

"No!" I shout, suddenly a bright flash of light emits from my hand, knocking me backward and onto the floor. I slowly sit up groaning, I open my eyes and I see that Scylla is nowhere to be found, just a bottle of wine, upon further inspection I realize no one else is here. Escell, the catman, and the woman at the hearth are all gone. I slowly rise and pick up the wine bottle. Inspecting its label my breath hitches when all it reads is "Scylla".

"Oh um…" I mutter, I then place the wine bottle on the table and run back out of the manor.

Once my eyes adjust from the darkened halls to the bright sun outside I close the door behind me letting out a sigh. I notice Orion is no longer sitting in her spot atop the steps. I do however see the catman that was inside earlier. He flashes me another smile which takes me aback slightly.

"Um hello," I give a small wave. The catman approaches me, leaning against the wall.

"Well hello to you," I can't help but glance down at his form, his abdomen poking out from his long purple coat. My eyes snap back up to his and I don't miss the smirk he gives me.

"I'm uh, looking for a way out of here, if you know," don’t stare at his abs don’t stare at his abs don’t-

"Well, I could tell you but, not for free," I wince a little.

"I don’t have a lot of money, and I don't even know your name," I explain.

"It's Sage and besides, I'm cheap," he finishes that off with a wink, causing me to flush.

"L-look I just need to be pointed in the right direction, isn't someone free to go wherever they like?" I ask, hoping he takes the bait. Sage ponders for a moment, looking to the side as his tail lashes about behind him.

"Alright," he lifts a gloved finger and points behind me. "If you go down that way you'll find the Holy Knight, she'll be able to help you out, you'll also be able to find the not-so-holy Engineer, both are beautiful in my opinion though, I won't judge you for having a hard time picking between the two," Sage's smile never falters as he speaks.

"I am not looking for love, just a way out," I speak.

"Well, you must be if you've come here,"

"I am not!" My voice pitches a little and my cheeks grow warm. Sage ponders for a second, tapping a finger on his chin.

"You agree a monster is a monster yes?"

"I suppose so," I say, confused by where he is going with this.

"Then you best avoid them, they'll only drag you down, if you can avoid love you can avoid the monsters" Sage takes a slight step back, clasping his hands together in front of him. I look at him with confusion.

"I don't think you're a monster," I say. I may have just met this strange catman, but something about him tells me I can trust him, in some way.

"You should," he says, almost inaudible for me to hear. "U-uh anyways, are you going to the dinner?" Sage asks, dodging the subject he started. I decide to drop it for now.

"Dinner?" I ask. Sage nods, I then recall the conversation Orion had earlier, the Queen is hosting a dinner. "I guess I am a little hungry,"

"You seem like the type to get around," Sage begins to walk down the steps of the manor and I rush to catch up with him.

"W-wait there's something I don't understand," I say. Sage slows down to my pace but continues to walk towards the forest I came from. "What happened to that girl that approached me? Scylla?"

"She's a spirit now," Sage says, still looking forwards.

"What? What do you mean by that?" I turn around to look at the house once more, my head filling with even more confusion.

"Sage-" I turn around to speak with him but he's gone. I turn around looking for any signs of the cat man dressed in purple, but I see nothing. Letting out a groan I turn towards the direction he pointed me to.

"I guess it's time to pay this Holy Knight a visit," I say to myself.

[stardustdates]

The lonely angel and the beast - Douma x reader

Scarstardust’s comment 1: aah I am so obsessed with Douma currently TwT I wish I had been here for him :( this is more of a fic than anything so I used she/her instead of you! Tho it’s very sad- please proceed with caution. Douma isn’t the villain in this btw!

Stardust’s comment 2: Honestly I even think this is the most fucked up pieces I’ve ever written. 

Stardust’s comment 3: Just finished writing. I feel terrible, but I’m proud  of my writing, I promise I’ll offer you all Douma fluff after that-

TW: dark topics, c//lt, s//lf h//rm, violence, mentions and detail of human s//crifice, ab//se of minor and adult. Reader discretion is advised. This is purely fiction and should not be romanticized or seen in a positive light.

Let the date the sacrifice begin.

A lonely angel. That’s what the leader of the Scarlet church was defined as. While the world saw her as a symbol of purity she could only notice her own tainted soul. 

The members of the church often wondered why so much of her time was spent in the bathroom. Perhaps she really cared for her appearance or just craved the tranquility that she barely ever had. None of it. She was purely trying to scrub away her follower’s sins from her body. scrubbing her skin over and over again as she reopened the scars on her arm.

 She was a symbol of purity thus humans wanted to cleanse themselves through her blood and that’s how her mentor started the habit of the ceremony drinks. Each follower would be graced with a cup of wine mixed to a few drops of the young girl’s blood.

Yet once again she was called to hear more of the sins committed by followers. Expected to reply to all of them with kindness. She was escorted to her confessional room where she found herself hidden away by thick curtains, a way to give the confessing sinner a sense of anonymity.

As she heard shuffling in the room she was waiting for another adult to alter her innocent child mind with a gruesome story for she was the messiah and god would speak to her. But she was met with the soft, monotone voice of a child.

“-Is anyone here? No emotion was carried in the kid’s tone.

-I am, dear lamb. She muttered, hearing a soft sigh on the other side of the crimson curtain.

-Hello. -The voice started again- I come to you today to confide in you sins I could not forget, for you see my parents have died, I lead followers equal to yours, yet I feel but void. I am much scared of becoming a beast.”

The slow breath of the boy could be heard through the curtain. Oh Lord knew (Y/N) wanted a peak through the curtain. The voice seemed about her age, if not just a bit older. A few minutes seemed to pass before the girl crawled to the curtain, extending her hand through them, abstaining from looking, knowing she would be harshly punished if she did.

“-Child -she started calmly- please let me hold your hand. -A break was given as the boy did as told.- I pray for your family, may they join the scarlet heavens. You will not turn into a beast for you shall miss them.

-Oh but. I simply could not bring myself to regret them. He stated bluntly.

-Then I will pray for mercy to be given on your soul, My ch-

-Douma. I’m Douma. She was cut by the boy, before finishing”

her hands moved on the other side of the curtain, reaching for the child’s face, feeling him flinch at the cold skin.

“-Then please, Douma. Come to me tomorrow. I will wait.” On these words her hands went back in her velvet cage.

And come back Douma did. days after days, months after months, year after years. Every day he’d reserve an hour to the other leader. Never to see each other’s face yet knowing the last of each other’s secret. Until he was invited to an event.

“Come to the velvet moon, Douma. It’s the day I will access the ultimate heavens.”

These were the words spoken to him. The last words he heard without a face on them.

For during a week he could not see the leader. Oh how he lounged for her presence. As time went by he had came to notice how she made his empty heart fill with butterflies he never expected to be alive. A glimmer of possessiveness. He wanted her to himself

But they were both now 18 for the girl and 20 for the boy. Four years had past since their meeting. Yet Douma had lost his humanity on the way. A sin he did not reveal to the woman he saw as an angel, too scare to scare her away. He didn’t know why this woman made him feel or how she did. He only knew tonight was her ascending, yet he doubted nothing unknowing of the nature of this ascension.

What horror he felt, what pure despair he met as he arrived. Finally seeing his angel’s face as she was tied by her arms to two pillars, suspended in the air by ropes, a white kimono around her weakened form. Shaking in anger as a knife was wielded by the man considered her mentor, by the awful smell of the glasses everyone were holding, this smell of blood and alcohol mixing. It was truly infuriating. He could not take it. 

He looked at her once more noticing how she was nervously looking around, mumbling prayers and hopes of being saved. That until her so called mentor spoke up.

“feedeth yourselves mine own children f'r tonight thy presence shall summon our l'rd, drinketh the blood of the angel hath sent from above. Connecteth with the heavens of h'r purity.  F'r tonight is h'r lasteth in this painful vessel the lady inhabits.“ the old man spoke an old dialect Douma could not fully understand but from key words. It filled him with more rage, as the man delt a violent stab to the newly adult lady. Striking her thigh as the blood pooled in a bucket placed under her. The rage to kill a thousand men. He felt enough rage to feel invincible. In his own mind he could have killed Lord Kibutsuji himself may he have been the one threatening the angel. His angel. Which received a stab to her other leg. The older man using the dagger to rip through her skin and muscles as a sharp scream got out of her.

But alas he could only watch as her body relax through the pain, giving up the moment she noticed the lost boy for he was the only one she didn’t know in the ceremony room. She knew from that moment that it was Douma. Her face turned peaceful at his sight. 

She could very well see him walking toward the elevated space of the room. Watching as the considered mentor yelled at him to back away from the leader. Douma did none of that. It all went so quick. Quicker than the humans could see. All that they could register was the birch color haired man holding the old man’s head, his body a few feet away. He quickly dropped it hurrying to the barely conscious girl as he heard her followers all running away, screaming from the scene they had witnessed.

 He was as fast as he could to untie her, trying to mush her thighs back together. The blood was too much. He wanted to eat her, his instincts screaming at him. The girl weakly laced her arms around him, muttering her thanks. He knew she’d pass out soon. He knew it would be over. They wouldn’t get a happy ending. There was no way lord Kibutsuji could appear and turn her into a demon, for alas Douma as himself was still too weak, hadn’t consumed enough to gain the power to change her himself. Seeing her struggle at staying awake he was like hit by lightning. Sudden realization of their memories flashing to him. For the first time in years he felt something. Immense regret filled him as he hugged (Y/N) tight, crying as he screamed and exclaimed his love for the angel.

“Angel. You can’t leave me. You’re mine. You made my cold heart work again, angel I love you. Don’t leave me. Angel. My angel. I love you. I love you. Please. I loved you. It’s true.”

He felt her hands on his face, like the very first time they had met. 

“Douma, oh Douma... Come to me again tomorrow, I’ll wait.”

But her hands dropped away. For his angel had shed all of her feathers.

And as he sunk his fangs in her soft throat, taken over by his instincts, Douma promised himself never to love again.

[afewmarvelousthoughts]

The Devil’s Daughter Ch. 1

Master List: @afewmarvelousthoughtsadmin​

Pairing: The Winter Soldier X Reader (Bucky X Reader)

Summary: Born and bred to be a monster worthy to lead Hydra into a new age you must decide if you will become the beast they always intended or perhaps something greater... Someone worthy even, of love. 

Warnings: Literally all of them. 18+ only and please read with caution if you’re triggered by violence of any nature.

A/N: Well. Here we go. 

I won’t lie. Writing this was cathartic and I hope that it may be the same reading it. Some serious ANTIFA fuck this up vibes. 

Love y’all. 

TAGS ARE OPEN

You weren’t sure how long you’d stared at your hands. 

They seemed strange things, somehow beyond your comprehension. Attempts to flex the fingers on them had resulted in only an unsettling twitch, you knew that wasn’t the right response, and they were somehow both burning and cold in equal measure. 

In fact, your whole body felt like a contradiction. Something known, yet foreign. Too much feeling, too little. Too hot, too cold. Too still, yet constantly something was moving. 

Had you always been able to feel the flow of blood through your veins? Did each hair follicle always hum as the air moved around you? Who… who were you?

All the memories of the past 20 years hit you with the force of a train. 

Frantically you begin to pace in the small white room, your heartbeat increasing with each lap, your breathing turning into a rapid pant. Your mind steadily piecing things together, for better or worse, pulling who you were back into sharp focus. With that clarity comes something else.

Taking a deep breath your pacing stops. 

There wasn’t a word for what you felt. This emotion went farther than rage, conviction, or vengeance. You think you’ve felt it before, in fleeting moments, but now it’s amplified - along with everything else it seemed - now-

A creaking under your hands draws your attention, pulling you away from that line of thought. With confusion, you gape at the metal bed frame beneath your hands. You’d taken hold of it when you’d stopped pacing and now the metal was crumpled and twisted. 

It worked, you realize. It actually, bloody, worked. A small chuckle trips over your lips - you’d genuinely thought you’d end up like Pierce’s daughter, dead. 

A few weeks ago was the first time you’d seen Eric in almost a year. 

He’d been different in a way you couldn’t name since that night with The Soldier. You knew it wasn’t that he actually remembered what happened - if he had you’d no doubt he’d have come close to killing you - but perhaps an impression of something stuck. Regardless, when the time came for you to go to uni a few months later he’d set you up with your own flat and sent you on your way, saying that you needed ‘time to explore yourself.’ 

It was the one kindness he’d ever done you. 

In the last three years, you’d crafted a new version of yourself. 

She was normal, relatively speaking. Studied business, partied in SoHo with friends, had a string of short - albeit far from vanilla - affairs with several people, fairly typical stuff. 

The only time you saw Eric was for required formal events, someone ascending the ranks within Hydra or the random social event. It totaled to perhaps six or seven in three years. Which was why you were shocked, and a bit unsettled, to see him at your graduation.

You’d been worried his presence would keep you from enjoying the moment with your friends, that he’d pull you into some droll dinner to pretend he was a caring and proud father. Instead, he’d simply given you a cold congratulations and instructed you to meet him at his office the following Monday. 

It still put a damper on your entire celebration - all you could think about was what the hell he wanted from you. Not even the distraction of a beautiful woman clad in leather had managed to remove your worry. 

There had been a million things you’d thought this meeting would be about. You’d run countless scenarios in your head. None came close to what your father shared with you from across his polished desk. 

“We feel it’s time for you to join The Council.” He said as though he was commenting on the weather.

“I-I’m honored.” you stammer a bit grimacing internally. He raises a doubting brow at you before striding over to the stocked bar cart to begin pouring a drink. 

“You’ll be taking the third seat.” You almost choke on your tea. “Is that a problem?” He asks over his shoulder. 

“Not at all,” you say, willing your voice steady. “What position will Jennifer Pierce be taking in that case?” Alexander Pierce headed the US arm of Hydra and to your knowledge, the third seat had been intended for his daughter. 

“Jennifer Pierce is dead.” 

“Ah.”

“Of course-” he says, turning back to you and taking a sip of scotch before continuing- “there can be no ascension of this kind without a trial to test your worth.” You knew as much, Hydra always demanded a pound of flesh - at minimum.

“She failed hers.” Jennifer was many years your senior, had done years of fieldwork and been a trusted confidant of her own father if, she failed whatever trial this seat demanded… “You will not.” 

“Can you hear us?” A male voice asks over hidden speakers bringing you back to the present. 

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us your full name?”

“Catherine Eileen Clayton.”

“What is your date of birth, Catherine?” Ah, cognitive tests. 

“The third of January 1983,” you sigh. “I’m twenty years old, a double Capricorn, and very in control of my faculties. Can we move on?”

A buzz sounds by the door. The noise grates against your newly sensitive eardrums, causing you to grimace. When it opens Eric stands in the corridor, a proud, if not smug, smile on his face. 

“I knew you were born for this,” he extends a hand. You eye it before looking up to meet his gaze. Rather than take it you remain unmoving, waiting for him to tell you what came next. For a fleeting second his eyes narrow before sweeping his arm to beckon you from the room.

“There is one final step before you’ll be ready to ascend to your seat on The Council,” he begins to stride down the hall, expecting you to follow. 

“And that is?” He stops dead in his tracks. Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the set of his shoulders, instinctively you brace for a blow. Instead, he turns slowly to you, his expression unreadable as he observes how you haven’t moved. 

“You can rot in that room or follow me obediently to find out.” A too familiar chill crawls up your spine and settles in your chest. Without another word, you follow him. 

As you make your way through the labyrinthine corridors of Hydra’s London base you remember being dropped down here at 10, and having to find your way out - none of the adults you encountered would even acknowledge you existed. You remember training in one of these many blank rooms - both physical and mental - though, torture may be a better word. 

The chasm that opens in your mind almost feels like home, one you haven’t been to in a little while. Quickly you turn your thoughts to how your blood seems to hum through your veins, how loud your steps are, the low tension in your muscles - anything to pull you away from that beckoning void. 

Eric stops in front of a nondescript door, pressing his thumb into the handle. An unseen mechanism whirs to life followed by a distinct click. Before he opens the door he turns his eyes on you, studying. 

“You’ve done well thus far,” he turns the handle, looking forward. “Don’t disappoint me now, Catherine.” You don’t miss the order in his tone. A voice whispers, Yes Papa, but you refuse to let your tongue form those words. 

With bated breath, you follow him. It’s much like a room you remember from long ago, a cell where he showed you exactly the kinds of monsters that Hydra could craft. Behind you the door closes, the locks sliding back into place. 

A cell lies on the other side of the room. Through the bars, you see a woman, nude, her back to you. Deep red hair tumbling in thick waves, her ragged breath scraping over your ears. 

No, you beg silently, not her. Please not her.

Once you and Eric enter the cell, the woman turns red-rimmed eyes to you both. Relief thunders through you as you release the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. This wasn’t Natalia, they hadn’t brought her here as a sacrifice to whatever future lay before you. Though, now the question rattled in your brain, impossible to ignore. 

“What is this?” You ask, lazily gesturing toward the woman. 

“What do you think?” 

“Can we stop with the riddles? Just fuc-” 

You were clearly out of practice. When his backhand cracks across your cheek it leaves you reeling, ears ringing, though you don’t fall. Once you blink your vision clear you look back to him, attempting to keep your face straight. 

“I believe I asked you a question,” he sighs out. 

You answer, “I assume she’s failed in some way, showed some unforgivable weakness.” You try to stop the words but they come anyway, “But you cannot expect me to kill her?”

“Oh? And why is that?” It’s your turn to sigh. 

“Honestly, that is hardly a test. If it gets things moving forward I suppose I will,” the woman shifts her back against the wall at this. “I just don’t know what that will prove.” He smiles, slowly. Clearly you got something right. 

“Perceptive. Killing her would be nothing for you, even before,” you swear the sick bastard looks proud. That void threatens once more, something whispering from the darkness. You push it away. 

“However, you’re wrong about her crime. She’s not here for being weak or unworthy, rather, she has refused to fall in line. We have no need for an unbroken horse.” He pauses, striding to the other side of the cell.

With his back turned, you look into her eyes. They burn with a fire you recognize - for an instant, you’re 11 again, you can feel the weight of that gun in your hands, hear your Mother’s voice- 

“But you won’t be putting her down.” The sound of another lock clicking draws your focus to where Eric stands, hands behind his back. 

A panel slides open with a swish. Eric steps aside just enough and you see him, The Soldier. 

He’d been gone when you’d woken in the late afternoon years ago, like some macabre guardian angel. Habitually, your fingers stroke the scar on your palm, remembering how gentle he’d been as he sutured the cut. 

The woman begins to sob. A broken, “No,” slipping out here and there.

Eric turns back to you, a wicked smile coloring his features. “The Fist of Hydra,” he walks back to stand beside you, The Soldier doesn’t move. 

“You remember him don’t you?” Your heart begins to beat a tattoo of alarm against your ribs. “I showed him to you when you were a child.” 

“Yes,” you will your heart to quiet, feeling like it’s loud enough for the whole room to hear. 

“It’s one thing to take a life and quite another to put the blood on the hands of someone else.” He looks down at you, “You’ll prove you can handle that, and The Soldier, by utilizing him to remove this stain from our ranks.” 

He looks over his shoulder at the woman, “Be creative. He hasn’t been let loose in some time.” With that, he strolls casually to the far corner of the cell, leaning back against the wall as though he was about to watch some kids play football.

The Soldier steps forward and the panel behind him slides shut, disappearing as though it never was. You study him, searching those pale eyes for some spark of recognition. Whatever had been there before was long gone, all that stood before you was a weapon, a tool waiting to be put to use. It chilled you. 

Behind you, the woman still weeps. It makes something bitter rise in you - pathetic, she was nothing like your mother. Even so, words you hadn’t allowed yourself to remember for so long rise in your mind.

“Always remember that you are more than this.”

“No.” One crisp, clear, syllable. It may as well have been a bomb. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’ll be better than all of them as long as you remember.” Your mother’s voice echoes in your mind.

Languidly you slide your eyes to Eric, “I said, no.” 

Everything goes quiet as his anger builds, a fire slowly eating all the oxygen in the space. What was coming would likely consume you leaving nothing but a husk behind, you don’t care. It feels good. 

Despite the waves of rage rolling off of him, his face remains impassive as he approaches you. A couple of feet away he stops, head tilting to the side as though he was seeing something puzzling.  

“She’s done nothing worth a death sentence.” You state matter of factly. 

“You’re questioning me?”

“No,” god that word felt so good, intoxicating. Maybe you were mad from the power it seemed to give you. It was the best explanation for your next words. “I’m telling you you’re wrong.” 

You read once that wolves show their teeth before they attack. Devils, you know, do the same. 

Eric’s smile is broad as he slips his suit jacket off his shoulders. Your eyes track him as he hangs it over the horizontal bar of the cell. Unhurriedly he unbuttons his cuffs, methodically rolling the sleeves up to the elbow. When he speaks again, he’s unbuttoning a single button to allow him room to tuck away his tie.

“Then how would you address the situation, Catherine?”

“I wouldn’t.” He steps toward you, on instinct you move back, not wanting to allow him a close range to strike.

“You’d allow disrespect to stand? Allow this stain to spread?” Another step forward, another retreat from you. 

“No.” 

“Then what? You’d do nothing to handle this weak-”

“You said yourself she isn’t weak. In fact, it seems to me, the problem is your own weakness if you can’t handle one-” 

Stupid. That’s the only word echoing through your skull as it slams into the wall behind you with enough force to knock a lesser person unconscious. 

Right now you’re not thinking about the bent metal of the bed frame in your recovery room. You’re not thinking of your sensitive ears or the weeks of preparation, or that you lived through the procedure when others have died. 

No. 

Right now you’re a little girl again, realizing your father is the Devil for the first time. Right now you’re the same powerless thing you’ve always been in his presence, the fear of a lifetime suffocating you. 

“Would you like to finish that statement?” Eric growls. You shake your head, too afraid to speak. “I thought not.” His fingers dig into your neck. 

“You’ve grown far too bold. Forgotten where you belong.” He takes a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as though the smell of your terror was intoxicating. “Perhaps you need a reminder.” 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” god you hate yourself for those words. 

“No,” he reclaims the power you’d felt so briefly. His knee pries your thighs apart, “You will be.” 

When his head dips down, the grotesque feel of his tongue against the skin of your neck almost makes you wretch. Before you close your eyes in an attempt to block out everything happening and all you know is to come, you catch The Soldier’s intent stare. 

He looked as though he was straining on an invisible leash, his entire body coiled tension begging for release. 

He’s waiting on something, you think as teeth sink into your shoulder. The pain brings clarity. He’s waiting on me. 

All it takes is one nod to break the invisible tethers binding him. With terrifying speed, The Soldier strikes, pulling Eric from you, pinning his arms and legs, rendering him immobile. To his credit he didn’t struggle, knowing he couldn’t break such a hold. 

“Release me, Soldat!” Eric barks in harsh Russian. The Soldier doesn’t even flinch, his eyes remain locked on you, awaiting an order. “Soldat!”

The fear which had paralyzed you seeps away as your senses begin to return and you stare at Eric. He looks angry but still calm, never willing to let his facade fall for long. Under the surface though, you can hear the racing of his heart, it seems to pick up at the same pace your own slows. The vein in his throat pulses, his breath is barely controlled, and you note the small beads of sweat beginning to form on his skin. 

Weak, something hisses from that void. This time you don’t silence it - you agree, you welcome it, this darkness he so proudly fostered within you. Now you allow the void to rise. He made you this. Killer. Demon. Weapon. The void whispers. And it is not wrong. You were all these things and now-

You kneel before Eric, gripping his chin in your hand. 

“I don’t think he listens to you anymore, Papa,” you say, the final word laced with mockery. You pat his cheek as you stand and pace away, purposely showing your back to him to be sure he knew you were no longer afraid. That you’d never be afraid of him again. 

“I do think you had a point earlier though. About putting blood on someone else’s hands being different.” You turn back to him, wanting to look into his eyes as you say, “It would be a shame to waste such a prime opportunity to learn. Don’t you think?” His eyes widen in understanding that now, the void he created would consume him.

“Soldier,” you look to him, those cold blue eyes unwavering. “Break him, but do not let him die.” 

You had worried for a moment that you needed to be more specific in your commands. After all, you wanted your father to suffer at least a taste of the horrors he’d done to others throughout his life. It only took a few moments for you to see that you worried in vain. Be it training or retribution, The Soldier methodically broke Eric down in ways that would cause the most pain without the release of death. 

For what may have been hours you remain entranced by the scene before you. Every cry of pain was a symphony. The blood on the cold concrete a masterpiece. 

This was for your mother. For every person, he’d hurt. For the child, he’d broken and forged into something irredeemable. 

This was justice. Or at the very least, the justice you understood, the justice he deserved. 

“That’s enough,” you sigh contently. Without hesitation The Soldier stops, stepping away from Eric. 

Your father’s face is almost unrecognizable. Blood, tears, snot, and vomit all paint his features into something different, something grotesque. The outside finally reflecting the sickening soul beneath. Slowly you take in the rest of his broken body, stopping at the wet stain on his trousers. 

“Piss? Really, Eric, you’re embarrassing yourself.” You press your boot to his throat as he’d done to you when you were a child. 

“You once told me, that dangerous miscalculations only served to land one under the boot of those worthy of bravery. Do you remember?” He makes no move of acknowledgment, only stares up at you with one defiant eye - the other swollen shut. 

“Oh you must,” you press harder and he gurgles. “It was just before you made me put a bullet in my mother’s head.”

“Tell me, Papa,” you spit the word. “Am I brave enough now?” 

You lift him from the floor as though he’s nothing but a rag doll and slam him into the wall where he’d pinned you earlier. Exhilaration didn’t come close to encapsulating this feeling. 

“I believe I asked you a question,” you say in an echo of his own cool tone. 

“You… little… devil,” he manages to say with a mouth missing several teeth. A laugh, bright and ringing, pours from you.

“I am the devil you made. Aren’t you proud?” 

With one hand on Eric’s throat, and the other on his chest, you begin to push your fingers between his ribs, pressure increasing bit by bit. 

The tattered fabric of his shirt and his flesh begins to give way beneath your steel fingers. A whimper rises from him that slowly forms into a cry of agony. All you can do is smile as you feel the wet heat around your hand. 

A little further and you feel the beat, the pulse of life that had animated this man for all his days. 

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper as you squeeze and feel that pulse cease. 

The silence that follows is absolute. 

Everything in you, and around you, quiet. 

Eventually, you let him drop to the floor in an undignified heap, stepping back. Only then does the void recede enough for you to feel anything more than triumph. Even then, you feel no regret, only the heavy knowledge of the price your actions would demand. 

A trembling breath escapes you as soft shifting sound draws your focus from what you’d done and back to The Soldier. He stands straight, quietly observing you. When you meet his eyes you’d swear there was satisfaction there. 

Fuck it. You’d likely die for this and even with him by your side you were not going to get out of this building unless they let you out. 

“Care for a drink?” You ask, lips quirking in a smile. He says nothing, just cocks his head a bit to the side. You shrug, “Suit yourself. I’m getting one.” Or several. 

To your surprise, the door to the cell opens. You stroll out hearing him just behind you. Good. 

“Hey!” A woman calls out. “What about me?” Honestly, you’d forgotten about her entirely. 

“What about you?” Is all you toss over your shoulder as the cell slams shut behind you. 

There was nothing you could do for her now, hell there wasn’t anything you could truly do for yourself. It would be a miracle if you made it back to Eric’s office without a bullet in your head. The Soldier may even be the one to put it there, he may be biding his time - though something in you doubted this. 

You’d spared the woman all you could, the rest would be up to her. 

The private elevator slides open, revealing Eric’s office, not a guard, soldier, or assassin in sight - well, save for the one you rode up with. You’re surprised but not relieved. They’d come, and soon. 

You raise your hands to rub your face only to be hit with the copper tang of blood - your right arm covered almost to the elbow. Suddenly you’re too hot, burning, your chest tight.

Outside the floor to ceiling window, London glitters like something in a fairytale. You rush to it, pressing your face to the cool glass, forcing your mind to focus on the city around you. Even through the thick glass, you can hear the rush of the wind, the slightest hum of traffic below. 

Breathe, Catherine, you try to coach yourself. Breathe. But you can’t. 

The blood paired with the city sounds that should have been impossible for you to hear makes you realize something you’d been foolish to miss in the first place. They would not kill you. Not now. 

Eric had once said that Hydra didn’t make a habit of wasting good parts, one look at The Soldier was a fair reminder of that. Before, you’d been valuable enough but ultimately replaceable - now you were an investment. 

“Someone is coming.” The Soldier’s voice cuts through your panic like a knife. You turn to see him by the door, arms crossed. Whether he was keeping you in or others out you couldn’t know. 

Taking a shaky breath you nod, “Thought they’d be faster about it if I’m being honest.” As the doorknob turns his hand moves for the knife in his belt. Interesting. 

“No,” you shake your head. He stands at attention instead, looking more like a blood-spattered statue than a man. You lean against the desk as the door swings open to reveal -

“Secretary Pierce?” You don’t try to hide the surprise in your voice, he wasn’t exactly who you’d expect to come for you. 

“Miss Clayton,” he smiles brightly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. It’s been too long,” he holds out a hand. 

“Ah,” you hold up your red right palm. “Haven’t had a chance to freshen up. Please, make yourself comfortable,” you gesture to the bar cart. “I’ll just be a moment.” 

Freshen up? You lean against the bathroom door judging yourself. Freshen up. As though you’d been out for a light jog rather than literally shoving your hand through your own father’s chest. Freshen up. Christ. 

You catch your reflection in the mirror and freeze. 

Blood not only covered your arm but had soaked into your shirt, staining your chest, leaving splatters up your neck and on your face. Despite the gore, you looked fresh, skin dewy and bright, your eyes sparkling. It painted an unsettling image.

Even so… you smiled. 

He was dead. That bastard you’d once called Papa. Dead. By your hand.

No matter what followed, no matter what they did to you, your Mother had her justice today. They couldn’t take that away. 

You wash your hands as best you can and wipe some of the blood off your face. Getting rid of the rest would be impossible right now and there was a part of you that didn’t want it gone. Let them see it. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you say exiting the bathroom. 

“No apologies needed. Honestly, I wanted to give you time to process before speaking with you, but the others thought it best we move quickly.”

“I see,” you turn to the bar cart to make a drink. 

“So?” You sigh as you take a seat in the wingback across from where Pierce had settled himself. He sips his drink before speaking. 

“Of course we want to give you time to transition. It will be an abrupt change to your lifestyle, especially for someone so young - but we feel confident that you’ll manage spectacularly. You’ve always-”

“Excuse me, Secretary-”

“Alex, please.”

“Alex,” it felt strange to call this man who you’d known your whole life by his first name. “I’m not sure I follow. I just committed treason and-”

“I’d view it more like taking out the trash.” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Alex looks like he wants to spit, “Your father was... dedicated, to the cause. However, there are some sins that simply can’t be overlooked.” His intense eyes meet yours. 

“We didn’t know for certain until today how far his depravity went. I don’t ask you to forgive us for that, but as a father, I would never have let that…” He shakes his head, taking a deep drink. 

“I’m sorry,” he looks to you confused. “About your daughter. About Jennifer.”

His face softens, “Thank you.” He sneers, “Your father-”

“Eric,” you correct him. 

“Eric,” he nods, seeming to understand. “He said-”

“Let me guess, ‘Blood will out.’” 

“Yes, as though it was a personal failing - her death.” You look away, disgusted. “But you are not him.” Your gaze shoots back to him. 

“Miss-”

“Catherine,” you say smiling. 

“Catherine. You are what we’ve waited so long for. A child of Hydra, fit to lead us into the new age.” Your eyes narrow. “You’ll be taking your - Eric’s seat.” 

You can’t help but be shocked. Taking what should have been Jennifer’s seat had been enough of an upset, to take Eric’s… It would mean-

“It will be an honor to have you serve with me in the first seat.” The first seat, the head of The Council that governed Hydra, was always held as a joint position. “And it will be an even greater honor when you ascend even higher.”

“Higher?” There was no higher seat. 

“In time.” Alex leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at you. “While Hydra has many heads it has always been in need of a strong body, one that will not easily bow to the weight of time or illness, one that has transcended so many of our meer human weaknesses. I believe that you were meant to be this body, Catherine.” 

“I… I’m humbled,” you almost choke on the word. It was the right response though, judging by Alex’s smile.

“I will take that as you accepting,” he says it like you have a choice. 

“Of course!” You force joy into your tone. 

“Fantastic!” He stands, raising his glass. You join him. “To a bright future. Hail Hydra!”

“Hail Hydra,” you echo as your glasses clink together. The whiskey tastes like dust on your tongue. 

“As I said, we want to give you some time to transition. However, we will need to move quickly to ensure things continue to run smoothly.”

“I completely understand. I shouldn’t need too much time.” You look around this office, a space you’d spent so much time, a space filled with so many terrible memories. “Mainly, I’ll need to… clean house.”

Alex gives a knowing nod, “Absolutely. You have full power to change and remove,” he holds your gaze for a moment, “whatever and whomever you see fit.” 

“Thank you.” Your eyes settle on the soldier. That sense of conviction from earlier floods you again, the slightest rumblings of a very dangerous idea making their way around your mind. 

“Also,” you stride to the bar cart and refill your drink, making a gesture to do the same for Alex. He accepts. “While I can no doubt protect myself, I will need some additional security to allow me to more fully focus on the needs of the organization. No doubt, there will be those who will see this ascension as overstepping on my part.”

“Unfortunately,” Alex concedes. “You can, of course, have any security detail Eric employed.” He catches your cocked brow, “Ah, yes. Well, you can have your choice of Hydra for your own detail.”

“I had a thought actually,” you take a sip before continuing. “I’d like The Soldier.” Alex looks from you to The Soldier, still standing in the same place he was when Alex had entered.

“The Soldier…” He says thoughtfully. 

“Yes. I’d prefer to not have to doubt the integrity of my security detail, especially given the unique situation I’m finding myself in. Typically someone in this position would have had years to form their inner circle - I haven’t had such a luxury.” 

“Of course,” you add, “he’d still be at the full disposal of Hydra should he be needed.”

Alex nods, “I see no problem with it. He’s housed under European jurisdiction as it is and you clearly have a steady command of him - no small feat I’ll have you know.”

“Lovely.” 

“Any other immediate needs to make this an easier transition?” Alex asks sincerely. 

“Just one,” you walk back to the chairs and sit. “The woman Eric was going to have killed. What was her crime?” Alex shifted, seeming a bit uncomfortable.

“She was a Brown Widow,” he began. 

“A what?” You’d never heard of such a thing. 

He purses his lips, “Of course, Eric wouldn’t tell you about the Brown Widows.” He sighs, “The Brown Widow program is a sister to the Black Widow program. Brown Widows are trained in much the same way, in fact, they begin in the Black Widow program before being hand-selected to be Brown Widows. They’re chosen for having a more… genteel temperament if you will. More suited to domesticity than your typical Black Widow graduate.” 

A memory tingles in the back of your mind, just out of reach. 

“Your mother was a Brown Widow.”

You wanted to marry a spider, your mother had spoken those words when she’d garroted Eric the night she died. 

“Her death was not sanctioned, Catherine. I tried to push for an investigation-”

You shake your head, “It’s in the past.” 

“She was a spectacular woman. Eric always had to have the best-”

“So the woman?” You don’t want to think about your mother anymore. Can’t bear the weight of knowing that she could have killed Eric at any time, could have run, but she didn’t… Because of you. 

“Yes,” he clears his throat, “the woman from this evening, was a Brown Widow. She’d been assigned to a lower level associate. He was apparently… unpleasant.” You note that Alex won’t meet your eyes and suspect you know what kind of unpleasantness he means. “She may have removed a specific part of his anatomy in retaliation before fleeing.” You bite your lip to restrain a smile. 

“Is she dead?”

“Not at all. We agreed with your decision. Some punishment should likely be metered but not what Eric had in mind.”

“I’d like to have her as my personal assistant.” 

“Oh?” 

“What better way to foster loyalty than saving someone’s life?”

Alex smiled, “Wise. I’ll have her sent up.”

“Thank you. I feel that puts me in a good position to get moving quickly.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Alex says finishing his drink and standing. He sets his glass on the side table and extends his hand once more. 

“This couldn’t have been a better outcome, in my opinion, Catherine. You’re going to do incredible things. This is only the beginning.”

You take his hand, giving it a firm shake. “I couldn’t agree more, Alex. Thank you for the opportunity.” 

“We will connect soon.” 

“I look forward to it,” you open the door to let him out. 

As soon as he is on the elevator you call out to Eric’s former secretary. “Anita, can you join me?” You don’t wait for an answer, instead, you turn back into the office to refill your drink and wait. 

She enters a minute later, nervous energy rolling off of her. Her eyes grow wider by the second as she takes in your blood-soaked form leaning casually against Eric’s desk. 

“Slackjawed isn’t a good look for you, Anita.” She snaps her jaw shut. 

“W-What can I do for you Miss Cathe-”

“Madam Clayton will do.” Her eyes somehow manage to get wider, making her look like one of those popeyed pugs she doted on. “Will this arrangement be a problem for you?” The vile woman had served your father longer than you’d been alive.

“No, Madam Clayton, of course not.” 

“Good. I need a change of clothes. One for The Soldier as well, and clothing for the woman being sent up - she should be about a size eight.” 

“Yes, Maam.” She turns, her wiry frame trembling. 

“Oh. One more thing, Anita.” She freezes, no doubt expecting something awful. “I want every bit of information on The Soldier. I’ll need all of this within the hour.” Nervously she eyes the statue-like man, you can hear her heartbeat rise. 

“But, Madame Catherine… I… I don’t.”

“Anita?”

“Y-yes?” You hold her bulging eyes, staring her down until you knew she was about to break. 

“My father wouldn’t tolerate excuses. Neither will I. Is that clear?” 

“Of course,” she squeaks. “Yes, Maam.” With one last glance at The Soldier, she scurries from the room. 

Rounding the desk you finish the rest of the entirely, and annoyingly, ineffective whiskey before plopping down hard in the desk chair. Looking across the room you see that The Soldier had recrossed his arms, eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. 

A lifetime of violence had taught you how to scent it. Right now, it was beginning to crackle in the air. 

He moved so quickly you almost missed it. Almost. 

Your hand moves under the desk, gripping the Glock you knew would be waiting. As he went to vault the desk you push the chair back, rolling you toward the window and aim right between his eyes. He freezes, crouched on the desk, murder in his eyes. 

“I am not your enemy,” you say softly, remaining seated. 

“Hail Hydra,” he sneers. His hatred feels like a slap. 

You release the gun, letting it dangle on your finger, from the trigger before you stand slowly, hands up, and place it on the desk before him. Leaning in so close you can feel his breath you return his hard stare. 

“Fuck. Hydra,” you growl. 

Never had you been grateful that this room was off the grid, Pierce had confirmed that earlier. Had they eyes or ears here they’d have known the things Eric had done to you. Even so… you didn’t dare say anything more. 

It must have been enough because his mood shifts back to a skeptical neutral. Slowly he backs up, standing on the other side of the desk. Neither of you speak, you just stare, assessing if you were friend or foe until a buzz sounds from the phone on the desk. 

“Yes?” You ask pressing the intercom button. 

“I h-have the clothing you requested. The woman should be up soon.”

“And the information on The Soldier?”

“I’m getting it to-together now.” That tremulous little stammer was beginning to grate your nerves. 

“Bring the clothes.” 

One bag contained three pairs of black boots, practical though none of you would leave here in them. The other revealed three sets of black hoodies, caps, tees, and bluejeans. They’d do. 

“Here,” you hold out the pile of clothes to him. He eyes them. “Look, even if you weren’t covered in blood you can’t go out on the street looking like Edward fucking Scissorhands.” Did they have a point in dressing the man like he was on his way to a cheap dungeon?

Finally, he takes them. 

“You can use the bathroom,” you turn to pull your own clothes out. “Oh, and be sure to check them for-” He nods, turning for the bathroom. Clothing could easily conceal trackers and bugs - it was why the boots would remain here unused. 

You meticulously check the clothes provided for you and the woman, pleased to find nothing suspicious. In the small closet where Eric kept a few changes of clothes, you find the trainers you were hoping for. They’d be far too large for either you or the woman but at least you knew they’d be clean. 

Just as you pull the plain black tee over your head The Soldier walks out. His own tee stretches tight across his chest, the metal arm somehow seeming more alarming when paired with the plain clothes. Still, no one could deny that the man was a specimen. 

Drawing your eyes away you pluck the card of hair elastics from the bag, handing one to him. “If you wanted to pull your hair back.” He takes it, his eyes landing on your throat. 

“You still have,” he gestures to his own neck.

“Oh, right. If they come with the woman would you mind letting them in?” He says nothing. With a sigh, you duck into the bathroom to remove the lingering traces of blood. 

You hear the door to the office open followed by a muffled cry of alarm. When you pop your head out of the bathroom the woman stands, still nude, in fighting form. Much more firey than when she was in the cell.

“Don’t fucking come near me,” she growls in an American accent. The Soldier stands several feet away, hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans, hair up in a low ponytail. 

“He isn’t going to harm you,” you say stepping out. Though, you didn’t entirely know if that was true. He’d been ready to eviscerate you not a half-hour ago. The woman throws you a wild glare. 

“I’m Catherine Clayton,” you grab the hoodie intended for The Soldier from the pile and toss it to her. Christ, they couldn’t even be bothered to give the woman a towel to cover herself with. It’s just long enough to cover her.

“I know what you are,” she spits. What. Not who. 

“I highly doubt that.” The woman didn’t know the half of it. “Drink?” You ask nodding to the bar cart. 

“So now I’m invited to drinks?” You can’t help but smile. 

“In defense of my rudeness earlier, I truly thought I’d be dead or worse by now. Seeing as that’s not the case,” you shrug. 

“Whiskey,” the woman says, stepping closer but still keeping a wary eye on The Soldier. 

You pour her a glass and look to The Soldier, “And you?” He simply glares and turns to resume a vigil by the door. 

Surprisingly she sniffs the glass only once and downs it all in one go before you take a drink. You raise a brow and reach for the glass to refill it. 

She shrugs, “If I’m going to go out there are worse ways than poisoned whiskey.”

“I’ll drink to that.” You gesture for her to have a seat. She eyes eye chair and simply leans against it, you don’t miss the slight spark of defiance in her chestnut eyes. 

Rather than sit in a chair yourself you hop onto the desktop, facing her, and wait for her to ask the question. 

“What do you want from me?”

“I’d like to offer you a job.” She looks at you disbelieving. 

“A job.” You nod. “I’m not sure if you’ve seen my resume lately, but I didn’t exactly leave my last position on amicable terms.”

“I’m well aware. In fact, it’s what made you a prime candidate for the position.” She studies you as you continue. “I’m not looking for someone loyal to the cause. I need someone loyal to me.” You can see the flames of curiosity begin to rise. 

“And what does loyalty to you look like?” She asks before taking a sip of her whiskey. 

“Details will come in time. But, from what I hear of you, I feel our intentions may align nicely.”

Finally, she pushes away from the chair and steps closer, “Fuck it. I’m in.” You hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Your skepticism must show. 

“Look, I’d rather answer to a woman than another mouth breathing wanna be Mussolini. And,” her stare intensifies, “anyone with the spine to put down that monster like you did today is pretty good in my book.” 

She extends her right hand. Smiling you hop off the desk and take it. 

“I’m Mara.”

“Pleasure.”

“So,” you release your shake and she finishes her drink, “what do ya need from me boss?” 

“On paper, you’ll be my personal assistant.”

“And off the books?” 

“We’ll get to that.” You nod to the clothes, “For now go ahead and get changed. That hoodie is his.” Tension visibly rolls over her. 

Without another word, she grabs the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later the intercom buzzes. You press the button but say nothing. 

 “Ma-Madam Clayton, I have the f-files on The Soldier you requested.”

“Good. Before you bring them, how much cash do we have on hand?”

“Oh, I can provide you with the ca-”

“I asked a clear question, Anita.” You’d all need a place to stay until you could get your private finances sorted. With Eric gone it should be easier to do so, especially since you’d spent the last three years building a stockpile even Hydra couldn’t trace. Still, for the next few nights you all needed a safe - or at least safe enough - place and using a card would let Hydra know exactly where you were. 

“Yes, so-sorry Madam. We have over one hundred thousand-”

“Bring me forty of it along with the files.” You shut the intercom off and wait for the tentative knock. 

It comes as Mara steps out of the bathroom. She eyes The Soldier as he opens the door and warily drapes his hoodie over the wingback before standing beside you. 

Anita, carrying two banker boxes stacked beneath her chin stumbles in. The Soldier catches her by the shoulder before she topples, causing her to freeze until she catches sight of Mara. Her expression shifts from shock to indignation. 

She pulls away from The Soldier’s grip, blustering to the small table sitting between the wingback chairs. Straightening her dowdy blouse she plucks a thick envelope from the top. 

“The files and money, Madam Catherine.” She shoots Mara a filthy glare. Mara responds with a fox-like grin that further flusters the older woman. 

“Madam,” she clips out in a nasal tone as you pull the money out. 

“That will be all, Anita,” you don’t even look up at her as you ensure the bills are all there and authentic. 

“Madam,” she says again. Slowly you raise your eyes to meet her pathetic attempt at a confident glare. “This-this, woman,” she spits. “She’s to be disposed of! Your father wanted-” The rest of her words are lost in a garbled scream, your grip on her throat trapping the sound. 

For a split second, you’re a bit disoriented by the speed at which you moved, so much so that you almost squeeze too tight. With effort, you relax your grip. This was not her time to die. 

“Anita,” you purr, “who’s blood do you suppose that was earlier?”

“Mr-Mr. Clayton,” she manages to eke out. 

“That’s right!” You say in a tone one may take with a child. “And knowing that, do you suppose I give one holy fuck about anything that beast wanted?” You stare into her bulging eyes, watch her pasty skin burn red with fear and shame - both tasted so sweet. How many times had she turned a blind eye… 

She shakes her head. 

“Good,” you toss her to the ground. She rolls onto all fours, gasping for air as she crawls away to put distance between you. 

“Oh, and Anita,” her whole body goes rigid. “If you ever bring him up again, I’ll do things to you that would make the Devil himself cringe. Do we have an understanding?”

She nods. 

“Excellent. That is all, Anita.” She manages to rise to her feet, though her body remained deeply bowed as she scuttled out the door. 

You could feel the eyes of the others on you. 

“Does anyone here have a problem with how that was handled?” You ask. The Soldier simply looks at you with narrow eyes. 

“Not me.” Mara hops onto the desk. One out of two was good enough. 

“Here,” you tuck a wad of bills into your pocket and hand her the envelope. “That’s thirty thousand pounds. It should be more than enough to get us ensconced in a good hotel. I’d prefer a penthouse, two bedrooms, with clear sightlines to the roofs of the surrounding buildings. But mainly something as private as possible.” She nods. “Book a room for yourself as well.” 

You cross to one of the bookshelves, giving the bottom a swift kick. The old mechanism groaned as it slid open to reveal a small closet filled with an arsenal. 

“Help yourselves.” 

“Nice,” Mara comments with sparkling eyes. The Soldier doesn’t make a move. 

“There’s another elevator in there,” you tell her. “It will take you to the street.” 

“Where should we rendezvous?”

“French House,” it would be easy enough for you and The Soldier to disappear into the ever-crowded pub. 

“Got it,” she slips a gun into her waistband. “Shoes?” 

“Oh!” You kick off your blood-spattered black trainers. “Take these. I found another clean pair.” 

“See you soon!” Mara tosses over her shoulder as the elevator closes. 

Within two hours you’re walking into the Dome penthouse over The Hotel Cafe Royal. The terrace overlooked the London skyline and provided an easy escape should it be necessary. 

“I have to admit, Mara. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” she kicks off your old trainers, slipping into a new pair. “Money talks, so it wasn’t exactly difficult.” You look out one of the curved windows to the terrace. 

“What now?” She asks from behind you. 

“Now,” you sigh, “rest.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Order food to your room, have a soak, get drunk. Whatever you need.” You don’t mistake the relief that floods her face. “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” you hold up the burner phone that matched her own. 

“Ok,” she sighs. 

“Thank you, Mara.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me this far.” 

“Don’t make me regret it,” she says with a wink. The Soldier reenters the living room and she studies him. “Be careful.”

You nod, “Goodnight.” With that, she leaves. 

“I’m taking a bath,” you say to him. “I assume you chose your room?” His brows knit, a bit confused. 

“There are two additional bedrooms, what did you think I was going to have you do? Stand at attention all night?” His cold glare is enough of an answer. “Pick a room. Order food. Do whatever you want.” You turn on your heel and stalk toward the bathroom. 

You sink under the scalding water, hoping it will help clear your mind, allow the fragments of a plan that had been ricocheting around in your skull become something solid and tangible. Instead... it reminds you of the hot slick feeling of Eric’s blood. 

Gasping for air, you fling yourself from the tub, sending the small table of neatly stacked towels flying into the wall. With no small effort, you force your eyes open, half expecting to see your whole body coated in the thick red substance. 

There’s nothing. Of course, there was nothing. Nothing besides The Soldier, standing in the entrance, concern coloring his features. 

“I’m fine,” you huff, cheeks burning a bit from embarrassment. “A little privacy?” He seems to flush a bit himself and heads wordlessly from the room. 

A shower was clearly the best option. 

You wrap yourself in a plush robe before stepping from the bathroom, expecting to see the soldier in the living room. But he wasn’t there. 

No matter. You head onto the terrace, taking in the spectacular view and relishing the cold night air on your damp skin. 

Now clarity comes. 

You hear the rustle of someone behind you, the slightest hum of gears indicating that it was The Soldier. 

“I’m going to burn it all down.” The words feel electric on your tongue. “All of Hydra.”

Your mother was wrong. You were not more than this, more than them.

She was also wrong about evil. Sometimes the only thing strong enough to defeat it was an equal… 

Your father had made you such an equal. Honed you into a weapon, something as dark and deadly as Hydra itself. Being bred in the belly of that beast you knew its anatomy, its every weak spot, every flaw. 

They wanted to make you the body. Instead, you’d be a cancer, consuming the beast from the inside out. 

You turn to him, “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

His intense eyes seem to sparkle and a slight smile curls his lips. 

“Not at all.”

Relief surges through your body. You knew what you wanted to accomplish was an olympian task and without the strength and fear The Soldier afforded you - well it would have become a near-impossible one. 

A knock draws both your attention. 

“I ordered food,” he says beginning to turn away. “For both of us.” 

The gesture catches you so off guard that it renders you immobile for a moment. When you finally make it inside he’s moving the boxes filled with information on him to the ground to clear the table for food. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I ordered several things.” The cart was stacked to bursting and the smells rising from it made your mouth water. But there on the bottom, a familiar package catches your eye. 

Chocolate digestive biscuits. The same kind you shared with him on that night so long ago. Silently you bend to retrieve them, looking from the biscuits to him a couple of times before speaking. 

“You do remember.” He nods. Confusion roils, “Then why did you charge me earlier if-”

“People change.” He pulls the cover off of a trey revealing a cheeseburger and fries and moves it to the table. You think he’ll say more but, instead, he starts eating. The growling of your stomach convinces you to not press the subject and instead locate the curry you can scent hiding under one of those covered trays. 

Honestly, you’d never felt this hungry. You tear through the red curry and move on to another tray, this one housing a second burger and fries. It’s not until you’re done with that and are nibbling on a poor excuse for pizza that you actually slow. 

“I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

He smiles a bit, taking a slice of the pizza, “I think it’s the serum. I’m always hungry.”

You study him for a moment, “Any other insights on that front?” 

He shrugs, “Things can be overwhelming,” he clears his throat, “sensations. Even your own body can seem too loud. You feel… more. Everything’s dialed up so you may be stronger, harder to kill, but it doesn’t mean shit hurts less.” That was actually very good information. “I’m sure there’s plenty of information in those boxes.” You don’t miss the bitter edge in his voice. 

Silence hangs thick for a bit until he asks, “Did you choose this?” 

“Choose what?” You meet his intense gaze. 

“The serum. Did you let them do this to you?”

“Do you think my bastard father would have let me choose something like this?” You scoff. Anger flares in your chest, “No.” You push away from the table and begin to pace. 

“I was simply informed that whatever life I thought I could build for myself was over. That I had to, yet again, prove myself worthy of something I never wanted and never asked for. That I had better not, disappoint.” You feel your body start to shake, “Because even my death, death at their hands, would have been a disgrace.” 

“I got milk too,” he says behind you. 

“What?” The statement seemed absurd until you turned to see him pouring two glasses, the biscuits on the table. Somehow the sight tamps down the flame of your rage. 

“Oh,” you collapse on the couch, hiding your face in your hands. Maybe emotions, like sensations, were dialed up because you couldn’t seem to get a hold of yours.

“I’m sorry,” his voice comes from closer than you expect. Looking up you see him kneeling before you, worry etched across his face, a lock of hair falling from his ponytail. 

“I didn’t… I should have…” He seems to struggle to find the words suddenly. “I don’t have space to speak freely… ever. And I-”

“You’re free. Or as free as I can make you.” You couldn’t truly grant him freedom that you yourself didn’t possess, but you hoped it was something. The emotion that shows in his eyes is beyond words but it makes your chest constrict all the same. 

“Thank you,” his voice cracks a bit at the end and he quickly stands. 

For the next hour, you both burn through the biscuits in comfortable silence. Once they’re gone you slump back into the deep cushions of the couch, exhaustion crashing over you. 

“I could sleep for three days.” You wished. Sleep and you had a tense relationship at best. 

“You should rest.” He says. 

Sighing you nod and stand, turning toward the master suite attached to the living room. 

“Actually,” he begins. You look back. 

“Yes?”

“You should probably take one of the back rooms. Less direct access from the terrace.” He had a point, there were no actual doors to the master bed or bathroom, just an open space cut up with walls that didn’t quite reach the high ceiling and the terrace wrapped around almost the entire suite. 

“I’ll take whichever. Lead the way.” You hadn’t really inspected the other rooms. 

He guides you to the one furthest from the entry assuring you that he’ll hear anyone who comes. 

“You’ll be safe,” he says, reminding you of the vigil he kept for you years ago - protecting you from the monster in your own home. You nod, in acceptance and open the door. 

“One thing,” you turn to him. “What you did back there, to Eric. Was that because I-“

“I did it for both of us.” You don’t think you imagine the slight spark of satisfaction in his expression. 

“Goodnight, Catherine.”

“Goodnight.” You realize suddenly that you don’t know his name, he never offered it, and knowing what little you did about him you wondered if he even knew… 

That would be the first thing you’d find in those files tomorrow. You couldn’t give him true freedom, not yet, but you could damn well give him his name back.

---

TAGS: @mywinterwolf​  @disagreetoagree​  @breezy1415​  @peachthatdrinkslemonade​  @wonderlandmind4​  @stevehesaidabadlanguageword​  @buckysstar​  @for-the-love-of-the-fandom​  @siriuslycloudy2​  @wildmoonflower​  @cutie1365​  @this-kitten-is-smitten​  @nighttwingg​  @handplucked​  @jewelofwinter​  @whiskeywinter89​ @damnaged-princess​ @the7intheimpala​ @saaamsayshi​ @7minutes-tomidnight​ @amorluzymelodia​ @auroraluna777​ @leniaana​  @awkwardlyhot @ilovespideyyy​ @jaxthebookworm​ @docharleythegeekqueen​ @olympos-92​ 

NOTE: Why does The Soldier remember her? Given what we know about him I feel like that may be one of the biggest (most frustrating) questions at the end of this so I just want to share that you’ll get the answer in the next chapter. 

[myevilmouse]

Since I’m working on wrapping up Infectious lately, my monster fuck of die fic, I thought I would give a little trivia about Kinetic Countermeasures, the first fuck or die fic I ever wrote for Thryce.

I love me a little dubcon and when I started delving into fanfic--just about late 2018--I learned about this wonderful trope.  I first toyed with dubcon in the guise of sex pollen for Luke & Mara, but then the Thryce Discord had an “Ascension Week” fic challenge, where we were supposed to write a fic set during those festivities before Empire Day (when Thrawn and Pryce met for the first time in the nu!canon 2017 book), and I saw my chance for the coveted “fuck or die”.

The first thing that came to mind was the fact that Moff Ghadi, during the event, drugs Pryce with polstine spice.  But what if it WASN’T raw spice, what if it was some marvellous evil drug that would make her super horny for one (1) Imperial alien? 

So that was my starting point, and I decided to write it from Thrawn’s POV, which made the whole thing a different sort of writing exercise.  In order to approach it with his militaristic / soldierly kind of practical perspective, I decided to name all the chapter titles after actual military terms used when discussing threats and remediating actions.  I really had fun with those chapter titles (’cause I’m a geek):  1.  Threat Remediation 2.  Risk Assessment 3.  Vulnerability Analysis 4.  Security Recovery.

Eli was involved, of course, because he was at the Ascension Week party with Thrawn, so we had a little awkward threesome early on, but it is ultimately a Thryce fic (although there is a teeny tiny taste of Eli for Thrawn in there for the Thranto folks in the crowd). A final trivia tidbit--I wrote all except the first chapter on an extended business trip in a galaxy far far away with crappy internet.  @celinamarniss​ was my patient beta as I navigated power outages and work stresses!

I didn’t expect it to be anything except porn with a smattering of plot/setup, but it actually wound up being almost sweet in parts (I think, at least), and I really had fun with the Thryce-fucking-as-total-strangers scenario.  So if you are a fuck or die fan, or a Thryce fan, you may enjoy.  

[findmyrupertfriend]

Strange Angel - “The Fool” 

(This is a recap/review of the first episode of Strange Angel Season 2. There are spoilers, so proceed with caution!)

Season 2 begins with a celebration. Jack and the team are having a grand time, popping champagne. Nothing has changed here. Jack still has a big ego, and Richard is still a wet blanket. During the celebration, General Braxton takes Jack and the team aside, pressing them to develop an operational missile for the war. But here’s the catch - the military requires an increased security clearance. Army intelligence will conduct interviews and “dig into every aspect” of their personal lives. 

Oh hell, and here’s that damn priest using his pulpit to rail against Satan and the evil doers who live across the street and work with you on the assembly line. I guess he’s talking about Susan and Jack, as they prepare themselves for their next ascension in Thelema - basically fucking each other in front of the congregation. However, their loud and enthusiastic sex is interrupted by some other loud banging, coming from the front door of the Agape.

I was all excited, thinking it was Ernest knocking on the door, but NOOOOOOO! It’s the police and a bunch of “upstanding Christians” led by a most UNChristian man - Virgil! The Agape is being evicted by the archdiocese, who recently acquired the property. 

Jack is livid, screaming that Virgil is the one who should be arrested. And Virgil just throws it back in Susan’s face with, “See if anyone believes you.” Virgil needs to meet a most untimely and unpleasant demise so Susan can dance on that sadistic pervert’s grave. 

Next, we see Jack’s mother and another woman by the name of Mrs. Van Buren pull up to Jack and Susan’s huge mansion. Mrs.Van Buren is with the Preservation Society, who are very interested in keeping the homes in the area owned and occupied by people of a certain stature. (I see a problem in the Parsons’ future, and her name is Mrs.Van Buren.) In a private conversation, we learn that Jack’s mother is very interested in grandchildren, but Susan makes it clear she is not interested in having children. She speaks confidently and firmly about what she wants. GO SUSAN! 

Later, Jack has a bad dream - his doors are being pounded with a bright light coming through. Suddenly, the doors burst open, enveloped by a large head with red eyes. Jack awakens and writes in his journal:

“The Beast demands entry.”

The next morning, Jack and Alfred engage in a little fencing match on the luxurious grounds of Jack’s estate, while they discuss the displacement of the congregation. It’s all very decadent, this mansion, the grounds, their activities - so very different from where they were in their modest little house, asking the obscene Virgil for money to pay their mortgage. Oh, how times have changed.

As they continue debating where the Agape should move, (wait for it…) Jack offers up his new home. Susan doesn’t think it’s wise what with Patty living with them, so the conversation is tabled for the moment. However, not before Alfred tells Susan something privately. 

Alfred: “Truthfully, I’m not sure if this house is big enough for the both of us.”

AND NEXT, WE GET ERNEST!!! I must say I was very concerned we wouldn’t see Ernest in the first episode of the second season, so this is a nice surprise for me!

 Ernest disembarks from a large ship. He looks a bit gaunt and wary as hails a ride back to the Agape. He picks up the phone to request entry, but no one is there. He appears to walk away, but turns around and kicks the door open. He takes a bewildered look around. 

Now Richard entertains his mother at his home, and we learn that she disapproves of Marisol, so much so that she refuses to give Richard his grandmother’s heirloom ring for a proposal. 

Richard’s (Racist) Mother: “Your grandmother would roll over in her grave if her heirloom ring were to end up on the finger of some Mexican tart.”

OH BOY! 

Jack dreams of The Beast again and wakes up. He and Susan discuss the Agape moving in, and Susan confesses she is not just concerned about Patty. She’s concerned their marriage vows could be broken with the Agape so close by…but Jack soothes her troubles by going down on her. Their sex now is much more playful. Susan is uninhibited! 

And here’s Ernest again, breaking glass and breaking into a store. Our boy is pilfering the goods, eating and drinking what he wants when the store owner confronts him with a shotgun. This doesn’t phase Ernest. He advances slowly on the store owner, then becomes enraged, grabbing the shotgun and beating the man, before using it to destroy his surroundings. He stops suddenly, sliding his body down to the floor. Ernest’s eyes are stretched wide, looking at the flames leaping from his very own hands. He shakes some reddish-orange powder from a pouch onto his hands and inhales it. The fire is gone, and he passes out while the police siren approaches.

Ernest is later in jail, chanting in his deep, lovely voice and engraving a design of some sort onto the cell wall. Ernest: “Hadit…..Ma’bud…”

The police are a bit flummoxed by Ernest and don’t know what to make of “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” They are even more intrigued when they take a look at Ernest’s police file. It contains a note that says, “If found call V. Byrne.” 

While Ernest is tearing shit up and getting arrested, Susan welcomes Alfred and the Agape into her home. Patty looks amused by the new guests. Alfred, Joan, and Susan lay some ground rules for who gets to move into the house. Normally, Alfred alone makes that call, but Susan wants a say as well…actually, she will be Jack’s proxy. Jack’s so busy with work these days anyway. Well, right now Jack and his team are busy being interrogated by the military for their increased security clearances.

It’s clear the military intends to grill Jack and each member of his team about the activities and beliefs of the others. It’s divide and conquer time. The tenor of the interviews escalates with Jack finally telling his interrogators to “Get fucked!” 

Meanwhile, Alfred, Joan, and Susan interview and vote on a slew of eclectic and interesting congregants to move into their home. The house is full of activity as people move in. Susan finally has a discussion with Patty and sets things straight with her.

Susan: “Until you’re ready, you won’t be able to participate.” 

Of course, Patty chafes at this, but Susan continues with the ground rules: respect everyone’s privacy and stay in your bedroom during any kind of gathering. Patty definitely doesn’t like these rules, and I’m sure you know what that means…

Richard practices his proposal to Marisol on a group of women. They admire the engagement ring, which, of course, is not his grandmother’s ring. He is interrupted by a call from General Braxton. Richard warns Jack they questioned him about Thelema, and he was forced to tell them what he knows. They’re both anxious, but it turns out to be good news. Their security clearances are approved! 

Richard is elated and returns home to propose to Marisol. However, Marisol is obviously not happy. She’s speaking in Spanish to someone on the phone.

Marisol: “You are so stupid, Matias. Why would you do that? You are not a fighter, like Dad. I don’t care. I’m not going to see it. How can you keep asking me?” 

When Marisol sees Richard, she immediately hangs up the phone and won’t say who was on the other end. AWKWARD! 

Next, we see the Agape make themselves at home, holding their first gathering at the Parsons’ residence. The congregants walk in a circle holding hands while Joan chants and moves about in the middle of the group. Patty leaves her bedroom and makes a phone call to…her parents (who sleep old school in separate twin beds). Virgil picks up the phone, frantic when he hears Patty’s voice. She decides to torture him when he asks if she has decided to come home.

Patty: “No, things just got a lot more interesting around here.” 

Patty extends the receiver so Virgil can hear all the chanting. He looks positively horrified.

Patty: “I want you to close your eyes and imagine me with all of them. Does that excite you? The very thought of it?” 

Patty’s Mom is crushed, but Virgil is determined. He makes a phone call. Meanwhile, the gathering continues, and Patty glides back to her room, pleased as punch!

Ernest is still in jail, but receives a visitor - VIRGIL! Virgil explains how he hated Ernest for introducing Susan and Jack to Thelema. In the process, we learn that Ernest nearly flew the plane into Jack, but instead stole it and disappeared. So what does Virgil want? He wants to see if Ernest still hates Jack, in order to leverage that hate against Jack. What would Ernest gain in return? Well, his current troubles could be fixed. 

Ernest listens intently from his cell, inching closer and closer until he grabs Virgil through the bars and spits out:

Ernest: “Jack Parsons means nothing to me!” 

A police officer rushes over to shove a baton into Ernest’s side. He groans and loosens his hold on Virgil. Virgil is most satisfied, now that he has his answer. Ernest has that wild look in his eyes again. Next, he looks almost like he is soothing himself by touching his drawing on the wall. 

With their new security clearances, Jack and the team are privy to test footage of a missile launch stolen from the Nazis. This film could help them develop their own missile for the US. One of Jack’s interrogators later confronts him about Aleister Crowley. Crowley may be a Germany sympathizer or a double agent of some kind. Basically, Jack is expected to inform against Crowley to the military, and he agrees.

The show ends with Jack throwing a large party at his home. He eyes Patty standing upstairs, and she retreats. Jack finds Susan in another room, and he begins to recite something from their “scripture” in a dramatic fashion. He steps onto the table and points at others to continue the passage. He’s interrupted by a loud banging on the front door. 

Jack: “Isn’t everybody here already?” 

He wades through the crowd to the front door, and the banging continues…just like in his dreams. He slowly approaches the door and yanks it open.

Ernest: “Long time no see, Jack.” 

[bluemoonpunch]

Can you please explain what "low-vibes" are? I read one of the asks you answered and was wondering whether my own timeline had changed because of a decision I made several years back (which may/may not have been tampered with by low-vibes) as I have been feeling dissatisfied with my current state of life (like I can't grow as a person/I was meant to be doing something else) ever since. Is there a way to get back to the right timeline or clear away low-vibes? Thank you.

Low-vibes are low-vibrational energies that are so low on the vibrational scale that they sit with us in the 3D reality in spite of them not being physical. Any and all things relating to hate, sadness, anxiety, anger, fear is low-vibe guided. That’s not a “natural” state. They have no ability to harm people physically but they can manipulate people psychologically into believing that they can, thus causing fear, and by extension giving them more power as they will quite literally feed on that low-vibrational energy you produce by being scared, angry, sad, or whatever.

You can call them demons if you want, but that term is a bit outdone and kind of paints a more horrifying image for a lot of people. They really aren’t shit but they can make you believe they are and they’ve done enough damage here that most of the world is influenced by them. As I’m sure you could have guessed, nearly all of world-wide politics is low-vibe guided, as is certain forms of organized religions as they are in place to remove free will and independent thinking, making it much easier to manipulate and control mass amounts of people through “puppets.” And no, most people who are directly manipulated and used by low-vibe shit aren’t aware of this consciously. It’s psychological manipulation through the unconscious mind that infects the subconscious and is projected through the conscious mind to shape reality for the collective (that includes physical chemical imbalances in the brain) - which is why herd mentality is so important to them. Being able to manipulate massive amounts of people with one “program” in one go is so much easier than having to get on each individual person.

Low-vibes do and will latch onto high vibrational people who are meant to be doing some major shit in their life that will inspire shifts in consciousness and trigger independent thought. It is not a coincidence that some of the most famous activists, artists, and musicians who have affected entire generations struggle with mental illness and have either been murdered or have committed suicide. Unfortunately, not everyone comes into their lifetimes with 100% guaranteed protection, especially when most of us are raised to not even be conscious of the fact that these influences exist as we then have no way of knowing that that is what is causing the issue. We turn and either blame ourselves and seep into self-hatred or we blame others and lash out in anger. It’s what they want because it keeps us in a low-vibrational frequency, it keeps us on their level where they can control and manipulate us more and harvest our energy. If they couldn’t do that, they would quite literally sink and not be able to carry a high enough frequency to do anything ever.

That is why more and more horrible things are happening now to cause fear and panic. We, collectively, the whole planet, are in a process of ascension from 3D to 4D, this is being triggered by outside influences specifically to get that negative shit OFF the human wavelength as, I’m sure you’ve noticed, we aren’t doing too good with them. You will notice more of these shifts, both in consciousness/awareness as well as physical occurrences such as earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, tsunamis (most of which are already happening but not getting a lot of news coverage… wonder why >.>). 

If you believe you are being directly influenced by low-vibes or you feel like you might be being tampered with as part of a group you just need to cleanse your energy, put up energetic barriers, and understand the fact that they literally can’t do shit to you. As long as you are aware that shit like this happens, you’ll be able to recognize the symptoms and be able to shove that shit the fuck out, lol. The amount of low-vibe interference I had when I was working on the BTS Soul Map and the Soul Body healing was insane, but it didn’t get under my skin or stop me (which is what they wanted, lol) because I was aware of it and knew what to do about it.

Keeping yourself in a high vibration is the best way to keep yourself out of that influence. Stay within yourself and don’t extend negativity out towards other people. What you put out is exactly what you get back. It can be difficult to do, but as long as you are above that negative shit - hatred, unnecessary anger, violence without cause, drama that does not concern you, focusing on things that make you angry, sad, nervous - you are not low enough to be in a place where it is easy for you to be manipulated. It’s a constant battle. Like I said, I get fucked within many different ways, but I’m aware of it and I know how to get rid of it. 

If you’re a bit new to energy work or shielding and cleansing, there are a lot of guided meditations you can use on youtube to help you out with that. Just stay mindful of how you feel, how you are looking at things, and why you feeling and seeing things that way. Self-awareness is a huge factor. The less self-aware you are the more likely it is that you will fall into the hive-mind, which means you’re more likely to follow along with something just because someone else has, which makes it easier for low-vibe shit to manipulate you “from a distance.”

Also, you don’t ever want to go “back” to a previous timeline. You want to transcend timelines and for the most part, that is also done by maintaining a high vibration as well as directing your energy toward the kind of life that you want where high vibration is possible - fulfillment of your life purpose and spreading love (universal love) to the collective is something to focus on without getting too specific.

[theplaguezine]

ENSLAVED

Interview with  Ivar Bjørnson by Daniel Hinds

(conducted January 2005)

Enslaved may be from Norway and may have many of the same pagan and black metal influences of bands like Emperor, Immortal and Satyricon, but they have resolutely walked their own path from the very start.  In place of corpse paint and satanic poetry, Enslaved has draped themselves in Viking imagery and written about history.  The tunes are extreme, incorporating some very unique folk and progressive elements into their sound.  Their latest, Isa, is another masterpiece and guitarist Ivar provides some insight into the process behind the genius…

Can you tell me a little about the album title and how it ties in with the songs on the record? Halfway into the songwriting for the album, we do a little pre-production - nothing fancy, just in our home studio to get an outside perspective of the songs in an early stage - this is where we normally come up with the title.  You know, kind of put the name on the atmosphere of the music and at the same time make a link to the lyrical universe of the album.  Be a bit pretentious (laughs), which is always important I guess.  This time, the music kind of gave us a certain horizontal line, so to speak; it sounded big, landscape-y, icy.  We've been into the rune thing for a long while and it's very important, a very important cornerstone in the Enslaved lyrics.  We searched a bit and found this run called Isa had a lot of the characteristics or things within it that fit with the music well.  It symbolizes stagnation and [couldn't make out this word-dH] of the moment.  This might sound negative at first, but it's also an important flipside to the dynamics and development and evolution, all that stuff.  To maintain growth, it is important to have these containers or moments where it stops and contains what has been built.  So we found it very fitting.  It was a point in Enslaved's albums where it felt right to consolidate in a way.  You can hear it in the music also.  The music draw influences from the old Enslaved albums in a way.  After finding that title, it was really easy to come up with the lyrics.  There's no story or complete concept behind it, it's more like all the lyrics relate in a way to the title.  They all have this atmosphere of freezing the moment in a way.

When you are writing an album, do you have an overall vision of how it will be or does it just come one song at a time? I think it happens more or less during the first song.  The first song is almost every time the key, sets the mood more or less for the album.  The process when we start writing an album is somewhat blurry; there's a lot of ideas and directions and all that stuff.  I guess the album is set more or less when things are taken away and we decide not to go in certain directions.  This time, for instance, we spent a lot of time trying to make things large and heavy in a way and also have more room for vocal usage.  The guitar stepped a bit back to give more room for different things with the voices.  That happens really early in the process, but it's never a conscious effort in the songwriting that we need to go in that direction and it needs to sound like that, it just more or less happens.

You guys have always had some incredibly diverse arrangements, like "Lunar Force" just for example (heavy parts, ambient middle piece, almost reggae sounding bit).  Is it usually pretty obvious how the songs should be put together or do you try a lot of different ideas until it clicks? It's the latter.  It's basically starting at one end and, I don't know which happens most often, but an idea comes along for a song and it's being made out on the guitar and then it is more or less just trying out different impulses.  You just get that feeling when you go from one thing to the other one if it sounds right.  But of course, there is some preconceiving.  Sometimes you have a riff that is intense or upbeat or something and then you feel the need to kind of go down a bit or the other way around - it's just these notions from time to time.  It's very important what happens the first time you try it out.  We're not the kind of band that, if we listen to two riffs combined and if it doesn't sound right the first time, it's not like we're, 'Okay, let's try a few more times' - it's just in the trash bin immediately.  If it snaps the first time, then it's probably right.

You choose some really interesting and unusual chords for many of the songs on Isa, reminding me a bit of Voivod, more in the willingness to experiment with new ideas rather than actually sounding like them.  Is that just from wanting to experiment with different sounds or just liking how those particular chords sound? It's both.  I like the thing with metal and we're a metal band and have been playing metal, that's our expression, but for me there are a lot of interesting things that you can do with a guitars and keyboards in metal besides the traditional power chords.  For me, an eye-opener was in the early 90s what Mayhem and Thorns were doing, I think that was more influential than maybe Voivod - that came later.  You know these bands were doing the black metal furious thing, but they were the first ones as I remember it from the Norwegian bands that involved all six strings, which was the basic philosophy of Euronymous, the songwriter from Mayhem.  I remember him talking about that, that at some point black metal would realize that there was a lot of strings to be found there, you could use them.  Instead of using three or four guitars in the studio to accomplish harmonies or disharmonies, you could do it with one guitar and that would also sound better live because you wouldn't have the same possibilities or orchestrating as you would in the studio.  I found that really intriguing and I like to pick up chords and ideas from other sorts of music, like some alternative music or rock or progressive music.  Especially disharmonies I guess, because there is a certain… the expression 'disharmonies' is misleading because it sounds like a mistake, but it's not, it's just the same as like off-beats, it's just a matter of being used for something.  When you listen to Eastern music or whatever, the scales sound fucked-up, Arabic scales or whatever, but for [someone] who has grown up with those scales, our Western music sounds pretty disharmonic to them I guess.  The point is that in my musical culture, it's a bit boring with just the regular fifths and thirds and all that stuff because you've heard it so many times, it doesn't give off that reaction.  Voivod became an inspiration when I was listening to their stuff with its disharmonies, the combination of tones that you haven't heard before.  It gives a certain pleasure, kind of being rubbed the wrong way in a way.

"Neogenesis" is quite an epic track.  Did that one just kind of grow and evolve into what it is or was it planned out from the beginning to be such an involved composition? That was the last song written for the album and I knew that at some point I wanted a closing song for the album that kind of summed up the other songs in a way, a long ending song, a bit inspired by the 70s epic albums by bands like Yes and Pink Floyd, their early stuff, where they would often on the vinyl B-side have a really long song.  It kind of contains more songs in one, in a way, I wanted to have more elements.  I started with that first thing and the rest just came naturally, so it's both.  It's got this mission as a song on its own and it's also got this mission of concluding the rest of the album.

It's also got a very cool, extended solo toward the end.  It seems like guitar soloing is starting to come back finally after being so absent the last few years. I think solo guitar has a very important part in all sorts of rock-influenced music.  Of course, if you're doing some kind of lo-fi desert thing, it would be a bit weird to have a huge solo on top of it, but I think that all the way from the 60s, 70s and 80s, the solo guitar has been important.  I think some bands are good without the solos and a lot of black metal music is better off without them, but for songs like "Neogenesis" and some other Enslaved songs, it just fits nicely and kind of breaks up the song.  We're lucky to have a lead guitarist, Arve [Isdal], which is more than competent enough to do this.  I suppose if we were a band with just one guitarist, me, then there wouldn't be any solos

I understand that you handle the keyboards for Enslaved as well as guitar. Yes.  We have a keyboard player who does it live and in the studio but they kind of make out most of the keyboard stuff.  In the old days, before we had a keyboard player, I'd be doing both.

Are the keyboards usually the last thing to come into the song or do you ever write with that as a starting point? Actually, this time I did it the other way around for the song "Ascension," that one started out with the keyboard arrangement.  That's the first time I've done that and that's because this is the first time that we've had a keyboard player, so it kind of gave me the idea, 'Okay, now we have a real keyboard player, it's not just a guitarist doing keyboards on the side,' which is often the case.  So I think people are going to hear more of that in the future, that we're going to base more stuff on the keyboards.  It can be done successfully without becoming pompous or like vampire theater, cartoonish stuff.  It can be done in a classy way if you listen to stuff by Jon Lord and that kind of stuff; it's really driving and it's not inferior to the guitar at all as an instrument if it's being used in the proper way.

That interplay between Jon and Ritchie on some of that old Deep Purple stuff is just amazing. Oh, it's perfect.  I was listening to "Highway Star" earlier today and it's just amazing.  It's better than a lot of two-guitar stuff being done.

What are your feelings about analog vs. digital, both in terms of your keyboard gear and also the recording environment? On a theoretical level, I'm 100% analog because I think it just has this totally different sound to it.  But at the same time, digital stuff sounds good too.  You have to be pragmatic about it.  We're not like billionaires or antique collectors so… I love the sound of a real Mellotron but there's like two of them in Norway, old ones, so I could either be sitting in a dark corner and cursing the world for not providing me with a Mellotron or I could use a sample.  But still, even using the sample, I'm hoping to get a real one someday.  I'm a total fan of the old ones with the tape rolls and the small quirks and mistakes they make.  I have an old tape echo machine which is actually interesting just listening to that.  You play a little song on it and wait ten minutes for the roll and then start making up new stuff with what you did ten minutes ago.  That's what it's got that digital stuff doesn't - [digital is] perfect, it's streamlined and that is good for one use.  If we can use the original thing, then we do that, but if the choice is using something that sounds 80% to the original, then we'd rather use that than nothing at all.

Since you in a unique position concerning your viewpoint on Enslaved's music compared to someone like me, what do you see as kind of the thread that ties all of the albums together? I [hesitate] to say as the guitarist the guitar playing, but I think there is some truth in that, that it kind of sticks out from some other metal.  I'm not saying it's a lot better or a lot worse than anything else, but it's certainly different in song aspects.  What ties it together is we've been influenced by a lot of different genres but it always comes out sounding like Enslaved in some weird way.  You might hear some direct influence from Darkthrone on one song and the next song will be more King Crimson inspired.  It still has the same signature to it.  I think that comes from the fact that we started out doing Enslaved before we really even learned to play, so the whole development of becoming musicians has been within the framework of making Enslaved songs.  We kind of pushed our limits by being our own...  by being really ambitious and being blind to limitations.  We could come up with song ideas that we had no chance of actually playing but that wouldn't stop us, we'd keep on trying to do that.  A band like King Crimson, they are way above us when it comes to skills, but you can actually learn something by listening and how they solve stuff and every time you try to do something above your level, you come a little step closer.  Or if you're even luckier, you make a mistake in doing it which makes it sound even more like yourself.

Enslaved seems like a band that likes to play live quite a bit - is that the case? Oh yes, absolutely.  We don't like to travel around in a little car around the whole of Europe for several weeks but at the same time, we enjoy being on the road, doing 30 or 40 shows in a row.  We're lucky in that we get do some festivals, not just metal festivals, but some other festivals and we try and do as much as possible and develop the whole live thing as much as possible.

Do you find that playing live helps with writing new material, in terms of giving you a chance to really analyze your songs and seeing what works and what doesn't? Absolutely.  It's a totally different thing from the studio to the live thing and I think the songs are put to the real test when it comes to [playing] live; the strength of the actual written song is put to the test there.  You can trick the ear by whatever means in the studio, but when it comes to live, it's just the song coming out of the five musicians and if it sounds right live, it's probably a really good song.  It can be inspiring because you hear stuff that you can't handle too well and needs more work and at the same time you hear what strengths the band has that you can keep on developing.

In older interviews, you guys always had good things to say about Osmose Records.  What prompted you to move to a different label?  Any why Tabu? We still have a good relationship and a fair and square split up from Osmose.  I'd just like to point out that they kept every obligation that they ever had to the band, they kept every promise and I think the other way around, too.  It just came to the point where, after Below the Lights, we got a real boost of energy, we were really happy with that album, and we were moving in a more or less new direction since Mardraum, including more experimental stuff, taking more risks, doing our own thing, and gotten really a lot of good feedback on that.  There came a time after Below the Lights where we changed the line-up, we consolidated the band and decided to work harder on both live and studio things, which some earlier members found it too ambitious or too bothersome or whatever, and that was just a good thing, and we decided it was time to look into the record label thing, too.  Of course, it was a bit strange because after working with them since '94, we knew them very well personally, too, but we had to be honest about it and look into it and we saw that we could go to another label and it would be better off for us.  I don't know if it is better off for Osmose, but we had to put the band first.  We saw that, okay, maybe it was time to find something new or people who were more interested or enthusiastic about the new direction for Enslaved, whereas Osmose had been more or less going in the opposite direction.  In the past few years or so they grew more underground, in the sense of the more hardcore black metal and death metal bands, whereas we were going in a more spacey direction or whatever.  Which I guess, ten years was enough, it was time to move and when we looked into it we saw that it was quite seldom for a band to stick around with a label for ten years.  But it was a good working relationship as long as it lasted, but I think it was a good decision to try something new.

Did you get a lot of offers from different labels?  What was the deciding factor for you in the end? We got some offers.  We didn’t get a lot of offers as someone like Robbie Williams probably would if he screamed out, 'Give me a new label!' but we got quite a few good ones.  The deciding factors...  of course, there's always, no matter how blue-eyed and idealistic you are, you have to look into some economic aspects.  Those being covered, the most important thing as I sad was enthusiasm for what we were doing and to see potential in the band and maybe also the same way that bands try and go new directions we needed a label that was willing to try new solutions and new ways to put some weight behind the ambitions.  Along came Tabu, a Norwegian label.  Also, sounding strange as it may, it was an important factor to us that we have a Norwegian label, we wanted to try that out, too.  With all of these ideas and stuff for the live show, we wanted to do a video and all that stuff, we knew there was going to be a lot of chatter back and forth and it would be easier having a Norwegian label, being able to meet them more often.  Also we knew some guys from the label from earlier days, they're from my hometown, so it all came together quite naturally I guess.

I've never thought of Enslaved as a political band at all, so I am just curious what your own thoughts are on the current state of the world? We have our personal views of course and we're lucky enough to have different views within the band that we can quarrel and fight at whatever time we're drinking, but when it comes to doing interviews for the band, we are talking on behalf of the band so we never get into those kinds of things.  For some reason, politics and religion leads to some form of exclusion and that's no good when it comes to music.

Your bio states that you just completed a video for the title track.  Can you tell me a bit about that experience? The recording was great because the director is the same guy who has been doing our design stuff.  When we play live, we have some video stuff up as a backdrop for the show, he's been doing those things too, so he felt ready to try and do a music video and we felt it would be a good thing to work with him.  So we worked out all of the ideas and traveled up to a quite desolate place further up north in Norway, spent the weekend there, and recorded it.  It came out quite nicely, even though it was quite a cold experience being outside recording in Norway.

I've read some rumors of a US tour for this record.  Is there any hope for that? There's definite hope and I think it's gone beyond hope.  It's in the making.  We're working with Plastic Head America and that's all going really well and I know that they're working on setting up something concrete.  It's just a matter of logistics, finding a band or two to tour with and setting dates and all that stuff, but it's gone so far that I think we can say it's going to happen, yeah.

enslaved.no

[echosong-writer]

you already know (how this will end)

just a chapter from the character analysis fic I wrote really long ago!

https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedHope/pseuds/HallowedHope

Ascension

She used to love Oregon Trail, you know. Loved the feeling of sitting beside Hanna, typing things that made people live (or die, as it may be). Loved the feeling of control, of absolute power over the game and how it would turn out. Loved the feeling of sharing that power with Hanna, a mentor, a teacher, a friend.

But you see, this is where things turn bad, because the important part of this story is that it doesn’t end happily. It doesn’t end with them growing old together, doesn’t end with sunkissed days of bliss. It ends with a car, a man, and a dead body. And after that, you can’t honestly say you expected her to be the same. You can’t demand that from her.

Perhaps though, you would never have predicted what she has become. A monster, you may say, because only a psychopath would love killing, like to see the blood drain from someone’s face and eventually their throats, adore the scent of fear and terror. But she would beg to differ. She deals with issues in her own way, and if that way happens to involve a gun and a little violent crime, who are you to judge? Look at it this way. It has made her stronger . Given her a spine of steel and heart of coal and then bestowed a body of death and destruction to match. This mind has cracked the human psyche like it was nothing but a child’s puzzle, these hands have snapped necks like they were twigs, and how can you say that isn’t any stronger, better, than before?

Maybe you’d think that she was without direction. And that would have been true. A hacker-assassin for hire seldom has a higher goal, in fact, seldom has anything else in mind other than the next kill. But this is where God comes in. Deux ex Machina, they say. The God from the Machine. Well, the God was the Machine, to her. Perfect logical reasoning skills, no emotions to drag it down, and not a hint of bad code. Sometimes she falls asleep dreaming of becoming it. Becoming God.

This is why she keeps trying to reach Harold. Keeps trying to find him, and find the Machine. Because if he made God, then what was he? Powerful, certainly. And she respects power, in all its forms. Don’t ever let it be said that she doesn’t have standards.

So you see, she can’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment when she finally meets him in the flesh. You would too, if you were in her place. Meeting God’s creator, and realising that he was just a man, as flawed as anyone else. And when she kidnaps him, holds a gun to his head, he lets out a whimper, a freaking whimper, low in his throat and thready with the hum of his desperation, and really, can you blame her for snapping?

But she doesn’t have much time with him in any case, doesn’t have any time at all until John is upon her, stealing Harold back like a mother cat would save a kitten from drowning in a raging river. She thinks that John is the mother cat in that equation, and it’s only when she remembers him sat in her psychologist’s office that she remembers no. John is the weak one, the killer who felt dirty with blood on his hands, the government-sanctioned murderer. And perhaps you think that it being legal somehow makes murder more acceptable, perhaps you think it makes it even okay. She knows John thinks that way, tries to find salvation in a higher power, first the government, and then Harold. She, she thinks that it’s a joke. Murder is never okay, but if you don’t learn to destroy others, then they’ll destroy you, and we can’t have that, can we?

And then she meets Sameen. Holds an iron to her collarbone, precise and deadly in its intent. Or at least, only until she catches the hint of arousal in Shaw’s eyes. She may have found a kindred soul, she realises, and no matter what happens she will always regret never having the chance to hear Shaw scream, to brand Shaw with iron and steel. But that’s of no consequence, not until much later in this tale. What’s important to note is that from the moment she meets Shaw, their relationship is fire, brimstone and holy hell. You can judge her for that, at least. She knows that it isn’t normal, but she doesn’t much care what you think.

See, this is how her world begins. With snippets of conversation strung together into coherency, with the psychedelic flicker of words in her ear. With a payphone, and with God. And she makes no secret of being a zealot, but how can she not be one, when even God has deigned to speak with her?

See, this is how her world ends. Not with a bang, but with an empty warehouse, and a betrayal. With a patronising gaze, and a loss. And with a gunshot wound to her shoulder, and a terrible, tearing pain. She realises then that even Harold, fucking Harold, is more powerful than her, can take her God away from her with a flick of his finger. Before she breaks, she realises that Harold is the one she has to appeal to, if she has any chance of hearing her God again.

And then she wakes, again. In a place called Stoneridge, which she feels is aptly named because it makes her want to throw herself off a stone ridge. But even though she could very easily massacre everyone in the building and sneak out, she stays. Because the Machine asks her to, and at least she can speak to God, if only for sixty-minute intervals and on a hospital payphone with patchy reception. At least God is there, even if she isn’t perfect just quite yet. And though Root isn’t particularly pleased with the constant poking and prodding, the constant psychoanalysis, the rationalisation of her insanity (as if they knew quite how deep that particular iceberg went), she is content.

But then she discovers that Ronald, dear Ron , is just like Trent Russell. Just like the man who raped and killed her Hanna, just the kind of pervert who adores gaining trust and then breaking it, taking the mind, body and soul along for the ride. And really, even you can’t condemn her for wanting to murder him, wanting to make him die slowly and painfully in the very way she made Trent Russell die. He deserves it, and if you had any sense of morality, you would be cheering behind her as she sinks the blade into his chest. But she is not concerned with whether you approve.

She is more concerned with whether God approves. And when the Machine tells her to stay her hand, she does, leaving him to wander in the chaos of her creation. The drugged air, bullet-ridden walls, blood-stained floors. She leaves him to ponder what he has done, because she told him, told him how dangerous she was, and if he chose not to listen then he deserved what he got.

But you see, Root never really escapes. She has a brief interlude, a beautiful, violent few hours with Shaw, alone in a safehouse, and a taste of being the Machine’s acolyte, truly free at last. And then Harold comes into the picture. Locks her up in a cage, as if she were no more than a feral animal. She wants to go up to him, stroke his back with a few chillingly cold fingers, and tell him that he is right. That she is dangerous, that she is savage, that she is a bomb just waiting to go off. But instead she smiles, nods, and dies a little every time she hears him leave a tray of food at the gate.

This imprisonment only ends with desperation, only ends when John is in danger and they need her to save the day. Really, she thinks that Harold should just whisk John away to a desert island and keep him there. What’s the point of having a solider you’re too afraid to use? And after, she returns to her prison willingly, because she chose to be there, and the choice matters, no matter how much you may tell her that a prison is still a prison if it’s within her mind.

It’s almost laughable how easily Control thinks she can break Root. A few needles, a scalpel and a surgery in your right ear. The thing is, Root can handle pain, can take herself away to a place where none of it matters. The thing is, Root almost breaks when Control takes half her hearing, almost shatters with fear of never hearing God again. But then God intervenes, and Root can breathe again. Because it is almost laughable that a woman, any woman, can break Root beyond how much she has already been broken.

It turns out to be a good thing though. She gets a cochlear implant, and God can whisper in her ear. A personal hotline to heaven, just for her. And Root has no delusions about an easy job, and easy life. No, she knows she was born to live fast, shoot straight and die young. And if she’s serving the Machine, she thinks she can almost be happy with what she has. And it starts to get easier, and she starts to think that maybe John isn’t so weak, Harold isn’t so blind, and Sameen isn’t too bad. Because the strange dynamic that the team has created somehow extends to retired assassins-for-hire, and you can say that she is getting soft, but she doesn’t really care. Not when she has almost all she ever wanted.

You could have told her that happiness never lasts. Hell, she could probably have guessed for herself. But she doesn’t see it coming, and that makes it all the worse when Sameen leaves. And perhaps you’ll say that she became reckless, walking on the edges of roofs and skirting the corners of the shadow map to find Sameen, but you mustn’t think of it that way. Sameen is part of the team, and the team needs Sameen (and maybe she fails to mention that she needs Sameen more than anything). So she exists through those months, barely breathing, barely living, and if you ask she’ll tell you that it’s not love, because psychopaths can’t love, not really. Maybe it’s just the need for explosions and gunfire and sparks flying every time she’s around Sameen. Maybe it’s just the need for a four-alarm fire.

So when she sees Sameen again, she doesn’t hesitate to cock the gun and place it under her chin. Yes, she feels the cool touch of metal on her flesh, but she also feels the chilling fear that Sameen will shoot herself again, and she tries to tell herself that she doesn’t care , but it’s just not true anymore and Root was never one for lying to herself. And when Sameen looks at her with a predatory hunger, Root gives in, because anything, even a loss of power, is better than not having this at all.

You know already how this ends, don’t you? With a glorious parting shot, with a conversation about love, shapes and sex. With Sameen holding off her back, with a car chase and a sniper. With a choice, a choice to save Harold instead of herself, to sacrifice her life to save the man who started this mess in the first place. And don’t you dare tell her that choices don’t matter, because this one did. It had to.

And she can’t really finish telling this story. She’s dead, after all. But you, you can figure this out for yourself. She becomes the Machine, becomes God, becomes what she has always wanted to be (you may say that she is just its voice, but she’s something more, she has to be). And in the end, she sees them through, lets John die in a blaze of glory, lets Harold see Grace again, lets Sameen live on with Bear and the murmur of her lover’s voice in her ear. And you may not approve, you may not appreciate what she has become, but she doesn’t much care for you either way. She approves, she likes who she is, and maybe, for once, she loves the life she has lived. And that’s all that matters.

When it’s all over, there’s still one thing left in Pandora’s Box. Hope.