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daimonhalos · 4 years

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Oathkeeper

Read on Ao3!

Word Count: 7,541

Characters: Badboyhalo, Skeppy, Antfrost, Captain Puffy, Awesamdude, (others mentioned)

Warning(s): Brainwashing/mind-control mention, violence, major character death, memory loss, yelling, crying, blood. (Tell me if I missed anything)

Summary: There was nothing more to do. They weren’t going to sit and watch any longer, it was going to end. Once and for all. ✾ « Let’s give us seven days. » Bad had stood from the table he, Ant, Puffy and Sam had been talking at. « Seven days of preparation, to get anything we need. »

A/N: Before you read, this is not exactly canon compliant. I started writing this with a goal in mind: what if I gave an end to the Blood vines arc? I started it when the arc had been left off at the Egg being covered in obsidian, so there's that, also I changed a little thing about canon lives which wouldn't make sense canonically, so be mindful. Scenes in cursive are flashbacks. ANYWHO I'll give cookies to whoever is able to spot Kingdom Hearts references, other than that, read the warnings and enjoy the angst~ (Thank you to @max-is-tired for bearing with my ideas and sending me some of theirs ♥)

✾

❝ You're scaring us and all of us,

Some of us love you.

Achilles, it's not much but there's proof. ❞

If Puffy hadn’t been walking down the wooden path in long paces, feeling every muscle in her body move as she stared at her next goal, she knew she would’ve been fidgeting all along.

The nervousness that had been building in her stomach started rising with every passing second, reaching her heart and lungs, just a moment away from a slightly increased heartbeat and breathing; today was the day, as she had been reminding herself ever since the night before.

Really, she had never been one to betray friends, or something of the like, but, after all the discussions that had been made as of late, after seeing some of her friends getting hurt in different ways … there was nothing more to do.

They weren’t going to sit and watch any longer, it was going to end.

Once and for all.

She paced down the last few steps and was met with none other than Antfrost, whose tail immediately straightened at the sight of his friend.

He waved, not as excitedly as he would have on normal days. « Sam said he will be meeting us at the Church to gear up together. »

« Okay, » she looked around, arms crossed, as if she expected anything else to happen despite the beckoning of her friend, urging them both towards the last component of their party.

« Is Bad not coming? » her confused tone said it all: he was going to have to protect himself from the brainwashing and infection of the Egg during today’s arduous task, wasn’t he?

Ant frowned at that. « I know he isn’t right now, but he’s probably just distracting Skeppy as we get there. »

« So he will get the protective suits at some point, right? »

« Huh, » she didn’t like the uncertainty in his voice. « I’m sure he has it all planned out for himself. Just a different way from our own. »

« He better be. » she commented, checking off a few points of her mental list as they made their way toward the Church.

After all, what was going to be the point of their mission if he was going to get hurt?

« Let’s give us seven days. » Bad had stood from the table he, Ant, Puffy and Sam had been talking at. « Seven days of preparation, to get anything we need. We will always make sure one of us stays with Skeppy, so he doesn’t suspect anything. »

They found Sam standing right in front of the building, nodding at both of them as they got closer.

« Get the ones on the left. » they gestured, moving towards three sets of hazmat suits. « Those are the completely untouched ones so far, we don’t want to risk losing their protective power while we’re in the middle of our adventure. » they chuckled, trying to lighten up the concerned and insecure expressions on the other two.

« Right, » Puffy tried the gear on a couple of times to make sure it would sit comfortably, before putting it away. « So, these work against the Egg’s mind control? »

« Yeah. Bad and I had put them on a couple of weeks ago before taking off some of the obsidian covering it. I … still felt some eerie vibes coming off of it, as I had before, but neither of us were affected. »

Ant perked up at that. « That’s right, I joined a while after Sam did and I was completely fine around it, so this is bound to work. »

« Well, my friends. » Puffy gave a hesitant look out of the entrance, checking whether there had been any movements other than the three of them. « I guess we’re doing this. » she turned towards them, a smug smile of confidence finally worn on her face. « You ready? »

« Here’s the plan I thought of. » Sam had looked around his peers, checking for their total attention and focus, before continuing. He gestured towards Bad. « You can distract Skeppy, meanwhile the three of us are going to break every single remaining block of the Egg once and for all. »

« How were the experiments turning out, Ant? »

« The vines and the egg itself were made of the same substance, I’m a hundred percent sure nothing will happen if we destroy it. There’s one key detail, though: we must throw it all in lava as soon as we finish collecting the blocks. »

Puffy had rested her chin on her hands, elbows on the table. « What about this “red Skeppy”? Will he turn back to normal? »

« Well … » Bad had sighed. « That is the only thing we won’t know for sure how it will turn out. But, surely, you can count on me to keep him away from where you’ll be working. »

Everyone else nodded, nothing else to add onto their plans apart from when and where to meet up and a signal to give in case everything went downhill.

He wasn’t sure whether they heard it when Bad whispered under his breath.

« I do hope we get him back, though. »

« Wait! What are you doing?! »

That had been around the third time Bad had to pull Skeppy away from his new home’s door. Some part of him was convinced the other felt some kind of connection that made him feel like there was something wrong, something off, a signal of danger that had been trying to reach him as Sam, Puffy and Ant ventured towards the Egg in fully enchanted gear.

« What did I tell you? »

« I don’t know. » Skeppy’s dull voice always managed to hit a sour spot. It didn’t feel like his friend was there at all, at times. « What did you tell me? »

Bad sighed, not in withdrawal, but knowing that it was going to be a long day.

Oh, he had no idea.

« There’s going to be an abundance of mobs out, today. I think someone’s testing out something, so they told everyone to stay inside not to get into any danger. » he tried, for probably the fourth time.

Skeppy reached for the handle again. « I can take them. »

« No, you cannot. » his friend moved away his arm before he could do anything. « We need to stay inside, okay? Who knows, there could be fifty creepers blowing up all around you. You may not take all the damage, but it would destroy everything around here. You don’t want that, do you? »

He shrugged. « I don’t really care. »

As he turned back to the door yet again, he felt Bad’s hand tugging at his shirt.

« I’d feel better if we both stayed here. » Bad tilted his head to the side. « Could you do that for me? »

They exchanged a silent look that felt more like a staring contest, before Skeppy retired back in his room.

Well, that could have gone worse than that, right?

That also … could have been going better, in general.

Why did it have to hurt so much anytime they interacted?

He was about to give up in doing anything interesting to pass up the time, already sitting in the middle of the room until it was all over, when Skeppy disrupted the silence once again; he had opened the door leading to his room with a slightly perplexed expression on his face.

« Where’s Puffy? »

Ah, of course.

« I don’t know, she’s probably taking cover somewhere else. »

« This is her home. » he stated, quite obviously.

« Yeah. » Bad conceded, pretending to be pensive. « I suppose she didn’t make it here in time for the curfew. » his friend looked somewhat troubled about that. « I’m here, though! Aren’t you happy I’m here? »

For a moment, he was sure he had seen him hesitate, yet nothing else happened other than the usual stare down, before disappearing behind the door without a word.

Maybe he had been holding onto some kind of hope that the real Skeppy was still there when he convinced himself he was going to actually agree with him.

Bad let his face fall in his hands as he exhaled deeply, trying to shake off whatever unpleasant thought loomed over him.

And really, he didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He had jolted awake, rather shaken from something in his oneiric reality he had already forgotten: he blinked multiple times, the darkness adjusting to his vision, as the memories that had become mushier in his sleeping state slowly regained their original form.

The plan. The mission was taking place. Had he already missed it? There was no way that was possible, they would’ve come check on Skeppy, they would’ve woken him up.

Skeppy. Right.

He looked to his left and stared at the opened door of his friend’s room in horror.

Right.

Not even a minute passed before he heard it.

That heart-wrenching sound, possibly as close to a banshee’s screeching, echoing through the ambience, a disastrous shatter of one’s mind transmuted as the most tremendous shrieking.

Bad hurried to his feet and ran to the entrance, checking for the direction from where the deafening cacophony had come from: and then he heard it again, again and again, until his head hurt, and he unsheathed his sword instinctively.

It was as though he could follow the aura of both rage and despair that was coming off from behind a couple of blocks.

That was where he found Skeppy, hunched over himself, hands gripping tight at his hair, visibly trembling.

Bad let go of his weapon and crouched down, about to call his name and ask what was wrong, when he could barely brush the other’s arm that he heard him lash out immediately.

« Don’t touch me! »

He watched for a second as Skeppy sat back up, panic rising in his chest over the unknown of his future actions.

Was that time for the signal? What had he even been screaming about?

Why wouldn’t he just talk to him?

« I told you it’s dangerous here! » Bad hurried at his friend’s side.

Skeppy scoffed. « Oh, is it now? » it was then that the other understood his pretense had fallen, with no one else to fool anymore. « I need to see it. »

« It- Where are you going? »

« Go away. »

It took a pretended aimless wandering and Skeppy trying to make the other lose track of himself, unanswered questions and furor bubbling up at the same time, for them to eventually reach the other party.

More than half of the obsidian layer around the Egg had already been taken off; Puffy’s eyes widened as the duo made itself present in the room. Why hadn’t the signal gone off? Why did neither of the two wear the proper gear?

It was when they heard them yell at each other that the trio hesitated to continue on their task.

« What are you doing?! » Skeppy took some steps forward, scanning the place for any damage: he could see part of the Egg had already been broken, causing his head pounding to become even more intense with fury.

He made to sprint.

« Skeppy, don’t- »

And then he turned to face his friend.

Had he ever really been his friend?

He drew his sword and pointed it at him. « You lied to me! »

« I was just trying to protect you! » Bad had raised his hands in front of his chest.

« How are you supposed to protect me, when you knew this was happening! » he turned quickly towards the Egg, pointing at it. « This is the reason I can’t trust any of you. » he surged forward, weapon steadier. « You’re just trying to get rid of me. »

In the fraction of an instant, he had hit Bad enough to make him lose balance so to gain some seconds in advantage and rush to the Egg instead, trying to fight away the others from harming it; with every single block they destroyed, the bigger was the pain he felt and the grander his rage flew.

« Bad! » Puffy called behind her as soon as she saw her friend hardly able to fight against the Egg’s will seeping into his mind. She threw her helmet at him, then wore a determined expression when she saw him question her decision.

She adjusted the pickaxe in her hand and shared a look with Ant.

He looked at his side, where Sam had been fending off Skeppy’s attacks while Bad came to aid them, then back at where her helmet used to be. « Are you sure you can handle it? »

Surely, he was surprised when he heard her chuckle and smirk, breaking blocks with even more strength than before.

« For them? Absolutely. »

In a matter of minutes, Sam was back at working on destroying the Egg, while Bad had been able to distance Skeppy from it, still incapable of making the fight stop. There were multiple sword clashes with no result, nothing other than Skeppy gearing up with full armor, while Bad still refused to protect himself with anything other than keeping Puffy’s helmet to block out any unwanted brainwashing.

« How many times do I have to tell you, » Skeppy gained some ground. « That you have to leave me alone? »

« You know I would never. » Bad blocked another attack. « Not when you’re like this. »

The other’s attacks grew more tenacious. « Like what? I am just me and it sounds to me like you’re not accepting it. »

That was the first time he saw Bad hesitate, taking advantage of the upper hand to strike an actual blow on him: he watched as he retreated a few steps behind himself, sucking in a breath from the pain, then looked back at up at him.

« You wouldn’t do this if you were “just you”. » he regained his stance, shakier than his thoughts swirling in his head in that moment.

« Well, » Skeppy switched to his axe, hitting Bad’s arm with the handle so that his sword would clatter to the floor with a clear and loud repetitious clang. « It seems like you’re mistaken. »

Sam and Puffy intercepted each other’s worried glance, while Ant refused to look behind himself: they were still too far behind with their task, if they came to aid Bad, there was a chance they were never going to make it in time.

The three of them gritted their teeth and tried their best to ignore the painful fighting.

Bad tried to steady his breathing, staring at what was left of his friend’s bitter expression, something that didn’t leave any space for who he remembered he used to be, almost nudging him towards withdrawal.

He knew putting his hands up again was useless, when Skeppy had picked up his sword and thrown it way too far for him to reach in time.

He knew it was totally futile to whisper a “Please”, one that was broken and on the verge of tears, like his voice had been fragile glass shattered down on purpose.

And it did hurt. It did hurt when Skeppy shook his head ever so lightly, his eyes narrowed, one corner of his lips curved upward. It hurt when he purposefully interpreted his request to his own advantage, a resignation instead of the last burst of strength as he were gripping at a lifesaver.

« Gladly. » he said, his voice as heavy as someone stepping on that same glass that had already been shattered.

The axe swung and everything turned black.

One down.

It was also the annoyance he wore once Bad came back in his field of vision a few seconds after he had killed him, picking up his helmet and weapons. It was the cruelty with which he didn’t hesitate to strike as heavily as before, not letting the other regain his pace, throwing him right back into their fight.

Quite frankly, Bad felt like an Icarus launching himself towards the Sun, instead of mindlessly flying delicately under it, a conscious choice that would certainly lead to his annihilation instead of a merciless death under an offended deity.

It honestly made him furious.

Why did it have to happen? Why now? Why Skeppy, of all people? Why, in every given situation around that particular circumstance, he had to be the one to suffer most out of them all?

He had always done nothing but been kind, what malevolent deities decided to look down on him and laugh at his face, curse him by taking away the most important person in the world and mock him by bringing him back, his original consciousness completely lost?

There had to be some kind of reason, and yet there was none.

It was just the Fates’ work, the twisting and twirling of his life’s string, but oh, how long before they would decide to cut it? Were they having fun, ripping it apart with their bare hands instead?

Bad could barely dodge any of Skeppy’s attacks, only getting lucky by the other’s need to win that blinded his skills to the point of seeming more out of shape than usual.

« You know what? » he suddenly snapped out of those destructive thoughts. « I don’t believe you. » he fended off the blades that were thrown at him again, seeing him falter once he started talking. « I’m not mistaken, I know who the real Skeppy is. »

For a moment, Skeppy seemed to put his weapon down.

« Do you? » he chuckled, low and dark. « You really think lying to yourself is going to make you feel better? It won't. »

Bad shoved the weapon on the rocky pavement in frustration. « Quit telling me that! I know you’re playing with my head as much as you’re playing with his, and I am sick of it! » he stepped forward, as though nothing scared him anymore. « No matter how many times you kill me, I’ll never stop trying to bring him back! »

« Then die trying! »

He took another step towards him, expression firm and determined. « If that’s what it takes, I will. »

Skeppy stared at him, taking it as a challenge. « Checkmate. » he whispered, as he stabbed him right between his ribs, no regrets as he fell to the ground to his dismay, disappearing right after.

Two.

« Stop! »

Sam and Puffy’s breaths hitched as they turned to see Antfrost approaching Skeppy.

She reached for him. « Ant- »

« Why are you hurting him?! »

« How can you say that when you’re the ones hurting me in the first place? » Skeppy placed a hand on his chest to emphasize his words.

Both looked ready to fight, words unspoken still understood.

« Ant. » Sam beckoned, putting a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him away from his anger.

The moment Bad reappeared, the trio went back to work, although with a sour taste in their mouths, the bitterness of their impotence.

Skeppy turned to face him.

Maybe one last time.

« Aren’t you tired? »

Bad let out a short laugh. « I don’t know anything about giving up. » he announced, maneuvering the hilt of his sword swiftly.

He had eyed the others, noticing they were almost done with their job, the Egg almost completely gone. He had to buy them time, whatever it took out of him.

« Remember when we used to spar together to learn how to fight better? »

« I don’t care about the past. » surely this pretended Skeppy had always been quick to respond.

Bad smiled, despite all. Not that he had anything else to lose. « This kind of reminds me of back then. »

« Consider this a lesson, then. » Skeppy quickly raised his axe and flung it, only for it to meet Bad’s weapon, so that the collision made them both retreat of a few feet.

With every clash in their fight, yet another block of the Egg disappeared, as it was passed around and thrown into lava right after; if it had an effect on Skeppy, it surely wouldn’t have shown. Rather, it seemed liked all the indirect inflicted pain only aided in fueling the ever-growing acrimony that paired up well with his current color.

He looked like the personification of wrath itself: the closer you got, the more you could see the fire burning in his irises.

By then, it was only Bad to carry both of their aching, as he kept their memories safe in hopes of a breakthrough. How much more could he have resisted in his denial state before the realization he couldn’t have possibly made it by himself would strike him?

Or maybe … he had already given up and sunk deep into the knowledge.

Maybe that was why in a matter of seconds he was already on the ground, arms bruised by the friction with the stone, looking up at someone he now failed to recognize.

« I see you haven’t learnt a thing. »

Looking back at it, there wouldn’t have been a single way to make it painless. So maybe … maybe sitting back and letting go …

He needed to help his friends.

Was Skeppy his friend, right then?

Bad looked over to Sam, Ant and Puffy, about to head over the last remaining blocks.

So close.

« Don’t pretend like you actually care. » Skeppy scanned his expression, pointing his trident at him. « You’ve made it clear from the start. » was that his voice breaking? « One thing different about me and suddenly you were whining about wanting the “other” back. You know what? I’m done feeling like I should be replaced because of others’ liking. » he pushed the weapon towards his chest. « Which means I’m done with you. »

He couldn’t really explain it, but as the tips of the trident tore apart his skin, Bad could’ve sworn relief had filled his mind, it was as though the other had stabbed right through all of the hurt that had been pooling inside, leaving some kind of exit for it, a way out so he could finally, finally put a stop to that endless doleful sufferance.

He wished to forget any of that ever happened, he wished they could have erased the emotional scars the moment he came into the deities’ sight, he strove to get the burden off of his back so that, the next time he returned, they could’ve left him alone.

So that they couldn’t have hurt him anymore.

Yet they only teased him, they released him of his struggles, only to put him right back in the middle of the chaos, right in under the eyes of the beast, right between the harpies’ claws; he’d been Prometheus and losing everything that had mattered for him was his eagle, tearing him apart day and night until it was satisfied with the result.

A ghastly portrait of endurance, brought to an end in the worst way possible.

No one can save you now.

« You know I love you. »

What a useless little anchor, isn’t it?

« Oh, no. » Sam watched as their pickaxe disappeared in their hands. « No. » he looked over to Puffy and Ant, still working in opposite sides of the room, way too far to reach in time. Just one block, one more block. His eyes fell on Bad and Skeppy and widened in realization. « No, no, no, no- » he turned back to the last red remain of the Egg and took a deep breath, before protecting their hand with a piece of armor and trying to break it with every last piece of strength remaining in him.

Skeppy lifted his trident again, the first rivulets of blood started flowing.

« You wouldn’t have done this if you did. »

And it had looked poetic, really.

The way Sam had broken the last piece that granted their win just as the Fates decided to rip the string in little pieces, both of them burning their treasure so that neither could’ve ever come back.

And three.

« See? » Bad held up the bucket full of water towards his friend. « Wasn’t so bad, was it? »

The other kid gasped and inspected the colorful fish swimming quietly inside it as though that had been the most wonderful event he’d ever witnessed. « That was actually really, really cool. »

« Thank you! »

« Do you think we’ll be ever able to use a trident? »

Bad giggled in all his young innocence. « Who said we need one? » he pulled up his sleeves and started observing the fishes’ behavior in the lake right in front of them.

Skeppy did the same, a determined smile on his face.

They both intercepted a carp that had stopped swimming right near them.

« One. »

« Two. »

« Three! » they both launched themselves forward to catch it, only that Skeppy actually dived in, jumping into the water by mistake with a flip. The moment he resurfaced, the two newly found friends had stared at each other for a second with a blank expression, Bad had snorted right after and subsequently both had burst into the most genuine and limpid laughter.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that they had finally calmed down, lying in the grass while gazing peacefully at the sky, a sort of comfortable boredom washing over them.

« Hey, could you imagine if, one day, we got to have our own land? » Skeppy had perked up after zoning out on clouds shapes.

« Huh, that would be nice. We could have … mh, we could have a whole mansion! »

« Yeah! And we could get some pets, we could actually be the richest people in the world! »

Bad had laughed. « I don’t hate the idea. »

Skeppy’s expression turned pensive. « What could we call it? The entire property. »

The other kid seemed to think about it for a bit, before gasping and hitting his palm with a fist. « We could call it the Badlands! »

« Wow, that sounds very self-centered. » Skeppy joked, gaining a “hey, that’s not true!” from his friend.

« Doesn’t it sound super cool, though? »

He chuckled again, resting his head behind his arms. « Yeah. » he agreed, fantasy already traveling far. « I guess you’re right. »

Skeppy wasn’t sure if the scream he heard was his or someone else’s, he was sure of one thing only, on the other hand: a white vastity. His body was burning so much that it actually felt cold, his eyes squeezed shut and everything else blocked away from his perception.

The next thing he knew, he was kneeling down over nothing.

He blinked a few times, intaking the deafening silence, as three figures walked slowly towards him, so slowly that he believed they had been dragging their feet on the pavement instead.

He looked to his right.

The sight of blood on his trident worked like a trigger.

He let the weapon fall like he had just touched a sizzling object, letting go of his pyretic madness altogether.

What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?

Where was he? Why didn’t he come back yet? Did he get lost?

He was joined soon by the others, who sat down before him.

Puffy was seemingly the only one able to talk without bursting into tears. « Skeppy …? »

« We have- » he looked at his hands and saw blue. « We have t- The red is gone, see? We have to show Bad, right? Where- »

« He died three times, Skeppy. » her voice cracked towards the end of the sentence, to which she raised a hand to cover her mouth.

No, he didn’t. Yes, he did. He didn’t, right?

He couldn’t be possibly dead. He would’ve never hurt him, not to that point.

Right?

When Ant broke down, all hope seemed to be lost, kind of like a lightning bolt striking down right on a tree and setting it on fire.

Skeppy hadn’t realized how long he had been holding his breath until he choked on a sob and felt his lungs hurt; it all came back to him, the Egg controlling him, the fight, the way he had tried to scream his way out of the hold the infection had on him, how he yelled at it not to hurt his best friend.

He looked down, exhaling sharply as the pavement got dotted with tears.

He didn’t even have anything to mourn on.

Not a single ounce left, something to hold on to so he could remember, remember, remember.

Like he could even forget what he’d just done.

How could he live with that? How could he keep on bearing the burden of such a loss? How could he look at himself and pretend nothing was wrong about him? How would others even be able to face him? His mind raced as no solution could come up.

How did heroes rise up again after the worst-case scenarios?

Everything was way too loud in their quiet aching, so loud that they did not hear steps echoing through the room.

« Oh! »

The four looked up simultaneously, ripped away from their crying: if the voice had come from afar and all of them were sitting right in front of each other, then …

They stood up at once and were met with a figure standing right at the entrance of the room, making their way towards were the egg used to be, coming closer and closer, enough to notice the utter resemblance with Bad they had.

Still … not quite.

« This place looks a little messy. » they chuckled. « I wonder why. »

And sounded like him.

« Bad …? »

He turned. « Oh, hey! What, are you guys having a party without me? » he walked over them quickly and was met only with the widest eyes.

Like they had seen a ghost.

« What- » Sam wiped at his face as the others processed the scene. « What happened to you? »

Bad tilted his head to the side and furrowed his brows. « What do you mean? »

« You … » they stared at him one second: his skin was no longer black, but white, while his outfit had been replaced with white clothing and arctic colored stripes at the edges. His eyes, on the other hand, were as dark as coal. « You just look different. »

« Oh, that? » he waved his hand as if to brush off the topic. « Yeah, that doesn’t matter. I feel great! »

« Great? » Puffy’s voice trembled a little.

« Mhm! » he looked over to his best friend and beamed. « Hey Skeppy! »

How could he face him?

Before Skeppy could say anything, he walked towards him to embrace him in a tight hug, unable to approach him in any other way.

Three tries was all it took him to realize.

Somehow, every time he tried to wrap his arms around his chest, they just seemed to go through his friend's body; was that all a fever dream?

« Oh, yeah. » Bad laughed it off. « You can't exactly hug ghosts, can you? »

The other four's breathing seemed to stall at once, all of their eyes wider than ever before. Puffy raised a hand towards Bad, uncertain. « You're … you're a ghost? »

« 'Course I am, didn't it click when you saw my new style? » how could he smile through all of this?

« Hey, uhm … what do you remember last? »

He wore the most imperceptible frown as his faulty memories tried to piece themselves back together, humming as though he had just woken out from a complete blackout. « We were hanging out, like we always do. » he started walking towards the entrance, leaving the others behind in disbelief.

He made a comment about how they had gone overboard with the decorations upon seeing the obsidian decontamination room, before motioning for them to follow him and disappearing up the stairs.

« Guys- »

« What in the fresh hell? »

« Guys he doesn't remember the Egg … he doesn't remember- »

« He doesn't remember I killed him. »

As silence fell into the room, Ant took the opportunity to excuse himself and keep Bad company, buying them some time to elaborate and process the information just obtained.

« It wasn't you who did that, Skeppy. You know that. » Puffy tried, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Yet, his expression and motives didn't seem to change. « I still blame myself. » then, barely above a whisper. « I will always blame myself. »

Sam and Puffy exchanged an apprehensive look. « Holding a grudge against yourself is not the way to work through this. It won't help you or Bad, either, it will only inconvenience both of you. »

« Exactly. You know if you hurt, he does too. »

Sam nodded. « And there is no reason for you to pin it against yourself. You cannot hold yourself accountable for something your body was being used for. »

Skeppy didn't seem convinced by that answer either, he shook his head and narrowed his eyes. « You think I don't remember fighting you? Or Ant yelling at me? »

« I assure you Ant knows that wasn't you he was talking to! He was just in emotional distress, but he doesn't hold anything against you. He was angry the Egg was making you do all that against your will. »

The three of them sat on the concrete, too emotionally and physically tired for that conversation still unloading.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. « And I only kept it from making you erase our progress, I didn't fight you because I hated you, dude. »

Puffy had sat in front of him and bent her head to search for his eyes. « You were fighting alongside us ever since. We know this. We cannot even imagine how awful it must've been to witness everything and being impotent at the same time. »

It was when he saw her compassionate smile devoid of aggression, the way Sam's hand rubbed his upper back in comfort, it was then that he allowed himself to break down the defensive wall and let the emotions run free, as well as the tears that had welled up in his eyes minutes prior.

« You know how Bad always carefully goes over what we should do in general, how he plans things. How he's powerful and skilled, he wouldn't have let you fight him without it being a conscious choice. » Sam's voice tried to sound as soft as possible. « He's always known how to fend for himself, which means he wasn't out of control of the situation when he started losing. He knew what he was doing. »

« You didn't hurt him. He let the mind-control make you hurt him and you, too, know that is entirely different. » Puffy offered her hands out. « Okay? »

He hesitated before taking them and murmuring an “okay” back, at which the other two took the opportunity to embrace him in a comforting hug.

It surely wasn't easy to not address anything that happened for the sake of Bad's spectral integrity: who knew what would've happened if they told him the truth immediately? Would they have made his state of mind worse? What if they damaged him beyond measure and lost him for good? There was no reason for them to risk it.

Most times they made sure Bad was never alone, especially walking around before they could have removed all the remaining wandering vines or talking to people who had no clue what had happened to him.

There was one day in particular where the five of them had been hanging out together, catching up on different events throughout the weeks, as the tragedy of L'manburg, how Dream had been imprisoned, the prison duty itself that Sam had been carrying on his shoulders as well as a construction site opened with Tommy, where Puffy seldom visited.

One could've said everything was going okay, Skeppy was even letting himself heal, despite how difficult it still was to keep everything from Bad.

Eventually, the only real and effective method to shake off the guilty feelings would've been hearing him say he was free of fault.

Until then …

« You know, I've always thought your ghost form has just reversed colors from your, well, alive one. » Ant had been lying on the beach right at the feet of the mansion, still able to see the top of the prison from his position. « Yet it doesn't click how red became blue. Shouldn't it have been, like, green or something similar? » the color of healing?

« Why do you think? »

« I mean, if you put the primary colors together and you take away red, you will get green out of blue and yellow. Isn't that how it works? »

« Huh. » Puffy examined the colors as well as Bad tilted his head in confusion. « Hey, it kinda looks like Skeppy's skin color, actually. »

« Oh. » Skeppy stretched out his arms to compare the two very similar tones.

Sam nodded. « Oh, they do look very much alike. »

« Right? »

« That's weird. »

« Maybe it's because Alive-me liked Skeppy so much that it affected me as well! » Bad laughed it off and pretended he didn't see his best friend flinch visibly right beside him.

Ant bit the inside of his mouth as he exchanged a concerned look with Puffy. « Oh Sam, didn't you let someone into the prison for visits already? How did it go? »

« Ah, technically there was a small difficulty with the lava, but one can never be too sure of how much you need around the actual cage with genius hazards like Dream. » they sighed. « But it did work splendidly, both for the visitor and the- »

« Could you guys leave us alone for a second? » Skeppy stared at Puffy, Ant and Sam with a trembling determination and, as much as the trio did not want to leave them alone to have that one particular conversation, they couldn't decide for him and chose instead to leave them some space for themselves.

« Is everything okay? »

Bad's concern, somehow, made him feel even worse. Yet, he had to just rip it off his mind like a band-aid.

He looked him in the eyes and, just like that …

« I was the one who killed you. »

… he did it.

And he couldn't stop. Not one second to look at Bad's expression, to look at the happy-go-lucky mask fall, the one he had been wearing up until that moment ever since he had walked down the decontamination room's stairs, the moment he had promised himself he would've wiped his own memories forcefully if he had to do so. If that was going to stop the hurt, he would've pretended.

« I took all of your three lives, all of them. I tried to just stop, but I swear to you it wasn't me, I wasn't in my right mind- »

« Skeppy. » Bad's voice sounded firm, but not enough to stop the other from spilling out words and confessions he had veiled behind shame.

« I couldn't seem to act on my own free will not matter how much I tried, how much I tried to scream, but the voice in my head, the one controlling me, it was so much louder, way too much, and my brain decided to follow it instead of me- »

« Hey. »

« And it hurt, it hurt so bad, you have no idea. I never gave up, I was- I was just never strong enough and I'm sorry because I know you would've probably expected better of me, especially as your best friend, but maybe I'm not fit for it, maybe- maybe I should just- »

« Skeppy, listen to me. It's okay. »

« How is any of that okay? What if I do it again? »

Bad took a deep breath and joined his hands together. « It's okay because I know. I already know what happened. »

Skeppy narrowed his eyes and blinked multiple times before he was able to speak again. « What? »

« I didn't forget a single thing, Skeppy. » his tone grew more exasperated, he then held his head in his hands. « No matter how I pushed the thoughts away, before and after dying, every single detail of everything that happened while I was alive remained engraved in my memory like a curse I had been trying to get rid of for centuries. » he wore a sad smile as he looked back at his friend. « It's like they keep mocking me even in death. »

« You … you lied to us? »

He shook his head, fixing his gaze on the sand instead. « I didn't lie to you. I lied to myself. » he explained. « I tried, you know? I tried to forget so I could feel better, so that all of you could also get a burden off your chests and never think about that topic again. But I failed, of course I failed. »

Seeing the persistent ache in him, Skeppy couldn't really hold it against him for trying so hard to make it all better in the wrong way. Rather, he was reminded of Sam and Puffy's words.

« Bad, one of your fatal flaws is that you tend to go through deep denial states. But you know that repression isn't good right? It's not the way to get through a bad time and nor is holding a grudge against yourself. » he played with the sand next to him. « That's something I was probably going to do if they didn't stop me. I still don't feel good about it, I probably won't be for a while. But if I were to apply what you're doing to yourself, I would just drive myself insane. And you, as well. I know you don't want to do this as much as I don't want to take you down with me in a negative spiral that would only drive us apart. »

There was a moment of silence as Bad intook all of that. « I guess … I guess you're right on that. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I really thought it was the best idea. »

« It's fine, it's not like I wouldn't have tried for the wrong choices either. » a beat, and then. « Wait, how do you not hate me right now? »

« Hate you? How could I, I am happy that we got rid of that monstrous thing. Plus, it's not like we can't hang out like before, right? Here we are having a beach party with all of our friends- »

Skeppy shook his head in exasperation, still wearing a small smile on his face. « This isn't a beach party, Bad. »

« We're having a beach party and there is nothing you can do about it. »

« Oh my god. »

Hearing laughter coming from them, the others decided to join back and were filled in on the situation.

And, of course, they carried on with their beach party.

That was the first night they could spend in peace.

Well, almost.

Skeppy had paced down a blackstone flooring in the heart of the night, his steps echoing through the massive construction.

He was met with familiar eyes staring him down behind a creeper mask. « Are you sure you want to do this? »

Skeppy said nothing and stared at the lava under the bridge before him before he started crossing it; after the bridge retracted, he was let in the cell in the middle of that incandescent pool.

He looked straight ahead of himself, a serious determination in his eyes.

« Hello. » he said, eyeing the silhouette of a man sitting miserably at the back of the cell. « Long time no see, Dream. »

❝ Hurt and grieve, but don't suffer alone.

Engage with the pain as a motive.

Today of all days, see:

How the most dangerous thing is to love.

How you will heal, and you'll rise above. ❞

#dream smp #badboyhalo #skeppy #antfrost #captain puffy #awesamdude #dream smp fanfiction #purp's writings #read the warnings #mcyt #long post #IM SO SCARED TO POST THIS IDK WHY AAAAAAA

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

Text

Downtown Detectives || Morgan & Marley

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @detectivedreameater & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Marley meets another detective.

CONTAINS: Proof Morgan should stick to her day job.

If you’re looking for a sketchy witch, you go to the sketchy witch place in town. Morgan loitered around Amity Row for hours, hoping to spot one of the faces she and Winston had pulled from Coraline’s social media feed. She hadn’t been settled in White Crest very long, just a few months like Morgan, and there were only so many people who were old enough to have the kind of experience to alchemize iron in a body where there should be none. Maybe the parents of one of her college friends, maybe someone from her new D&D group, or-- Morgan’s brow quirked as she saw someone walk out of Stone’s Philosophy. She wasn’t close to the man, but she recognized him from enough faculty meetings to recognize him as Dr. Fridlund from the Chemistry department. He was the kind of guy that gave kids extra credit just for wearing a school shirt on Friday, the kind of guy you would think to trust. The kind of guy who you might meet in some sketchy secondary location because just in time to flex his secret alchemy skills.

Morgan saw him making his way to Eye of Newt, which had started seeing a sudden uptick in business after Vera figured out she’d been slipped a Monkey’s Paw. Morgan made a beeline for the door, power walking faster than any suburban mom ever had, and cutting him off at the door. “Hey! Doctor Fridlund, right? Or, Eric, can I call you Eric? It’s just so weird and great to see you around this part of town! I kinda miss the old Chem Crew a little.”

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” Eric Fridlund adjusted his polo and leaned back on his heels to put some distance between them.

“Morgan Beck? I took on some of the intro classes last semester, because of the TA shortage? We were at a faculty lunch together? You were really excited to talk to me because your mom and I are from the same city!” Excited was a bit of a stretch, but she was going to make him feel as bad as possible for not remembering her. “It’s such a shame we don’t get to see each other more, but you’re busy taking on extra undergrad tutoring sessions, right? I feel like I heard that from one of my summer kids. Coraline Adams?”

Eric Fridlund pretended to understand exactly what the strange woman was saying and tried to ease his way around her. “Of course! So great to run into you. Anyways, gotta--oh.”

Morgan shifted, blocking his way once again. “Actually, I had a weird question for you!”

This part of town was, ironically, where Marley felt the most at home. And the most powerful. Walking around Amity with a badge on her hip and sunglasses firmly shielding her eyes, people shrunk out of her way, or gave her strange looks. That was fine with her, she liked it that way. No one got too close. This was how it was supposed to be, after all. And checking into a lead (even though she was technically still on leave, but sneaking into the precinct late at night to nab some files had been so easy) made everything feel even more normal. Apparently there was some suspicious activity that needed to be looked into down here, likely some sort of drug territory dispute, but of the...supernatural variety. It was right up her alley, literally. The lead told them that the last known sighting of one of the suspects was near Stone’s Philosophy, a cheesy name for a stupid magic jewelery shop if Marley had ever heard one. But the name didn’t matter, because she was here now, and as she went to head into the shop, something else caught her eye. Two people near the entrance to the shop next door, Eye of Newt, and one of them clearly looked uncomfortable. Interesting.

Marley turned and paused, watching them for a moment. The shorter, curly haired woman seemed to be cutting off the man’s route. She had that pinchy, determined look on her face, and Marley recognized it. It would be easy enough to walk away and let them go about their business, but Marley was the curious sort. And so she crossed over and came up behind the two of them, hands on her hips. “Everything okay over here?” she asked, quirking a brow.

There was a tone of voice cops had when they were getting ready to throw their weight into a situation. Morgan knew what the woman across from her was before she clocked the badge at her hip. She went rigid, smiling stiff as she said, “Yes, of course! Just catching up with a friend, right?”

Eric Fridlund considered his options. He had too many shoplifted items in his bag to want to invite too much scrutiny, but he sure wanted to get out of this interaction and get back to his wife and dog. “Sorry if we’re blocking the entrance, we’re just wrapping up here, though, right?”

“Yeah, you were gonna tell me about the last time you saw Coraline. She was in your summer seminar, right? It’s just, you know, so weird that she hasn’t been in class so close to finals, you know?” Morgan touched his arm and steered them away from the door, barely concealing her irritation at the officer. Eric brushed her off with a more pleading look the officer’s way, but obliged nonetheless.

The situation was already strange to Marley but when the name ‘Coraline’ came up, her entire body stiffened. She remembered reading that name on a recent missing person’s report. And while it could be coincidence, Marley’s years as a detective in a small town like this told her it wasn’t. “Did you say Coraline?” she asked, stepping over towards the two, leaving all air of intervening behind. “That wouldn’t be Coraline Adams, would it?” The nervous look on the man’s face didn’t escape her, either. He knew something. Her eyes sharpened and she could feel the want trickling into her bones, the need to feed. It was all she could get these days, was little snacks like this. But the other woman presented a small problem. And so she’d play along for now. “Why don’t you answer the question, buddy, huh? Make this easier on all of us.”

Of course someone had called the flipping cops. Morgan didn’t even know how long Coraline had been missing for, but her body had been stashed at Erin’s for well over a week. Her friends would have noticed eventually. And, what with the whole playing your cards close game supernaturals always had to play, someone had involved the cops without realizing it was the last thing anyone needed. Especially Coraline. But Eric was getting a little wormy under the officer’s attention. Morgan couldn’t rule him out as a real lead. Morgan set her jaw against her irritation and rolled with it. “Uh...yeah. It is, actually.”

“I don’t know. I’ve already emailed the dean of the science college, letting him know that Coraline’s failing my seminar because she refuses to come to class or communicate with me,” Eric said irritably.

Yes, Morgan thought, because she was murdered. “That’s it? You just went straight to her dean?”

Eric shrugged. “I’m a busy guy, and University protocol doesn’t require me to do anything else. Now, uh, speaking of busy--” He gestured with his shopping bag before he realized his mistake in drawing attention to it, flushed, and started to extricate himself from the two women.

Marley could sniff out guilt in almost anyone. Eric looked ready to bolt, his body stiffening at just the mention of Coraline, and the way his eyes averted the conversation when he admitted to having contacted the Dean and only the Dean about her absence. Marley put a hand up, blocking his path, and leaned against the building so he couldn’t escape by her. “Actually,” she said, “you’ve become suddenly not busy, right? Because...you wanna stay here and have a nice chat with us outside of this store, instead of, say...down at the station.” Her eyes sharpened and her stare could be felt, even from behind her glasses. “Right?” When he stopped moving, Marley dropped her arm. “So, why don’t you start from the beginning, hmm? When did you last hear from her?”

Morgan couldn’t help but side-eye the officer. She’d never had one on her side before, not that she knew it was her side. It was more of a coincidence than the law giving a shit for dead, lost fae or knowing how to handle them. She tried to subtly shift her body to pen Doctor Fridlund closer against the shop and peek around his shirt sleeves and collar. Her parents had always worn their transmutation circles on their person, and she knew enough from photos and stories that tattoos were a common practice for serious witches since they couldn’t be lost. There was one of those ‘edgy’ leather bracelets that had ridden up his arm. She couldn’t tell if there was a charm or not, but without being able to tell for sure…

“What? No, I’m...my wife is expecting me and it’s my turn to walk the dog, and I don’t see any, you know, official warrants or anything. I’m positive I don’t actually have to talk to either one of you. You--” Eric pointed to Morgan. “Are you with her? Is this some ridiculous undercover set up?” He tugged on his polo again. “You know what, it doesn’t matter, and I don’t care. I don’t know when she stopped coming to class, at least two weeks ago, if the cops really wanna come take a look at my attendance sheets, they’re welcome to it. I’m sure the tutoring logs are still around somewhere too. We were meeting one on one for help for a few weeks, and then nothing. It’s not pretty, but it happens all the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

Marley narrowed her eyes. People often didn’t cooperate under stress, but it was also a symptom of guilt. He was giving excuses that didn’t make one-hundred percent sense. The other woman was getting squirmy, too, glancing around at the man as if looking for something. Marley followed her gaze only for a bit before turning her attention back to the man. “You know, I think I’d love to pay the school a visit on your behalf. Should I just come directly to your office? Or let the front desk know who I am and what I’m there for? Cause I’m good either way,” she stated firmly, standing between him and his quick exit. She wasn’t entirely convinced this man actually knew anything, but if he did, she was going to get it out of him. And if he didn’t, there was still another thing he could give her. “If she stopped coming to class two weeks ago why did it take you a full week to report her missing to the Dean?”

Eric Fridlund went still. “Christ, she’s missing? Did you know about this?” He whirled his attention on Morgan.

Morgan made no reply.

“Look, the memo to the dean was just a standard form, University Protocol. I put in her ID number, checked why I was technically concerned, she had missed over a week of class and needed to do something or else take a failing grade, and I said something about how we had after class meetings. These idiots realize they’re in too deep all the time, and they’re too busy whining into their cell phones to remember to drop or leave notice. It’s unfortunate, but it happens. My job is to get the real grown ups looped in and hope for the best.”

“But you didn’t say why,” Morgan said.

“I don’t know!” Eric snapped. “Obviously if I knew she was missing, I would have acted more accordingly. If she’s in serious trouble...Christ, I don’t know. What do you think, Beck, another round of grief and crisis inservices?”

“I don’t know, Doctor Fridlund. I’m still wondering why you’re either dangerously negligent or hiding something besides your stupid shopping bag.” She reached for his arm and pulled, dragging down his bracelet as she upset the contents.

“Hey! She can’t do that! Officer, she can’t do that, right?”

Whoever this woman was, Beck, it seemed, she was just as fed up with this boring professor as Marley was. He wasn’t giving her any answers she wanted, and she could feel the anger rising inside of her. “So glad the university has a professor like you who seems to care so much about his students. Waiting whole weeks before reporting them missing while thinking they’re just drop-outs or lazy and not, I don’t know, in need of help? Possibly even using this as a cry for help? Just...delighted,” she growled. It was apparent this situation was more than just a case to Marley, but she glowered into the man’s eyes from behind her shades and restrained herself, just barely, from peering into his fears.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answered slowly, turning her head away as the other woman yanked on him. “I don’t see her doing anything.”

Eric puffed, indignant at this treatment. These bleeding hearts were always after him. He stooped to pick up his knick knacks with what dignity he had left (Christ, he needed to see someone about this. He’d stolen a golf hat from one of the shops and he didn’t even like golf). But before he could get that far, he felt the officer’s eyes on him and looked up. More than anything he wanted to tear his eyes away, to be anywhere but this godforsaken street. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t...this isn’t happening…” He backed away from them both and let the bag fall from his hands. He ran, stumbled to his knees in the street, got back up, and kept running.

Morgan reached out for him again, “Get back here--!” But whatever had come over him was too strong to listen. He left without picking up anything from the ground, and even leaving his bracelet behind. Morgan stooped to pick it up. She recognized the transmutation circle at once and grimaced, burning to have the power to make the ground swallow him up. “Well, that was interesting,” she grumbled. And not exactly illuminating for her peace of mind. She’d passed off her own spellcraft as pure aesthetic to know not everyone with a circle knew the first thing about equivalent exchange.

Coward. Marley flicked her eyes away from him and let the fears fall away. He didn’t actually know anything, she could tell just by the taste-- his fear was darker, different. He didn’t care about Coraline or what happened to her. But she was definitely going to be paying him a visit at the school, and that time, she’d come for him full blast. Whatever he was hiding, he held power somewhere, and she could use that to her advantage. Turning back to the other woman, Marley sized her up. “So...what’s your connection to Coraline?” she asked, raising a brow. “A worried friend? Interested party? Wannabe detective striking out on her own?”

All of Morgan’s rising warm feelings for the officer flatlined. “Oh, I’m just…concerned.” That much was true. “And the guy, you know, he gave me these weird vibes, you know. I just happen to think, you know, it’s a shit show out there and more people should care. Crazy, I know.” Morgan shrugged and looked down at the stolen things on the floor. There was an athame with its price sticker still on in the mix, but most of it was mundane garbage. Morgan grimaced. Completely useless. “Thank you, for whatever you did over there. But I guess I should be going too…”

Marley watched the woman fumble in her words. She was lying about something, but hiding it behind small tidbits of truth. Frowning, Marley moved to pick up the bag. She supposed she should return it to the store it was stolen from. Turning to look back at her, Marley gave her best attempt at a smile. She had a hunch, and it was time to test it out. “Of course,” she said, coming back over to her. She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out one of her cards. “If you think of anything else, feel free to contact me. After all, people like us,” she leaned in a little closer, “we gotta stick together, right?”

Morgan went stiff. What did she mean? Could she smell the death on her? Hear her lack of heartbeat? She was remembering to breathe, right? Or maybe the officer meant something else. Maybe it was people like them as in women, or queer women. All lady officers looked butch, and this one carried no small amount of swagger. Morgan offered her a smile and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not sure what you mean exactly, but I appreciate the sentiment. I don’t generally find police officers to be very sympathetic when it comes to my side of the tracks.” She offered her a wave and started to edge away.

Marley noted the woman’s stiffness at the question, watching her work out exactly what Marley meant. Whatever she said next, Marley already had her answer. Body language was so telling after all. “Well, not all officers have blindfolds on,” she said in return after a moment, “just know there’s someone looking out for you on the squad.” Or watching them closely, in her case. A tip of her head, a crooked smile. She wanted to stay longer, to figure out what exactly this woman was-- but it wouldn’t do to push such a twitchy looking person. “Hey, wait,” she called out, not moving from her spot, “I never got your name. I’m Marley.”

Morgan nodded, her smile curving up in a friendly way. Something sounded familiar about that name, she just couldn’t figure out how. She almost wanted to ask if she knew Jane Wu, but she didn’t want to put the reckless not-zombie into any more trouble than she already got into by herself. “I’ll try and remember that,” she said. “Maybe I’ll look you up sometime to say hey. If you hear from a gal named Morgan, you know it’s probably me.” Keeping the bracelet clenched tight in her fist, Morgan backed herself out of the street and high tailed it for home.

#wr marley #wr chatzy #wr marley chatzy #downtown detectives #wr #wickedswriting

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stevenuniversetanzanite · 4 years

Text

The Angel Among Us (Cordelia X reader) part 5

Wrote this at 12 am this morning. Hope it's not too rushed, I tried to move the plot along. I didn't expect to write 5 parts for this series but I like the plot of oh well. Probably 1-2 more chapters for the prequel before we go to the outpost.

Warnings: Murder

Parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 , Part 4, Part 5 , Part 6 (will be added when done)

Cordelia had been working all hours to find ways to protect the girls. She had piles of protection spells but they all detailed different ingredients and served different purposes. Some only worked on an individual, others on blood relation. She knew the correct one had to be somewhere. A couple of the books were missing from their spot on the bookcase. The last user had not placed the books back in their rightful spot after use. She groaned, using her powers to find the location of the book. She found the book, accompanied by similar titles in your ‘study’. She settled her candle down on the floor as she rested on the floor wincing at the contact. She went to open the book when her cell phone rang. She jumped as the sound rung throughout the room. She left her work phone on the bedstand, her personal on dead and with no power to charge it, it would remain that way until the power grid fixes the electricity.

“Hello, this is Cordelia Goode Headmistress of miss Robichaux's academy for exertional young ladies speaking, how may I help you this evening?” She said when she picked up the device.

“Cordelia, this is John Henry Moore. I have found something that might concern you…”

The man thought you had looked familiar which led the man into a search to see why he thought you recognised your face. John was going through the old archives when he found an old journal about a being described as divine in nature.

The tale, in summary, goes as followed: A woman birthed from light wandered the earth in search of an item she lost. She stumbled on a wounded woman in the red dust. She offered her aid in return she must help the woman of light find what she lost. Without options, the wounded accepted the help. The being of light protected the other woman from the red sand under her feathered wings. As the story goes on the woman refused to help her causing the woman of light to undo her end of the deal. The woman of light left the woman buried in the red dust. The story ends the same way as it began, the woman wandering the earth.

By the warlocks who recorded the story, the woman of light was dubbed the She-devil by some and only seemed to be a threat to woman. The name itself didn’t work to well, as the word has connotation to being a malicious or spiteful induvial while the book displayed her as fair and just, however like the devil loves deals and excepts both ends of a bargain to be upheld. The woman was compared to one of the 19th century who was seen as the living female eqiverlant of the devil making the name more literal.

For a time, she was seen as a goddess among that ill willed men prayed when their wives got to be too much. But do not pray to not call for her if the woman is wounded, a redhead, or the emotionally damaged for you will never see her again.

“I might be missing something but how is this story important enough for me to hear at 10 pm?”

“It’s the drawings that accompany it. In all renditions of the same story all the drawings are the same.” They were all of her girl. The man told her to check her emails for all the photos he took of the book. “I don’t want to accuse people of being someone they’re not but if there was a chance the antichrist was on earth, there’s more of a chance he isn’t alone.”

It didn’t necessarily mean the person was bad and if this hypothetical person was her girl than wouldn’t be it fair to offer her the same that she did with Michael? She would have to make sure the boy didn’t get to her first. She wouldn’t make an offer until she could be sure.

“Is there anything you can tell me about this ‘woman of light’? How to call her? What she wants? Or, how to stop her?”

He left her for a moment to scan the information he had on her. “Nothing was recorded. The men who summoned her never saw her but new of her visit when their wives were gone. One tale mentions an indication of a visit; she steals trinkets from the men and for her favourites, she had been known to steal articles of clothing form the woman. A few accounts of her say not to argue with her and never lose her trust.”

Crap. If they are the same- may not have been the best time to being having a fight… or withholding information from her. Everything would be fine; she was only at a slight disadvantage. She was your girlfriend; she had a higher chance of winning by those odds alone. You had a long history together and what did you have with Michael? Nothing.

You were brought back to the academy in the school’s van driven by Madison. She wasn’t pleased in being forced to drive the school’s van and even less impressed on having to pick you up from the hospital.

The results of your tests were messed up, they blamed them being screwed up due to the power outage and had to retake them. The results were the same, a doctor came into the room to tell you that you should have been dead. Your body tempter was way below that of a person suffering from hypothermia. A few doctors begged to do more research, their sudden eagerness coming off made you feel more of a science experiment than their patient. Not to mention with knowledge of the dangers of being out in the open, you needed to protect the girls now more than ever. Michael knew you by name, claimed you knew his father. What a load of horse shit, you would remember if you knew his father, right? His voice was the same from that night at the gas station. He made you watch the man burn.

As the van grew closer to your destination, you were closer and closer to suggesting places the two of you could go to prolong the drive.

Your mind drifted back to the last night you saw your girlfriend. You should have been angry for yelling at her or withholding information, but you weren’t anymore. She didn’t bother to tell you about problems that would affect you so why bother sharing yours with her. She had no need to know about your interactions with Michael. The boy hadn’t threatened any of the girls as far as you were aware. It seemed to be a personal vendetta against him and Cordelia. Once again you were left out of the loop. You had no clue what the boy was or what he was capable. You knew he was powerful if the warlocks would mistake him for the ‘Alpha’.

The boy spoke to you as if he trusted you or at least needed something from you, ‘You have no need to fear me Y/N, I come here as a friend.’ And suggested that Y/N L/N wasn’t your real name, ‘But you’re Y/N M/N L/N or at least that’s the name you go by on Earth.’ Few knew your middle name, not even Cordelia could recall it from memory.

You decided to keep this information to yourself. It might help you save the coven if you were seen as his friend. If you wanted it protected, then would he harm it?

Sat in Cordelia’s office, you twiddled your thumbs. The two of you had been silent from the moment you’d returned. She had requested for your presence, sending one of the students to fetch you. She was treating you like a student who’d gotten in trouble and was not sure what she was going to do or say to you. You stared at her directly waiting for her to make the first move. You didn’t want to see her, you were back here to do your job, protect the girls from the threat your girlfriend didn’t care enough to tell you about. Clearly you weren’t important enough to her and thus shouldn’t waste your time which you only found out is limited.

The blonde faced her back to your, her vision focused out the window she stood in front. The curtains were pinned back to allow the cool breeze to fill the room to remove the slight stench of decay in the air. It wasn’t something you noticed before, but it lingered around her person. Your senses were heightened ever since the serge of energy you got before the power out. Reading the woman became more predictable. She would wait in hopes that you’d start the conversation, when you don’t she would force herself to being on something minor then the discussion with grow into the major problem on her mind. It would start out as distant but by the end of the night you’d both be cuddled up in the shared bed.

Cordelia moved over to her chair across from you. It too at a distance. Where to even begin with you? Cordelia thought. With your powers? Telekinesis, Transmutation, Divination and Pyrokinesis, three out of four she didn’t know you had until the last couple of days. Or how about your newfound smoking habit? She told you she didn’t approve, was she going to scold you for that first?

“Has she passed all the tests?” You snapped the woman out of her train of thought. You never started the conversation first.

“Who?” You started talking to her like you had been having a conversation for a while now and expected each other to be on the same page.

“Mallory.” Was this the only thing you’d been thinking about since the last time you spoke? Cordelia pondered.

“Yes. There’s only a mattered of time now.”

“Then what? The coven moves on like normal?”

“Eventually,” Cordelia answers plainly. “Yes.”

“Unbelievable.” You rolled your eyes shifting your body to face aware from her.

“We can talk about this later, for nor there are more pressing matters.”

“Like what? What’s more important than your eventual death.” You snapped. “The stench of death surrounds this coven and that bloody window isn’t helping anything.” You point at the window. “Seriously light a candle or something.”

“Maybe it’s from all your cigarettes. And for more pressing matters, you and your dangerous behaviours. Smoking, Y/N, really?”

“You found out? Who snitched?”

“No one had to Y/N-”

“No~ someone told because it took you too long to figure that out otherwise.”

The two of you fought back and forth, the conversation got heated. You were face to face shouting at each other. She compared your behaviours in the conversation to a child when she was wanted to talk to you like an adult. You told her she had no say over what you do, say or act and if she cared more, she would be around you more. She blamed her lack of time on being the supreme and that you wouldn’t understand responsibility or the threat of danger because you hadn’t had to deal with witch hunters or warlocks who want you dead. You had dealt with people wanting you dead, hunting you down for sport. She called you bluff. Inches apart, you towered over the other woman, but she didn’t find you intimidating for one second.

“We need to be honest with each other-”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

Once you were both done tearing each other to shreds, you were both out of breath. The blonde kept eye contact. Your eyes, that were still staring daggers at her, were fully dilated.

“You want to-” Cordelia went to ask.

“Bedroom or office?”

Cordelia thought for a moment. No one would dare go into her office without permission while her office was free ground and she didn’t want to be disturbed. “Bedroom.”

“Good choice.” You picked her up and she wrapped her legs around your waist. She cupped your face and pulled you in for a long kiss. In was only a matter of seconds before she was lying on her back as you shifted your hands were from when you were holding her. Your hand found it’s way to her stomach when she hissed out in pain. You recoiled back, an apology slipping from your lips. The words didn’t register as her main priority was the sudden pain.

“You alright?” You asked when you didn’t receive a response.

“Yeah,” she groaned, hunching over, her hand cupping the area in pain.

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me the area.”

“Y/n”

“Show me, please,” you begged giving her your best puppy dog eyes. Anxiously, she unbuttoned her blouse. The mood died down with your concern for your girlfriend.

“Oh. God,” you gasped. One hand covered your mouth, the other reaching out to touch the one of the many wounds. They’d spread over her torso, in all the most frequently touched places you’ve touched. The wounds were shaped like cracks in a wall that were never maintained. The largest and most discoloured one was the on the left side of her stomach. It was the same one that got her researching in the first place.

“Y/n.”

“Delia.” you shook your head, in a state of shock. “Delia-Delia.” You crawled away, keeping your distance from the woman, in fear that a single touch of her and she’d shatter. “I didn’t mean to touch it- oh god, why didn’t you tell me it’s gotten worse?” You choked up, eyes darting between the woman and her body.

“I’m fine Y/n-” She tried to console you even though she was the one in pain. You should be helping her. Stop being a cry baby and comfort your girlfriend. “You didn’t mean to-”

“No, you are not Delia. You’re in pain. I can’t even touch you anymore without-” You stopped mid idea. “I didn’t mean to?”

“Yes, baby, it’s not your fault.”

“Not my fault?”

“How about we call it a night and try again another night?” Cordelia smiled weakly and you felt completed to nod in a similar calibre.

“Sorry, I ruined the night.”

“It’s fine, love and you didn’t ruin anything.” Cordelia paused for a second to think of her next move. As much as she wanted to, she didn’t think she could physically sleep next to you tonight. Her body ached at the contact of anything, she didn’t need you acting as a catalyst for a more painful and sleepless night. As much as it tugged at her heart, she needed to distance herself in order to work. By tomorrow, she can figure out a way to solve this and have everything back to normal. “I do need to speak to you about something. You know how I suggested we be honest and keep each other informed about our lives?”

“Yes.”

“That warlock I told you about, he threatened the coven. I need your help as well as the others to prepare some of the more skilled students to perform a protection spell.”

“Of course, I can do that tomorrow-”

“It would take half a day to get the ingredients-”

“-and you want it done as soon as possible?” Cordelia nodded. The woman rarely condoned your eagerness to work on magic, that’s why you offered to do it tomorrow. You weren’t going to complain that the woman wanted you to work but it made you sceptical. “Alrightly then.” You bounced up and dashed to her side to plant a kiss on her check. She bit her tongue.

By one in the afternoon the next day, the spell was ready for casting. You were put in charge of overseeing the protection spell while Cordelia had a meeting with Mallory. You weren’t happy about the news of her replacing your girlfriend, but Cordelia assured you everything would be alright. She knew that with you and Myrtle helping Mallory, the coven would be in safe hands. You wanted to believe her. It would take a long time to move on. She isn’t dead yet, calm down and focus on the moment, you thought.

“We can’t always control the energies around us. Negative emotions, sickness, toxic people, unwanted spirits. These things are unavoidable,” Zoe said.

“But the guardians chalice is our first line of defence against all of that,” Queenie said.

“Uh~ a bear trap for bad juju. You just stash one here and around a space you want to protect and-”

“-and that's not even enough, not without this dope ass mantra to recite before. That's going to put all this power into these jars of junk.” Queenie handed out papers with the incantation on them. She offered you one, but you passed already knowing the spell. “Everyone repeat after me. We’ll do it together.” Everyone joined in. “Any unwanted spirit, with negative energy, you must leave now.” Something was off, you stumbled back towards the wall, grabbing onto it for support. No one noticed, thank god. “Any evil presences must leave now.” The front door called out to you. You needed to get out of here. Have a smoke or anything, just not be in this house. “Only light presences and healing energy is allowed in here.” They repeated the mantra again.

Slowly, you slid against the wall, crumpling at the floor, fighting against the small part of you that wanted to leave. Suddenly, the urge died down and you blurted out, “It’s broken.”

Before the others could comprehend what you meant, Michael made his grand entrance.

“Clearly that mantra’s bullshit. Oh, come on. You can’t be that surprised to see me.”

“Fuck no you were prophesied, darling. Up yours.”

“I told Cordelia what I was going to do to all of you. I have deaths to avenge.”

Zoe and Queenie used telekinesis to fling glass shards towards Michael but he reversed it, hitting the girls and Bubbles. You sprung up, leaping out in front of the table to protect the remaining girls. You raised your hands on guard and recited a protection spell for a barrier. Mead walked out.

“Mead! How the fuck are your here?”

“I was built for this,” she said, removing her arm revealing a gun. Mead gunned you down before you could finish. You dropped to the floor. You felt the warm blood flowing out of your body. The man smirked while observing the death of your sisters.

She shot down Zoe. Queenie reached out, grabbing a shard and slitting her throat. A large gash formed at Mead’s throat, white liquid pouring out. Queenie was shot as well as any girls trying to get away.

You clenched your stomach, applying pressure to the wound. “Nice show.” Michael’s attention brought you. Michael offered out his hand to you. He registered you had no idea what he was talking about. “You're fine. You're not bleeding.” What was he on about? Of course, you were. You looked down to prove it. Your clothes are stained red. “These witches have done a number on you.” You were still confused. “Take my hand and I’ll explain everything.” Hesitantly, you take it. You were scared he would gun you down again and unlike last time you’d remain down.

“What am I?”

#cordelia x reader #cordelia foxx x reader #cordelia goode x reader

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deathduty · 4 years

Photo

[the letter is placed under the snow globe alongside a delicate squirrel leg bone. The handwriting is clustered, messy, and dotted with ink dots where Morgan paused to think. It has been written in one, effortful sitting.]

My dearest love, Deirdre,

I still don’t know how to tell you what I saw in the mirrors. I’m not even sure how important it is anymore. It’s possible that there was nothing to the visions at all besides my worst fears and best hopes. And if there’s no prophecy, no real magic besides some cruel invasion of my mind, what can it matter? But I have promised you, at least in my heart, that I would try.

I saw enough of my past to realize just how much of my mortal life I spent in tears. I don’t know what to make of this. Was it just my curse compounding the normal share of suffering I was due into a surplus? Was I just unlucky, or made from the start with something sad in me? I have so few memories of my childhood that stay happy for very long. In most of them I am alone, or with my dad, or keeping some secret. Should I tell you about some? I didn’t get to see any, because that hall of mirrors wasn’t that kind of place, but you should know at some point about how my dad and I would stay up late watching the episodes of Star Trek and Beauty and the Beast he’d tape-recorded during the day and all the popcorn and m&ms we had that spoiled my breakfast the next day, or the stories I would make up in bed to soothe myself asleep because I didn’t want to disappoint or anger my mother by crying for company, or the first doll I was able to transmute by myself. I trim the harsh edges off these images because I fear that if I get too close to the hurt that came before or after it will swallow me up and crush everything else I am under its weight. And yet, everyone I have met here has suffered just as bad, or worse. Is the world that cruel? Is that why we must at least try to be kind? So that we can create, if not fairness, then at least enough of a counterweight to the awfulness that our existence becomes bearable, or if we are very lucky, good? Is my miserable little life a sign that such thinking amounts to so little as to be pointless? Is my zombie life a backhanded reprieve? I don’t know.

But that isn’t all I saw, nor all that being lost in those mirrors have made me think about.

I saw so many other turns my mortal life could have taken this year. Terrible, fear driven turns that would have destroyed me completely. I saw what a sad excuse of a life I would have had if I’d just given up and stayed home like my mother would have wanted me to and I saw what might become of our future. And while I don’t know how much stock to put into these sights I do know these things:

1. I would do it all again just the same if it meant knowing you. 2. I miss the chance to make something better of my life. Even if it was doomed all along, it would have been nice to be able to try. 3. Though I miss sleep, especially in your arms, I do not miss death itself any longer. At least, not often.

And there is something else, though I don’t know how to articulate it so clearly. What is a future, exactly? Over the years I have shrunken my expectations so much, I think I’ve forgotten how to look beyond the span of a week or a month with anything but dread. You make it so easy to dream of pleasant things, but what is the difference between that and a future? Do you know, or is that something else we can learn together? Am I learning already, by thinking that you would have me long enough to make this a worthwhile question? As before, as always, I would let you go if you asked me to and meant it. Whatever little webs of expectation we create, I don’t want them to become a trap you feel you can’t escape. You are free, my love, to do as you wish. But I hope you will stay and keep me. I hope we can transpose a fraction of the world we have when we are together into something tangible. I hope I will become…something, someone, more than what I am right now and that you will still love me as much as you say. I hope, even as my body and handwriting resist the impulse. I am still scared, you see. But I do not want to ruin myself with fear. The time we stand to have is so very long, and I think you would forgive me if I did something fearful or reckless, but I would rather not consign more years to mistakes. I would rather listen to any other impulse, be it rage or joy or something, anything else. I would rather have a life with you.

There was a strange, untethered paragraph on the back of your last letter that seems to beg an answer. I hold nothing against you, Deirdre. But you have my forgiveness, entirely, for anything you see as coming short. I have felt the same as you in every way you expressed. I love you when you are soft, and I love you when you are hard. When you cry, and when you laugh. I love your every freckle, and I would love you if they vanished one day. You do not even have to be ‘good’ to have my love whatever that word constitutes. You need only be yourself. In every mood, attitude, pose, time of day, distance, feature, absence, and presence–I love you, Deirdre. If I had the world to give you, I would give it at once. If I had all the magic in the universe, I would use it to conjure you every happiness. And yet, all I have is me. And even if love is just love, the gestures, the care, the deeds, and the words you give me because of that love is an abundance I don’t have the language to inventory or express appreciation for. It feels, at times, like everything and more. It has been enough to give me the courage to write to you this plainly. To tell you that I would have no regrets if it so happened that I am in love with no one else but you for the rest of my days, however long they may be. It is more than enough, and I am so much the better for it.

I hope and strive to give you even a portion of the good you have given me in return. May I continue to do so, at least symbolically, with this snow globe? I had it made just for you by a friend, to rebuild our collection of glass knick knacks. We never saw snow together this past winter, but it reminds me of how Hambry Park looked when I passed by once. Maybe when the snows come again, I’ll be able to show you.

I am still yours,

Morgue

#😭😭😭#im crying AGAIN THANKS #also that snowglobe looks amazing good job envy and your dolls #letters #c: morgan #submission

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creativerogues · 5 years

Text

So, How We Gonna Resurrect This Bard?

The door busts open, swinging on its hinges, the metal handles slamming against the wall of the church as those that stand within turn to face the disturbance.

There, astride two steeds crafted from dark and shadow, sit a raggedy young wild-man, still covered in a layer of fresh wet soil and his veins still burning a cursed purple-green as the poisons of a green dragons breath continued to spread...

And atop the other phantasmal steed sits a tortle with blistered skin and watery eyes. He spoke through wheezing breath, his voice amplified as purple-blue sparks of arcane energy shoot and fizzle from his throat.

"We seek aid. Priest... Holy Man... Anyone...!" The Tortle spoke through coughs and splutters.

The steeds soon dissipated as the dismounted... And you almost didn't notice the haggard aaracokra man with withered feathers standing with a decayed body in his hands...

The three walked in, tired and desperate, and take a stand within the church at its entrance, blocking your leave.

"Please." The wild-man spoke for the first time, his voice rough and strained, his breathing heavy...

"He's been dead for four days, maybe five." The wild-man spoke again as he looked down at the body, the decay obvious and the stench almost burning to the nostrils, but none of the three seemed to care nor notice...

"We can pay." The old tortle spoke as a desperate attempt to sway your thoughts and give the group favor...

"We'll find a way to pay..." The wild-man spoke under a whisper, the Bird-Man carrying the corpse remaining silent, simply looking around the room.

The one of the holymen walks over, and despite the situation, knows these are not men of money, power or status.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my brethren-" The Priest uttered until he was interrupted by the Bird-Man.

"We don't want you pity." He spoke with a strain, his withered feathers hanging from the wings between his shoulders...

The Aaracokra looked up, taking his eyes off the corpse of his Friend. He'd taken so much time trying to stay alive that he almost forgot about the Friend that fell along the way.

He spoke again, his eyes barely containing a rage that could've burned hotter than the poison still in his lungs...

"You will f*cking fix him..."

So, here's the dealio. I wanted to do some World-building and DM Prep for my Players next session, which I've entitled "The Fixer-Upper" because I love to title each session and the Players are still in the process of fixing the colossal f**k-up that they caused...

And with the Players hopefully resurrecting Foot, and dispelling the magic that's held Whinny the Rogue, I thought that since the last call to action to create some Thieves worked so well, a call to action again might yield some fun results!

So what's the request?

Well, if the Players want to resurrect their Tabaxi Bard Friend, they're going to need someone that can do that: A Cleric, a Paladin, a Necromancer even?

So, I thought I'd ask the Community once again to create their own NPCs for my Campaign, since I loved the Characters made last time and I'd love to see more!

But to give you all a head start in Character Creation, let's tell you what I have on the lands of Valdor, the place the Party is currently adventuring through.

Valdor is the Country that lies east of Carthisia, over the Himmelblas Mountain Range that almost splits the Continent in two.

Individuals native to Valdor (known as Valdorians) have dusky brown skin and dark brown or black hair, having dark brown eyes.

Valdorians number many in the Silver Charge Mercenary Company of the Himmelblas Mountain Range, but far less than the numbers of Minotaurs, Goliaths and Orcs that live within the mountains on the west of Valdor's Borders.

Valdor is known for it’s many Mercenary Companies: The Shadow Hand, The Readied Blades, Brothers of the Mask, and The Slayers’ Band to name just a few.

Knights of the Knife, Gentleman of the Shade, Berespan’s Bravos, The Long Knives. They're the more of the famous Sell-sword Mercenary Companies.

The Three Biggest Mercenary Companies in Valdor are:

The Crackbone Company: A Company of ~20 Members, mainly Half-Orcs and Mountains Dwarves from Unter & Vuul to the north-west of Valdor, with Goliaths, Minotaurs and some Humans...

The Skull-Smoked-Frogs: A Company of 17 Members. Lead by a Female Tabaxi by the name of Owl on the Stone Shore. Her lieutenants are a Green Grung by the name of Osakwe, and a Kenku by the name of Dog Sneeze (’Sneeze’ for short).

Seven in Scarlet: A Company of just seven members, known for wearing only scarlet red clothing. Some say that the majority of these Members are in fact former Red Dagger Assassins who became disloyal to the Emperor of the Desert Kingdom of Rassurmurait to the South.

And that's pretty much it.

The only real "locations" to speak of are a Volcano to the far, far south that used to be a Red Dragon's Lair centuries ago, and the City of Bluemite, which used to be a small city run by a Free Noble House before said Red Dragon burned the town down to ash.

So, this is my written permission (within reason!), given to you, to create a Town, City, Location or whatever you need to suit the "Bard resurrecting" Character's Backstory.

Maybe they lived near the Volcano, maybe they're not even from Valdor! Who knows!?

But, just like last time, I'll give a template to help everyone get started, but think about why this Character, whoever they are, would want to help the Party, and would they resurrect the Bard for nothing, for a favour, in the name of a God...?

Anyways, here's the Template to get y'all started:

Name: Race: Class: Subclass: Appearance: Personality: History: Motivation: Something Cool:

And remember, not all spells that can resurrect someone are specifically for Clerics. You're Character could be a Necromancer, a Paladin, a Cleric serving a Good God or even an Evil God.

Transmuters, Bards, Sorcerers: A lot of people can Raise Dead...

But anyhow, GO FORTH, create NPCs in Valdor and who knows, maybe the Party will gain some new allies (or enemies) in their Quest to defeat the Verdant Death that is Greshan himself...

#dnd #DnD 5e #creativerogues #campaign ideas #d&d campaign

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circuscarnage · 5 years

Text

Potion class panic.

Just a silly one-off fic featureing Sebek Zigvolt and Jack Howl. Thank you to @holyheaven for letting me use his idea.

Words: 1901.

Potions was one of most interesting classes at Night Raven Collage. It taught the students how to use items that they would not usually use in other settings, such as cauldrons and exotic ingredients. It also educated them on how to defend themselves without the use of their wands. It was remarkable what you could put into a tiny potion bottle. Divus had noted that a good magician always has a potion or two up their sleeve, 'just in case' anything were to happen.

In all honestly, they were quite handy. If you were defenceless and needed to run away from battle, just use a mist potion to distract your opponent as you made a safe escape. If you were facing a powerful enemy and were seconds away from death, you better hope you packed a healing elixir, otherwise... Well, you get the point.

The potion class for the first years was more tame, focusing on introducing the students slowly to the dangers of the magical liquids. Instead of throwing them into the deep end immediately, Crowley offered a calmer experience. Things really got exciting in the second year, but we are not here for that.

Students were paired up in teams of two, preparing a special potion set out by Divus Crewel, the potions teacher. Don't let his love of fashion fool you. Even though he may not look it, he is one of the most powerful potion masters at Night Raven. The potion they were preparing today was a weak transmutation potion. Divus warned that any misdemeanours when making this would earn a detention, as well as a stern talking to from Mozus. As such, everyone was on their best behaviour. Sebek was practising his own work, using the scales of mermaids, unicorn blood, and the hair of a phoenix to create his elixir. It was almost complete, all he had to do next was to stir and let it simmer for a few minuets. In all honestly, he didn't know what to do once he created it. He had no need for this potion, he could cast a transformation spell himself. Perhaps he could gift it to Malleus? Would he enjoy such a gift? He was already powerful enough, giving him something as trivial as this would be considered nothing but a trinket. But maybe he would like the thought?

Sebek was too busy in his own thoughts to notice another student carrying a few too many bottles. They fumbled around between their fingers before eventually letting one slip, and sending it cascading towards the floor. It shattered upon impact, sending a marvellous crash throughout the entire classroom before it was engulfed in a thick pink smoke. It was utter chaos. No one could see and inch in front of their face. A chorus of coughing and confused cries could be heard as students tried to swat the smoke away, opening windows and using text books to clear the room. "Is everyone alright?" Divus called as he batted the pink mist away with his free hand.

Once the mist has dispersed, everyone looked around, eager to see whether or not it had any effect. Potions class could be disastrous if something went wrong. It could be as small as turning a desk into a piece of cake, or as big as accidentally summoning an almighty fire demon hell bent on destroying the entire school. Thanks, Floyd.

But as the students searched around the classroom, they were disappointed at the lack of change. Everything seemed to be in place. Every potion bottle was securely where it was left, and not a singe desk had been transmuted into a terrible beast. There was a calm silence that lay over the students, letting out breaths of relief as they settled once again.

That was until the entire class had their attention drawn as the sound of another glass shattering filled the air. Simultaneously they turned in the direction of one student, who was standing next to a broken bottle filled with pink shimmery liquid, accompanied by a long and scaly crocodile tail. At first, Sebek was taken aback. He hadn't realised a crocodile had made its way into the school. He jumped back, surprised when he realised the tail was following him wherever he went. How did a crocodile even get in here? He turned himself around, trying to get a glimpse of the creature. But wherever he was facing, the crocodile seemed to be right behind. At this point, he seemed to have connected the dots. A mild panic started to build up in his chest, which seemed to affect the tail as well, as it started to flail wildly. Some students took the initiative to stand back, far away from the manic tail, while others attempted to stifle a laugh, amused by the tails antics.

With one wave of his hand Divus silenced the group of youngsters. His footsteps echoed through the room as he sauntered across the class, stopping to take a peek at the newly grown tail. It was quite the sight. Reminiscing that of a real reptile tail, it swished back and forth under his gaze. "How peculiar." He hummed. After a moment of inspecting it, he walked back over to his desk, where he took out an old purple book, carved with strange markings. He flipped through the pages before settling on one towards the middle. "Not to worry, I'll have an antidote ready later. You'll just have to wait it out until then."

The tail was going to be a challenge. Even though it only came down to the back of his knees, it was plenty powerful, and could cause some serious damage if he wasn't careful. He needed to get this sorted quickly. With this tail causing problems, he wouldn't be able to protect Malleus properly! Even the thought of not being there when Malleus needed him most was enough to send Sebek into a blind panic. His emotions also seemed to affect the tails behaviour, as it started to flail wildly again, knocking over several more potion bottles, sending them crashing towards the floor.

"Bad pub!" Divus called from the other side of the class as he stormed over. Sebek stood still, fearing that his behaviour would leave a bad mark on his record. When he eventually made his way over, Divus took Sebek by the collar as he lead him outside the classroom, treating him like a new puppy who had torn up his favourite cushion. "I advise you to stay out of trouble until I sort this out." With one hand on the door frame, and the other placed on his temple, Divus let out one final request before slamming the door in Sebeks face.

"Now, sit. And stay."

Sebek walked along the cobbled path of Night Raven, letting his tail swish lazily behind him. Ever since he left the classroom, it calmed down, no longer feeling the need to rampage among the potion bottles. Originally, he had planned to stay put like Divus told him to, but Crowley was patrolling the halls that day, and advised that he take a walk around the school to let off some steam. It seemed to be working.

He let out a small sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He sincerely hoped that Divus wouldn't be mad at him. Surely, he would understand it was an honest mistake. He also hoped the other students would forgive him, he didn't mean to cause a scene. With any luck, they would be able to continue the class without any more disruptions.

"The hell happened to you?" Jacks voice cut through Sebeks inner monologue, and drew his attention towards the Savanaclaw student sitting idly by himself on a nearby bench. The white wolf gestured to the newly grown tail, studying it intently. He had seen students with similar features, those being from the reptile family, ranging from lizard tails, snake like features, and even tortoise shells. However, he knew Sebek wasn't one of them. And seeing him with one was... weird, to say the least.

"There was an... accident." Sebek confessed before telling his friend what had transpired in the class before. The stress seemed to be getting to him, as when he explained all the horrors of having said tail, it started to swing again, smacking into whatever poor soul was walking past them. Jack grumbled as he watched Sebek try to get a grip on his own tail, flustered and fumbling around. It looked like a dog trying to chance its own tail, and failing miserably. Of all the students here, the savanaclaw ones were the ones most experienced with having extra limbs. Jack was reminded of his own tail, remembering how hard it was to control when he was younger. For some reason, that seemed to piss him off more.

"Christ, can you get a grip on that thing?" Jack called out, his hand instinctively gripping onto Sebeks new tail and keeping it in place. It was against the Savanaclaw rules to grab another students tail, but Sebek wasn't in Savanaclaw, and this situation was already getting out of hand. His tail seemed to become even more panicked as it squirmed under his tight hold. Sebek was no different, getting agitated by this fact. The new nerve endings in his tail seemed to scream at him, compelling him to fight back.

"H-hey!" Without thinking, Sebek grabbed onto Jacks already heightened tail, causing it to bush up even more. At first, Sebek had grabbed Jack's tail as a way to get back at him. An eye for an eye, or in this case, a tail for a tail. But as he met the others gaze, he could practically feel the atmosphere change around them.

Canines bared, ears heightened, and eyes glaring with animistic ferocity, Jack seemed ready and raring to pounce at any given moment. "Let. Go." Jack barked as he stared Sebek down with frightening intensity. It didn't take much for Sebek to match Jack's bloodthirsty stare. He was already quite intimidating without even trying, now he looked like he could take down Malleus with a single glare. "You first." Both males seemed to be increasingly reluctant to back down first, each of them having individual pride that they were not willing to put aside.

They stood there for a moment, glaring each other down, growls starting to emerge in their throats. It wasn't until the sound of someone clearing their own throat that they realised they weren't alone. Another student had stumbled upon the scene, and was trying to process what was happening. "Divus is looking for you, said something about an antidote?" As the student spoke, they couldn't help notice the strange situation they had walked upon. Their face furrowed in confusion as they let out a shaky question, "Is that a tail?"

Both men immediately let go of the other and straightened up, brushing off the remaining hostility that lingered in the air. Sebek coughed to clear any more awkwardness before speaking. "Thank you for reminding me, I had better be on my way." He turned back to Jack, having the courtesy to at least bid him a farewell. Jack only turned away and let out a small growl, still mad about having his tail grabbed. Sebek made a mental note to apologise for that later.

#twisted wonderland #sebek zigvolt #jack howl #one off #thank you for reading #Should I do more of these?#They are really fun to write

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wheremytwinwatches · 4 years

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[Where My Twin Watches]: Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood Episode 25

Last time: The last Goth was too shy to make an on-screen appearance, Fuhrer Bradley had a nice peaceful dinner with his family, and Roy and Ed competed for the title of “In The Worst Spot”. Onwards!

Ed’s wandering around some hellish landscape that’s giving me flashbacks to AoT (brrr), blaming “that idiot prince” for getting him stuck wherever this is. Ling does not appreciate the peasant calling “the future emperor of a nation” an idiot. Ed’s running forward to check on his friend teammate associate, but then comes to a halt. Right, they got trapped with a shapeshifter, didn’t they? Ok, Ling should be good, no one else could make reciting the hotel room service list a threat. As for Ed? A quick “little runt” test and Ling’s convinced as well. Now, how to get out of here? Episode 25 - “Doorway of Darkness” The two looking around, noting that everything in here is stuff that Gluttony has “eaten”, like the house they were keeping him in earlier, the Lieutenant’s car, and even all of Roy’s fire that is oh-so-conveniently providing light in this cavernous space now. Tardis space ftw! Ed has a brief moment of panic when he sees Al’s cutoff hand, calms down when they realize that he was outside the Eraser Gun. Well if he’s outside, is there any way to contact hi- [Ed, spazzing out and waving Al’s hand around]: “Ahhhhhhhh!!! Conveniently awaken, telepathic powers…! Elric brother telepathy!” [Ling]: “Yyyyeah, good luck with that.” After that failed “attempt”, they continue on, looking at all the different time periods of rubble in the Stomach. Still, Ed’s confident that they can find or make an exit. Even if the Well idea is a bust, and “running in a straight line to reach a wall” isn’t working… Oh hey May, how are you? Aw, sad that your panda was accidentally kidnapped by Al? Come on, don’t be sad (or put out the fire with your tears, please). Backstory time! First about the panda (disease while young kept her from growing, abandoned by her mother, taken in by May), then for May Chang herself; her clan’s one of the lowest of the fifty in the Xing Empire. [May]: “Maybe that’s why I was drawn to her. She looked so helpless and weak, I couldn't help but identify with her. But at the time, I guess I just took pity on her more than anything.” So after an initial bite, we get scenes of them growing up together, even sparring. Daw, sibling bonds. Something you and Ed can talk about, next time you meet up and aren’t dealing with a rebel fighter. Aw, Scar’s been lurking in the shadows while May waxes on about her adopted sister, probably making his own flashback connections. Sorry dude, you already had your history episode, it’s May’s turn now. Just let her talk about her motivations, how giving the Xing emperor immortality is the last hope for her clan (like Ling, dammit why can’t both clans be saved?)... nope, Scar’s fed up with being out of the spotlight and tells the other two to get moving. Or not? Daw, are you really gonna help her find the panda? Yoki proves he has at least a few brain cells, noting that as one of the last Ishvalan survivors Scar “knows a thing or two about loss.” Back in the Stomach, Ed and Ling are still trudging along, Ed’s so desperate that he’s promising to let the freeloading prince get anything he wants from room service once they’re out. But even that’s not enough to keep Ling going, he collapses and tells Ed to keep going. The Fullmetal Alchemist rants and raves that he’s not letting someone as weak as Ling drag him down, he’s off to find the exit. Yup, totally leaving. Seriously leaving him to die. Not messing around…. Yeah, no points for guessing that when the “threats” weren’t enough Ed just picked the prince up and lugged him along, ranting about how they both have too many people waiting for them outside. But then he collapses too, and both are left gasping for breath on some rubble and so hungry that they made Boot Soup. After their “filling meal”, Ling apologizes for getting Ed trapped, but the Alchemist just blows it off as not even being as bad as what Teacher put him and Al through. Optimism? Nah, just sheer stubbornness. And fear of Al’s metal fists if he actually gives up. Hey, there’s the third prisoner of the Stomach! Ed immediately begs to be shown the exit, Ling can’t even start properly arguing about asking the enemy for help when Envy bluntly states that “there is no exit”. Yikes, it’s so tough not even a Goth can get out? Hmmm, so this is a semi-Portal of Truth. Not like the real one that Ed and Al went through way back when, but a failed experiment by Father to make his own Portal. Hmm, showing a limitation of the Goth’s creator then. The point is, these three are stuck in a place in between Reality and Truth. As for what they can do? [Envy]: “All we can do is wait here to die.” Midshow pictures of May Chang, Shao May the panda, and Envy. Ed is not very happy to hear this, accusing Envy of lying as the Goth just sits there and grimaces. Still furious, Ed demands to know who their Father is, when Envy scoffs that Bradley is just another Goth. He’s piecing everything together now; the Fifth Laboratory, human sacrifices to make Stones, Homunculi, Ishval… Envy laughs at that one, says it was an “enjoyable job”. Whoa, seriously? Envy was the one who pulled the trigger? … kick his ass, Ed. Guh, we get the slow building “Shit Is Going Down” music with an image spot of a little red-eyed Ishvalan girl getting shot point blank by Soldier!Envy. Did not need to see that. So Envy is the source. The Big Bad is still Father for creating the Goths, but Envy? The one laughing at how he framed a moderate officer to plunge the nation into civil war? [Ed]: “So you’re responsible… You were the one who shot and killed that poor innocent child. You destroyed my hometown, you drove out the Ishvalans. You’re the one who turned Scar into a murderer. And it was you… You’re the reason Winry’s parents were killed! You’re the one to blame!” Ed punches Envy! But… Envy didn’t budge? Uh oh. Ominous chanting has started as Envy morphs to give them a “parting gift” before they die. Ling notes that when they fought Envy had been oddly heavy for someone nearly as small as Ed. [Ling]: “He might be a bit bigger than he looks.” Um. Oh dear. Envy is very, very big now. And 3D, no less. Boss fight! Back outside, Al’s sitting in a forest clearing with a little bird on his shoulder and Shao May at his side.

Gluttony’s still there, stumbling around and asking Al what he should do. Right, he ate someone he was Not Supposed To Eat.

[Al]: “I have no idea.” Ooh! Gluttony’s worrying that Father’s going to be real mad at him, Al pounces on the mention of the Goth’s creator… and asks for Gluttony to take him to Father. Gluttony goes “ok, he’ll want to see you since you’re one of the human sacrifices we’re supposed to Not Harm”. Answers, finally! Back at Central the higher-ups are sitting around a table, frankly talking about Sacrifice Candidacy. Even General Raven (come on dude, how could you betray Mustang like that?). As for Candidate Mustang, he’s in the Fuhrer’s office now for a “nice long talk”. Leto damn it. Roy of course asks the obvious question first, why Bradley’s bothering to let Roy live when he knows so much. Bradley says that Roy wouldn’t learn his lesson if he’s dead. Like Hughes… [Bradley]: “Why must everyone make such a fuss over the death of a single soldier?” Oh, what the flip. Bradley was trembling in anger at Hughes’ “screeching child”?! Dude, you suck as a parent. But the Fuhrer brushes off the idea that Selim is a weak point for him. Roy, on the other hand… By the car, Riza’s waiting when Fuery runs up to report that he’s being assigned to the Southern Command Center. And Breda’s being sent west, Falman to the North… and two guys in black coats come up to reassign First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye to Central Command Center. [Riza]: “As personal assistant to Fuhrer Bradley.” So that’s it. Riza is stuck under the watch of Wrath now. Oh yeah, there was that whole “Ed and Ling are stuck in a hellish in-between realm facing down Titan!Envy” thing going on, we should get back to that. The two are getting their butts kicked, when they get a moment Ed’s able to transmute a (tacky) sword for Ling and get his own arm into Blade Mode. They’re beat up, but they have to fight! Meanwhile, the music’s building as Al follows Gluttony, shocked to see that they are heading towards… oh for Leto’s sake, Father is based in Central itself?! ...WHAT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT’S WHERE IT STOPS?

#wmtw #where my twin watches #full metal alchemist #full metal alchemist brotherhood #fmab #fmab 25 #ranubis

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aliceslantern · 5 years

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Beyond this Existence: Atonement, chapter 3

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

It takes three days for the young man to wake from his slumber--Even doesn’t know what to call it. It doesn’t qualify as a true coma, according to his tests; and when he pokes into one of the tomes the mouse king left behind, he finds an abstractly worded passage regarding darkness and sleep, that it can threaten the mind. It’s more puzzling than anything.

It seems he divides his attention between Ansem’s two strays--Ienzo, reticent, not quite himself since the night in the lab, and Xehanort. He and Aeleus try to figure out what happened, asking questions as gently as they can, but now the boy’s insisting he can’t remember. Even isn’t so sure, but he’s also afraid to push, less it destabilize him more.

Aeleus and Dilan examine the molten lump of the gummi block. It still hasn’t hardened after all these hours, and its temperature isn’t even high. From the lead-encased fume hood they watch the tendrils of darkness swirl against the display. They placed a mouse inside, to see how it reacted; it panicked, squealing for hours, trying to outrun the tendrils before--and Dilan recounts this with horror--the darkness ate it whole, leaving behind nothing but one stump of a leg.

They aren’t sure if the block is doing it on its own, or if it’s due to the darkness, but it produces small amounts of electricity, enough to light a ten watt bulb for a few seconds. Even itches to see what it does to cells--if it truly does eat away at them, or if it has a transmutative property as well--but rather than pursue this, he must tend to the young man.

Ansem is with him, much like he was with Ienzo in those early days; Even has a feeling he knows where this is going. At least if Ansem takes in this stray too, this one is old enough to feed and clothe and educate himself.

Xehanort wakes with a gasp. “Who--?” he asks.

“Easy, young man,” Ansem says kindly. “You’ve suffered a trauma.”

He blinks, his strange gold eyes taking everything in. “Where am I?”

“A city called Radiant Garden. We found you by the castle gates, during a horrible storm.”

“A… storm?” he echoes. His voice, while hoarse, is very deep for a boy that age.

“Do you remember what it is that led you here?” Ansem asks kindly. Even pulls the IV from the young man’s hand, bandages it.

“No, I…” He tries to focus, squinting. “It’s all… a blur.”

“It may come back to you,” Ansem says. “No need to worry. Where did you come from?”

The young man stares blankly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t--” Ansem’s thrown. “Is there anything you do remember?”

“I’m Xehanort.”

“Other than that.”

The boy seems horrorstruck. “It’s all--I can’t--” He touches his forehead.

Even’s mind spins back to his reading. “...Retrograde amnesia,” he says gently. “Possibly as a response to an injury. But every test I ran showed no injuries…”

“We needn’t worry our guest,” Ansem says. His voice is polite, but Even senses the warning. “Not while he is recovering.”

The young man meets Even’s eyes. “No,” he says. “Tell me.”

Very quickly he finds that Xehanort is insatiably curious--about them, their work, this world he’s ended up in. He wants answers. As he’s physically well, he’s soon moved into an empty room on their floor. Ansem presents him with the clothing and armor they’d found with him. “Very strange,” Xehanort mutters, running his fingers over the material. “Nobody around here wears anything like this.” He’s gone out on his own, to explore the city and get his bearings. He’s an adult; Even has no real interest in what he decides to pursue. “You say I arrived with the storm… Is that more than just poetic? Could I have possibly been brought here by darkness?”

Even wishes not to care about him, but the curiosity nags, itching, almost more than the darkness. It’s clear the two are tied.

“How? And… why?” Xehanort presses a hand to his brow. “It’s so strange, what I do and don’t remember. I can’t remember my hometown, but I know to read, to tie my shoes. This loss of memory can’t be merely neurological.”

He has a point; all of the boy’s tests were normal. “Then what do you believe it is?” Even asks.

He thinks. “Perhaps… my heart?” He lays a hand on his chest. “If I were truly exposed to darkness, and my body wasn’t impacted, that’s all that could be left. Right?”

Even has to hide his shocked expression. It’s beginning to click, the pieces coming together. The darkness--Ienzo’s claim to have lost memory. “Your… heart,” he repeats slowly. “Xehanort… perhaps you were a scientist in your previous life.”

The boy smiles. “Well. Anything’s possible.”

This just emphasizes their need to be able to test and examine’s people’s hearts, and Ansem agrees. It isn’t just feeling, or bonds, it can clearly be so much more. Memory! He’s almost dizzy thinking about it.

Though Ienzo is temporarily banned from their research, Xehanort quickly assists; in some ways, it feels like he’s always been there. It’s clear he doesn’t have the education, but he picks up the studies with an unnatural speed, faster even that precocious Ienzo. “It could be my memories,” he says, returning a medical text to Even. “Maybe they’re coming back. It just feels… right.”

“You certainly are extremely bright,” Even says, with a smile. “Who knows--perhaps it is fate, that brought you here.”

“Perhaps…” He smiles, but then it fades. “But… then how did I get here? If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it takes so much power and effort to harness the darkness. And why would I have done it in the first place?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Even says.

He nods. “Might I examine that block?”

“If you like. Please be exceedingly careful. You don’t want it to injure you… not like those poor mice.” He knows they are just lab rats, lesser beings, but they still feel physical pain.

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

It’s the politeness, more than anything, that makes him smile. “My pleasure.”

---

In all this, something in Ienzo begins to change. He’s still learning as much, as quickly, still occasionally nightmares aloud. But he becomes again reticent--not mute, but speaking as little as possible. He withdraws from the others, often spends his time hiding in the library (according to Braig). Even doesn’t pretend to understand it.

Xehanort chuckles. “Is it not obvious?”

Even looks up from the diagrams spread in front of him. “Say what you mean,” he says, a bit snappishly.

“He’s jealous ,” Xehanort says. He shakes his head. “We’re all down here, making these exciting discoveries--and then talking about them in and around him, over dinner, what have you.” Ansem has recently formalized Xehanort’s apprenticeship--not point not to. The young man is their inciting incident. “And he’s smart enough that not being involved must hurt. How would you feel, Even, if someone was working on your passion project instead of you?”

He looks up. “You are… right. But it’s not safe for him here.”

Xehanort considers this. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “Let’s see if we can’t ease the tension.”

---

The good news comes in a pair. Seeing the cataclysmic storm the night of Xehanort’s arrival made the board of ethics more amenable to studying the heart. They approve Even’s plan to speak with human subjects and examine their hearts. This requires the construction of tiny conference rooms, to protect the privacy of their volunteers; it goes fairly quickly. Secondly, Ienzo is allowed to be present in the room again--on one condition.

“It could be worse,” Braig says. “Babysitting duty? Hell of a lot easier than trying to keep kids out of the castle.”

“I’ve no idea what you said to Master Ansem to allow him back,” Dilan says, with a shake of his head.

“I’m his pet project,” Xehanort says simply. “Ienzo’s his son. Together, we’re unstoppable.”

The boy certainly does seem a lot happier; it helps that Xehanort puts the fear of god in him when it came to safety procedures. This makes Ienzo’s seventh birthday a happy one, as they do have a lot to be thankful for.

They put notices in the papers, in community spaces, to find subjects for their study involving hearts. Initially, there’s not much response; a few people, here and there. They take scrupulous amounts of notes on these people--their lives, if they’ve suffered traumas, their physical makeups. Ienzo believes that the balance within the hearts is tied to the bonds of people; so they interview friends, married couples, siblings, parents and children.

“Ienzo’s right,” Ansem says. “It makes a difference in the samples.”

But how to truly determine light and darkness, all without hurting their subjects? It’s a sticky situation. The pods Dilan built all those weeks ago can still divine the difference in matter, with some few tweaks by Xehanort. He can’t deny that the machines look terrifying to step into, especially to an outsider. So while all the others bicker and waffle over the best way to do this, Even experiments again with his cells, his embryos. Things that are alive, but unfeeling. He holds the petri dish over the raw darkness extracted from the gummi block. Ienzo, bored of the arguing, watches as well from the other side of the glass. It gives Even a thrill, to only have gloves and some glass separating him from the darkness. Once exposed, he takes the cells back to his microscope. The darkness seems to have caused spontaneous division. This must’ve been what was missing all along, this power. Breathing a bit hard, he places the cells in an incubator, to see how it affects their functioning.

Xehanort is displeased with what they’ve done so far, momentous as it is. On one of the days Ansem isn’t there, he says, “We need to go farther.”

Aeleus squints. “How so?”

“Aeleus, we’re so close. We… we’ve discovered so much, but we still haven’t gotten close to how it all affects memory.” He smooths a flyaway hair. “I’ve been doing some… reading. Master Ansem lent me some of the books that King Mickey brought and I…” His hands are trembling. Ienzo stares up at him. “I’ve managed to create darkness. It’s great we still have that gummi block, but who knows how long it will be until it degrades?”

Even nearly spits out his coffee. “You created darkness? How is that even possible?”

“It’s magic too, not just science.” He closes his eyes, focusing hard; they see something like smoke in his palm. “Look,” he says with difficulty. “I… tried it on the mice… it causes a sort of frisson, in their balances. I’m afraid I have no samples left.” The darkness disappears. “If we could do it in people, maybe we can feel their bonds, see what it has to do with memory--”

“How do you propose doing this without killing people?” Dilan asks.

“I mean, I… I can try my best--” He swallows. “I would like to speak with Master Ansem. To see if we can get greater permission. We can… inform, the people. That way they know what they might risk. The people here love science, sirs. Some of them must be willing to make sacrifices.”

In his chair in the corner, Braig is smirking just the slightest.

---

Another amnesiac ends up on their radar, though she does not appear during a storm. She’s younger than Xehanort, about fifteen; unlike him, she doesn’t even remember her name.

“She’s the perfect opportunity,” Xehanort says. “With this darkness, maybe I can help her. Heal her. Let her remember.”

Even’s seen him practicing, in the courtyards. He can manifest it with ease, now. “I don’t know how Master Ansem will approve that.” Apparently, Xehanort’s idea made him fly into a rage. Even has no idea how that happened; he’s seen Ansem angry, but not like this. He’s ordered them to put a stop to the human side of the experiments, and so far they’ve listened.

Xehanort’s gold eyes bear into his. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“But Xeha--”

“Aren’t you curious?” he asks in a low voice. “Sir, I know you’ve been thinking about it. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but I know what you’re trying to achieve, with those embryos. I think that’s amazing--it could change the world. Maybe the worlds! I know the darkness is the only way you’ve made progress, the only way you’ve been able to start giving them their own hearts.” A pause. “Not to mention… if I can control memory… don’t you all have a thing or two you wouldn’t mind letting go of?”

He feels like he can’t breathe. “How did you find out about that?”

Xehanort doesn’t answer. “And Ienzo,” he says. “I know how hard things have been for him, how much pain he’s in, how little help there is--I can purify his mind of those memories. He can have the strength to be a fantastic researcher, instead of a sufferer.”

“I am not sure,” he says, reeling. “I--”

“Besides,” he says. “If no one knows the girl’s here, and there’s… an accident, nobody will ever know. No ethics board. No Master Ansem.” He stands back up, smoothing down his ascot. “Think about it,” he adds, at a normal volume. “Sir, don’t you deserve to be more than Master Ansem’s errand boy, his babysitter? Wouldn’t you rather this be your legacy, rather than a… a meaningless title?”

Even can feel his heart racing. “You won’t hurt her?”

Xehanort squeezes his hand. “I shall try my very best.”

---

They make one of the small rooms into a makeshift bedroom for the girl. They’ve already had subjects A through W, so it seems natural to label her as the next in line. She doesn’t seem quite as lucid as Xehanort was, like her mind is half in a dream. Xehanort soon loops in the others, and while they too are hesitant, they are only doing this for the greater good. And who knows? Maybe they can give this girl her life back.

They begin with a psychological assessment, of sorts; most surprising is that Ienzo wants to be the one to do it. “I’m little,” he says with a shrug. “I’m non-threatening.” He gets her to talk about dreams. Most of the dreams are not interesting, or of note--teeth falling out, realizing one is naked in public--but there are a few Ienzo suspects are memories “because mine hide in my dreams too.” She mentions something about a desert, about hoards of people; after she admits this, she falls into a deep sleep for nearly a week.

“Ienzo, this is excellent,” Xehanort says. “Her heart must be damaged--making her mind remember those dreams made her body shut it down.”

Ienzo doesn’t smile, the way he normally does receiving such a compliment. “Then why doesn’t mine?” he asks.

Xehanort kneels to his level. “Because your heart is strong,” he says. “So is your mind. You can handle the stress; she can’t.”

“So I’m special,” he says dryly.

There’s a gleam in Xehanort’s eye--curious. “Yes,” he says. “You are.”

---

When they come back the next morning the place has been ransacked. There are papers everywhere; one of Aeleus’s plant pots has been smashed, leaving dirt all over the white floor.

“Braig,” Dilan hisses. “Isn’t this your purview?”

“Dude! I can’t be here twenty-four hours a day. You forget I’m union?” He shrugs. “It must’ve been the night guy who let in our little friend--or maybe one of you forgot to lock the door.”

They padlocked it recently, in case Ansem were to try and get in. Even maintains they are merely working with the darkness, with the gummi block; this airtight door was a precaution should it get out. It should be harder to lie to him after all these years.

Braig walks over to the girl’s room. They don’t lock it--she never goes anywhere either way, almost catatonic--and she sits on the mattress, on her hands. He snaps. “You, girl. You see anything?”

She shrugs, her long dark hair falling over one shoulder.

“You messing around in here?”

She shakes her head.

“Well then, who was it?”

“I must’ve been asleep,” she says.

“There’s some fishy business going on,” Braig says. “Better keep a tighter lock in here, in case something falls into unsavory hands.”

That night they lock the door of the girl’s room for the first time. She doesn’t react at all. They are ransacked two more times over the following month; they begin locking their papers in file cabinets in the offices. Xehanort is convinced that they’ve done all they can with the girl without further intervention. He goes to her one cold winter morning, to examine her heart; the rest of them, including Braig, watch. Ienzo, in particular, seems fascinated; Even has to put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back.

Even feels his own pulse hammering as he watches the boy hold his hands over the girl’s chest, probing gently with the grayish strings of darkness. “I can feel her heart beating,” he says. Her eyes are wide, staring, darting back and forth in fear. “Does that hurt, friend?”

“No,” she says, with difficulty.

“I’m trying to find your memory. Your heart’s strong, I can feel it. You should be proud of that.” He probes more; she flinches.

“Careful,” Even says without meaning to.

There’s a faraway look in Xehanort’s eyes. “I can feel it,” he says. “The memory… it’s like chains, like a heart’s DNA--”

Dilan scribbles eager notes.

“There’s darkness inside of her, too, already. And light. So much light. So beautiful.”

“Do you see anything?” Aeleus asks.

“I can feel it. The memories are… severed. Choppy. I wonder if I can--”

She screams, a blood-curdling sound that causes Ienzo to cover his ears.

“Xehanort, that’s enough for now,” Even says.

---

They try it several more times on the girl. She complies, never fights, never asks questions; but it’s more of a sort of exhaustion, Even figures, than a lack of will. He wonders if it’s the darkness tiring her out, or else she’s sick.

So they know memories are in chains, and they’re in the heart; and that within the heart exists darkness as well as light. Stuff their studies all implied; now there’s proof. Even’s checking the girl when he sees it; a slight, almost imperceptible curl of darkness, mistakable for her dark hair. The fogginess and vacancy are gone from her eyes. He almost wonders if Xehanort’s been able to heal her. “You don’t know what you’re messing with,” she says urgently. “You have to stop this now.”

“Did you remember something?” he asks gently.

She screams and clutches at her chest. The room smells like smoke. “You can’t--you can’t--”

He isn’t sure how he knows; he jumps back and slams the door. She’s still wailing, pounding on the window, the sound barely muffled by Plexiglas.

“What’s going on?” Dilan asks. Ienzo’s eyes are wide, and Aeleus is frozen in horror.

“I was merely checking her vitals,” Even says breathlessly. “I don’t know what--”

“Oh,” Xehanort says softly, almost as if in a trance. He walks slowly towards them, pushing past Even and Ienzo numbly. He rests his palm on the window, his gold eyes vacant. “I--”

“Boy, what did you do?” Even asks.

“I thought the darkness was making her stronger, but it’s…” He covers his mouth. “It’s devouring her--”

Aside from the keening, the room is deathly silent until they hear Braig’s “...The hell ?”

Xehanort’s head snaps up, and for a long, long moment the two held eye contact. Braig approaches slowly, tentatively, and reaches for the crossbow at his waist.

“No,” Xehanort says. “We must study this.”

“Really? Cause I’m not sure I want to find out what that’s becoming.”

In an instant, “she” became a “that.”

“It won’t last long,” Xehanort says. “This is for… we have to know. Can’t you see what this is saying about human nature?”

It isn’t quick, in fact; she screams for hours, wordless, agonized shrieks. At first, Ienzo sits with his hands over his ears, but once it becomes clear the screaming isn’t going to end, he lets go. There’s something cold in his eyes, something Even hasn’t noticed before. If the boy truly is sensitive to darkness, he must be feeling something.

The screaming stops. They all approach the door warily, sure the girl’s dead; but this is not what’s facing them. She no longer looks human; her body is the color of ink, her hands and feet elongated into claws, her eyes a glowing sort of gold.

Wordlessly, Ienzo presses his forehead against the girl’s door. “...Heartless,” he whispers. “It’s gone.”

“He’s right,” Xehanort mutters. “The darkness has taken her heart.” And so it begins.

---

They spend most of their days in that lab, examining the new being, the Heartless; though Even is not here always. Two new pupils are accepted as Ansem’s junior apprentices. It’s not an uncommon process--the king has done it several times over the years--but Even figured with both Ienzo and Xehanort, there would be no need. It’s not like either of these boys join them, anyway; they have a bit of ladder-climbing to do. As he is still technically the one in charge of their training (though it feels increasingly ersatz), Even spends time with the boys. The quieter one, Isa, does have quite a bit of promise; intelligent, ingenious, and creative. As for the other, he can make the grade, but Even can’t figure out what on earth the boy is here for. He’s obnoxious; he interrupts constantly; he’s found poking around where he shouldn’t (perilously close to their lab); he’s often out of uniform and refers to Even by his first name.

Though he has hoped Ienzo would perhaps take with them, particularly Isa, the boy has no interest in socializing. He’s focused instead wholly on the Heartless, the girl, studying it (her?). They try to take samples from the Heartless, but it has no matter, and feels strangely intangible to the touch.

Between caring for Ienzo and educating the new apprentices, Even, again, finds himself increasingly pulled away from the lab. When he finally returns, he notes with horror that the divided cells he placed aside have died, becoming nothing more than black smoke in a petri dish. A heart is more than darkness. But how do they harness light? Is it the same?

There are also more subjects; volunteers, ones without amnesia. They are being quietly interviewed by Ienzo and Aeleus. The boy seems to have a natural aptitude for guiding the conversation, something Even’s never witnessed; women, in particular, tend to be tickled by this. “Aren’t you adorable?” more than one asks. At first, this seems to make Ienzo bristle, but soon, Even observes (and it makes him feel something cold and hard, something upsetting), the boy leans into this angle; using his stature as a way to get the answers he wants.

He never thought Ienzo could be manipulative.

Some of them are kept overnight, for “extended testing” and “sleep studies”, but Even sees Xehanort disappear inside each roomette, with any of the others (even Braig?). This goes on for several days; one woman asks to see her daughters (a set of twins) in the next room, wants to go home.

“I’m sorry,” Xehanort says. “But not quite yet.”

Even can feel this is getting out of hand. Once was enough, the one creature horrifying. Yes, all people have darkness, did they really need more Heartless? Yet, the scientist in him, growing louder than the rest of him, is intrigued, almost intoxicated; after all, one is not a decent sample size. Nothing can be proven with one. They’d need at least a hundred, if not more, to come to a universal conclusion--what is wrong with him?

“Sir?” It’s Isa speaking to him now, in the classroom space where he meets the two juniors twice a week. He hands him the test Even gave them. “Are you okay?”

He forces a smile. “Kind of you to ask. I’m merely tired, that’s all.”

The boy draws his hands behind his back, but doesn’t return to his desk. The other, Lea, seems to be hard at work, one hand in his hair, his eyes full of confusion. “Do you… smell that?” Isa asks.

Even cants his head slightly. “What?”

“It smells like something’s burning,” Isa says gently. “Lea thinks so too.”

“It stinks,” the redhead agrees.

Even sniffs; try as he might, he has no idea what they speak of. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Might be electrical,” Isa remarks. “Thank you for the lesson. I’m going to go to the library for a little while.”

---

He tries clearing his nose with coffee beans, rubbing alcohol; he smells nothing other than the scents of the two substances. For about an hour he wanders around like a lunatic, sniffing various hallways. It all just smells normal; dust, food preparation, old books, laundry.

Odd. Perhaps the two were playing a prank on him. He won’t put it past Lea. And the two are awfully buddy-buddy. No matter.

When he returns to the lab, he can tell immediately that something’s changed. The lights seem dim; it’s almost gloomy. He notes, with something approaching horror (and, oddly, jubilation, a sensation only getting stronger the longer he stands here), that all of the doors are closed. Occupied.

“...That’s twenty-six,” Dilan murmurs, scribbling something on a clipboard.

“Twenty-seven,” Ienzo corrects. “The one in 4-B just went up.”

Even approaches them, perturbed. “Twenty-seven?” he asks.

Dilan raises an eyebrow. “Heartless,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “We had to release the Miller twins and their mother, but don’t worry, I doubt they’ll say anything unseemly. Xehanort made sure of that.”

“Twenty- seven ?” He hasn’t been gone that long; before there was just the one.

Xehanort emerges from one of the rooms, slamming shut its pocket door. The occupant screams, the sound muffled quickly. “We’ve made some changes, since you’ve been gone. We appreciate you continuing to give us a good face, Even. It’s very valuable.”

Even notes the absence of the “sir.” He turns slowly. The doors are different, heavier; the windows have a reinforced inlay.

Xehanort smiles pleasantly. Ienzo’s next to him, holding a clipboard. “Shall I catch you up on what’s happened?” They do not need to tell him, not really. Xehanort’s seeking to replicate what happened with the girl, with X-- “Oh, we’re using numbers now”--in order to prove the universality of darkness in the heart. “My thoughts next are to look into a scale of age. Are we born pure? Are children pure, as thought in the myths?” (At this, Ienzo’s head snaps up, and Even’s heart gives a weird twitch.) “Are we at some point changed, transformed?”

“Biting from the apple of knowledge?” Even asks sourly.

Xehanort shrugs. “Perhaps.” Braig just so happens to be toying with an apple. Cheekily, he takes a bite. “But my biggest discovery--perhaps the most important--is that we’ve found the realm of darkness.”

“You found it,” he repeats. “Just like that.”

“Not quite.” He stands up. “It’s easy for me to find the darkness now. I know wizards and magicians use their magic to teleport--I figured, the theory might be the same.” He holds out his palm. An oblong of darkness appears with a faint hiss and, Even realizes, the smell of smoke. “I’ve gone into it myself. There’s a whole world in there, one not bound by physics! And there are more, so many more, Heartless. I think--I think we can use it to travel. To leave this world behind.”

“...That so.” He feels numb.

“You don’t seem very pleased, Even.”

He forces a smile. “On the contrary. It’s merely a lot to wrap one’s head around.”

He bobs his head once. “Of course. Just think--we can apply what we learn here to whoever-- whatever --is out there. This is--the building blocks of the very universe.”

“Yes…” He feels it now, the pull of the thrill, his mind racing with the possibilities, a pull that makes him feel the most himself since-- And of course, if they can understand life itself , that would make his creation all the easier to realize. “Yes.”

Xehanort smiles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

---

It feels like a million years since his last touchpoint with Ansem. So much has changed. Fifty-one brand new beings--his own brief, overwhelmed journey into the realm of darkness with Xehanort--the fact that his newest attempt with the embryos is still alive in its incubator. In reality it’s only been a few weeks.

“Don’t you look awfully pleased with yourself,” Ansem says. Even isn’t sure what to read into the tone, but Ansem smiles. “I take it things are going well?”

“Oh, extremely,” he admits. “Both Ienzo and Xehanort are invaluable assets.” Ienzo is technically too young to be considered a true apprentice, but it's all just paperwork at this point. The boy has thrown himself wholeheartedly into the project, is just as productive as the rest of them.

“I do wish I had more time to spend with you, but I’m afraid things are… intensely complicated at the moment. Between the city… Ienzo… the new junior apprentices… Well, you know I’d rather prioritize their learning than my personal pursuits. But I would like to see it.”

His heart about stops. “You would?”

Ansem raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I? I was there in the beginning. I should at the very least like to be a witness.”

Even nods, his heart pounding. “Of course, Master. We’d be very pleased to have you.”

“Excellent. I’ll make sure to set aside the time… say next week?”

“We’ll be ready.” He swallows. “I should go. It’s nearly dinnertime. It helps to keep Ienzo on a schedule.”

“Certainly.” He’s tapping the tips of his fingers together, an anxious gesture. Is this calculated? Does he feel Even’s paranoia? Or is he simply preoccupied with other matters? “Even?”

He turns. “Yes, Master?”

“There is one small thing.” His grin becomes more affable. “I’m positive it’s just a rumor--every now and again some hooligan or another will circulate them--but they say they can hear screaming, at night.”

He forces his expression into one of bored contempt; but yet, haven’t Braig and Dilan been saying the same thing? “A silly ghost story,” he asserts.

“Yes,” Ansem says, though something’s closed off in his eyes. “I’m sure. And I’m certain this has nothing to do with those missing persons cases?”

Even blinks; this is news to him, so he knows his surprise is genuine. “The what?”

“There are over seventy-five people missing. Once the number grows high enough, the authorities are required to report it to me. Funnily, it started shortly after I forbade young Xehanort from carrying out his manic experiments.”

Even truly feels the creep of panic now.

All affability has drained out of Ansem’s face now. He leans forward, across the desk. “Even, do you know anything about this?”

“You know I don’t.” He tries to make his indignation obvious. “As if I would ever do such an ugly, despicable thing. I took an oath, Master.”

He settles back in his chair, but the glint in his eye is still there. “You know I trust you,” he says. “But it never hurts to be too careful.”

Even nods. “Of course. I can only imagine how much infighting you must deal with. Now I must go.”

He nods, once. “...Be well.”

He leaves the office with his mask in tact, but he can feel the panic taking over. Ansem knows. He knows . Once he comprehends it all, Even would no doubt be taken in--all of them--worse, he can’t even remember what the consequences for something like this would be. He all but runs downstairs to the others. He feels faint, numb.

“Even?” Aeleus asks. “You look--”

“He knows,” he says through his teeth. “Ansem. He’s figured it out. You idiots. Did you think nobody would notice the people missing?”

Dilan guides him gently over to a chair. He’s gasping for breath now. Ienzo approaches Even. “What will happen to us?” he asks softly.

“Nothing will happen to you, child. I promise.”

Xehanort’s eyes are closed. “I know what we can do.” Over Ienzo’s shoulder, he mouths, “Let’s meet after dark.”

---

Once the boy is in bed, they reconvene.

“I’m afraid you won’t be happy with what I have to say,” Xehanort says. “But I’ve been weighing the options--our work is so much more important than the small fry. So to speak.” He’s asked them to meet in a courtyard, of all places, and his back is to them. The spring wind is cold. “Ansem will never allow us to do this work. It does not matter to him that the subjects have consented. He’s up on his moral high horse--despite the fact that this was basically his idea in the first place. After all, nobody’s died . They’re just… different. Why is our progress being stopped by a bunch of silly laws?”

Dilan squints at him. “So what do you propose? A coup? What then? You know nothing about how this city functions.”

“No, no, not a coup. Rather… Ansem’s going to go on a trip.”

Even feels shaky, nauseous now. “Is that a euphemism?”

Xehanort smiles. “Not at all. I think he’d find the realm of darkness fascinating. He’ll learn--he’ll understand why we’re doing all this. And he can no doubt learn to return whenever he so wishes.”

Even’s heart beats heavily. “What will we tell Ienzo?”

He thinks. “...That he’s gone mad,” he says softly. “Isn’t it true? Drunk on silly, bureaucratic power? He thinks he can control what we can and cannot learn? The boy’s better off without his mind blunted by such… petty matters.”

Again Even feels himself acting. “That’s fairly well reasoned, I suppose,” he says.

“So next week, when he comes… that’s what we’ll do. And Ienzo will conveniently be away. You can be with him, if you so wish.”

A plan comes to mind. “He may find that a comfort.”

Xehanort smiles. “Does that work for everyone?”

Aeleus’s face is unreadable; Dilan looks shaken, but it’s quickly replaced with steely resolve. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you say is best.”

“...Quite. Well. I hope you have a good night, gentlemen. Sleep well.”

Even bobs his head and turns to leave the corridor.

“Wait,” he hears Xehanort says.

Blast. “What is it?” he asks, politely.

“Even.” He comes a bit closer. “I know you and Ansem have been affiliated for so many years. Doing this will not be difficult for you, will it?”

He shakes his head. Ienzo is way more important than Ansem; and much more vulnerable. The choice, he notes, is almost effortless. “We’ve been at odds for some time, as I’m sure you well know.”

“I just… want to make sure.”

“As you said. He will find it… enlightening. He may very well thank us.”

In the dim light, his eyes almost seem to glow. “I’m sure. As long as you’re on the right side. After all, considering you’re legally in charge of research and development, should you not be able to go through with it, this will all be on you. You know I don’t want that, right?”

It’s a threat if Even’s ever heard one. “Of course, Xehanort. You’re always so considerate.”

He holds out his hand. “I’m looking forward to our continued partnership.”

Even takes it, noting how cold, how papery, it feels. “...The feeling is mutual.”

---

Even bides his time.

He’s shocked, but relieved, when Ansem doesn’t show sooner. He isn’t sure why the king is allowing them this much time. Maybe to dispose of the evidence? Maybe he’s building a case against them, pooling resources? Either way, Even’s strung out and anxious.

It’s time to go.

Maybe it’s a cowardly, foolhardy move, but he’s taking Ienzo and leaving. Xehanort is obviously twisted, the darkness no doubt only helping. They’ll go into hiding, leave this city.

And go where?

Another world? Even has no power over darkness like Xehanort does; he doesn’t know if he wants to expose himself any more, or Ienzo, for that matter. But beyond the city limits there’s just stone, and crystal, and empty barren wilderness. He’s positive if they try to hide somewhere in this city they’ll be found.

He has to try something. This clearly isn’t going to end well. What if they should fall to darkness themselves? (But, the clinical part of his mind, growing louder and stronger, wouldn’t that be fascinating? To cast aside what it means to be human, to rise above ?) No, he’s becoming a lunatic.

He packs some things for them, hides them among the frippery in his closet. He tries to be pleasant, subservient, towards Xehanort, putting up just enough of a fight so that he seems himself. But truly Even feels as if he’s been backed into a corner; because he has been.

I’m such a fool.

He no longer cares if punishment befalls him; it’s Ienzo he’s worried about. Should Ansem disappear, should he himself become… compromised, what should stop Xehanort from molding the small genius into another sharp tool for him to use? Breaking down the boy’s conscience before it’s even fully formed, allowing him to do--goodness knows what?

What if that’s what he’s wanted all along?

He considers telling Ansem. Confessing, baring his soul, taking whatever came his way. Maybe so long as it all stopped, should Xehanort and his colleagues be contained. But Xehanort has the power of darkness. He can merely escape, and try again, elsewhere.

The night before their plan is meant to be enacted, he waits until the others are asleep, until it’s so late as to be early. He dresses and approaches Ienzo’s bedroom door slowly.

The door’s already open. And Even knows what’s about to meet him.

The boy’s nowhere to be found. On his bed, reading the storybook Ienzo must have left behind, is Xehanort. “Oh, hello,” he says pleasantly, setting the book aside.

“Where’s the boy?” He keeps his tone neutral.

“No need to worry. He’s quite safe. Sound asleep." He crosses his legs. "You weren't about to do something reckless, were you?"

Even takes a quick breath; caught. He tries to remain composed.

"See, I need him," Xehanort explains slowly. "Your boy is not as innocent or as purehearted as you think, Even. He likes this work. He's good at it. He knows exactly the right ways to break a person down, how to make the darkness spread faster. He's incredible. I will not have you waste him."

"He's only doing this to please you. Because he's a child. "

"Are you certain? Even, not everyone's born good. Some people have more darkness than others." He sighs. "But I digress. I didn't realize how soft you were… how weak. I thought you cared."

He says nothing.

"I believe in your replicas, Even. They can change the world… light a path to immortality. Place a heart in a new body… one can live infinitely."

"I see you went through my things."

"It was too tempting. You truly are a brilliant researcher."

"Where's the boy?"

"What's it matter? He's not yours. " A pause. “He's being freed. And you could be too, Even. Why do you hold so priggishly to such ties? All it's done is hurt you. Ansem's used you, manipulated you. He wants you all for himself. You could have the world."

He inhales shakily.

"...Besides. I'd hate for your record to be two for two, you know?"

Even blinks. "You'd joss him to keep me in line?"

Xehanort shrugs. "The choice is yours, Even. Or you could just leave. But either way the boy stays."

Even laughs; he can't help it. "You're so green, Xehanort," he says. "You understand nothing, you know nothing. A little power and you lose your head. No. That will not do."

"I've seen more than you know."

He's shaken the boy. Good. "You're so paranoid. You believe I'd leave now, when things are just getting exciting?"

Xehanort frowns. "I thought--"

"You thought what? Ienzo is prone to night terrors, and you remove him from his bed because you believe I'll--what? Take him? Disappear into the wilderness?" He clucks his tongue. “Only to die of starvation, or worse?”

"Why were you coming for him?"

"I check on him every night. Ask the others if you don't believe me."

"And the packs in your closet?"

"Supplies for a bad storm--they've gotten worse since you're arrived." He's infinitely glad he did not add clothing to them. "Xehanort. So quickly you feel so threatened. I'm on your side." Even can see him wavering. "Do you realize how long I've waited for an opportunity like this? As if Ansem would ever let me. I'm his babysitter--little more."

Xehanort grins. An intelligent child--but a naive one. "I must admit I'm relieved, Even."

"As long as I can assure you." He squeezes his hand, gently, trying not to shudder at the feel of it. "Now if you would please put Ienzo back in his bed."

"...Of course."

He turns to leave, his heart hammering. "So, is all in place for Ansem's… trip?"

He nods. On his way out, his shoulder brushes Even's. "Not to worry. It's already been done."

It feels like getting stabbed. "...Even better. Get some rest, Xehanort. You've earned it." He doesn't breathe until Braig brings the boy back. He's unharmed, deeply asleep; Even is sure they've sedated him. He smiles at Braig, and once they're in the hall, "I pray things went well?"

He chuckles darkly. "Put up a hell of a fight, the old codger. But he’s an academic. Soft.” He smirks. “No offense.”

Even tries to return the smirk. It takes all the rest of his energy. “None taken. I’m stronger than you think. Well. I will see you tomorrow, Braig.”

He goes over to the door. “Nighty-night.”

Even waits until Braig’s footsteps retreat; he can’t be entirely sure, the man has such a soft tread. He checks Ienzo’s arms for the pinprick of a hypodermic needle. He finds none, but they could have slipped it into a glass of juice, a snack. His breathing is much too deep and even; Ienzo hardly ever sleeps like this. “Oh, little one,” he says softly. “What have we ever gotten into?”

His heart is racing, nausea and dread pumping through his body, making him shake. He settles into the chair at Ienzo’s bedside, trying to compose himself.

Ansem in the realm of darkness.

There’s no way to stop Xehanort now. Not without risking Ienzo's life, or his own.

My old friend. I’m so sorry.

---

Ienzo doesn’t rouse until mid-morning; normally he’s up at dawn. He stumbles into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his eyes. He flops into a chair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Even says. “You seemed exhausted last night, so I didn’t wake you.” He places a bowl of warm cereal in front of him. “Perhaps today you should work on your studies? It’s been a little while.”

He turns a bit green around the gills. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles.

“You need to eat. Keep your blood sugar up.”

He shakes his head.

“Well, then at least have some juice.”

“I don’t feel well.” He admits this painfully. “I feel sick…”

What on earth have they given him?

“Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring you something to settle your stomach. Must’ve caught a bug, that’s all. No wonder you were so tired.”

He groans a little, but complies.

Even barely slept at all last night, full of knots. He thought he would feel worse; he feels not much of anything. Which may be for the best, if he has to deal with this. He gives Ienzo some medication, a wastebasket to be sick into.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” he says weakly. “You should go… work in the--”

“That’s quite alright.”

“I want you to. Please. They need you.”

“I think they’ll be fine for one day.”

“Where’s Master? Is he still going to come today?”

Even freezes. He hopes his face is placid. “He was called away, I’m afraid. He should be back soon.”

“Is that… good?”

“For the time being. Until we can convince him of what we’re doing.”

Ienzo heaves weakly, but nothing comes up. Even pats him on the back. “I can hear them,” he says softly. “Screaming. It has to stop--” Even’s blood runs cold. But yet, it is something of a relief to know Ienzo is not as callous as he acts around Xehanort. “All right. All right.”

“We’re hurting them.” He agrees, but struggles to console the boy. “They’re doing this for science, Ienzo. For the greater good.” “Make it stop!” He actually is sick this time, and Even holds the hair away from his eyes.

Once Ienzo’s through, Even wipes his face with a damp cloth. “When you’re down there,” he begins. “Do you do it because they asked you to? Or because you want to?”

“I…” He sniffles, trying not to cry. “The… it makes me feel… when I’m there…”

“Think about what you need to say. Take your time.”

He nods. After a moment, the boy seems to compose himself. “When I’m there it feels… good ,” he admits. “Making them this way… feels like we’re… changing the world. But when I’m away… I start to hear it. Even, am I… crazy?”

“Not at all, little one.” He’s starting to feel numb again. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll check on you in a little while.” He pats the boy on the head, tucks the covers around him a little more closely. He tries to smile, but he’s shaking a--not a good sign for his own physical condition. The stress he’s under is no doubt bad for him. But what is he to do? Even tightens his ponytail, slips on his lab coat.

It must be darkness, making them feel this way--Even has felt it too, that sense of euphoria, of power, of discovery--because they truly are discovering so much . It certainly must not be good to expose oneself to it for so long. They’ve been treating it like radiation, with all the same precautions, but he has a feeling something so simple as lead will not stop darkness. They need something else, if this is to continue.

If this is to continue…

Must it?

He needs to speak with Aeleus and Dilan--away from Xehanort’s prying eyes. He’s the most senior apprentice. In Ansem’s absence, he should have the most power, the most control. He tries to smooth his expression into one of indifference as he punches in the numbers.

The smell down here is stronger now, acrid and smoky, darkness rising from the cells (that’s what they are at this point) like vapor. He gags a little, but quickly straightens. “Good morning,” he says. “I hope all is well?”

“Where’s Ienzo?” Aeleus asks. There’s something like guilt in his stoic face--with his knowledge of botanicals, Even doesn’t doubt for a moment that he was the one to drug the boy. Such trust Ienzo has for him--and how quickly this gentle man abuses it. The darkness is changing him. Dare he voice his concerns?

“Oh, poor thing seems to have caught a stomach bug,” he says breezily. “He’s resting now. The vomiting tired him out.” He notes, with pleasure, Aeleus and Dilan both wince and won’t make eye contact. So they were both in on it. Very well.

“He is rather fragile, isn’t he?” Xehanort asks, with a shake of his head. “No matter. Perhaps we can find a way to make him stronger.”

“...Quite.” Something breaks through his numbness, an indignation. “Has anything changed?”

“We’re at something of a standstill,” Dilan admits, keeping his eyes stubbornly on the report in front of him. “The numbers seem to have stabilized. The initial levels of darkness in the subjects seems to vary, but within it there are standard deviations. It’s only a correlation at this point, but look--” He pushes a spreadsheet across the table towards Even. He sits and takes it.

Even takes it all in. Gender, occupation, age--he notes that men at or near their prime, in positions in or adjacent to authority, seem to be the most vulnerable to it all. “How funny,” he says. “According to this, we’re the most susceptible.”

“Indeed,” Xehanort says, with a smile.

“I figured we needed to devise more ways to protect ourselves--I don’t think the lead is cutting it.” He gestures to the cells in the hallway, the darkness curling from below. “Very well. I will work on it. The rest of you may proceed as you wish.”

And he does work on it; but something like this serves as a perfect excuse to examine their behaviors, how they were reacting. They are different. The subjects are less human beings and more numbers. Even notes with a strange distance how easily Dilan shrugs off a woman begging for mercy. Should he intervene?

(Should he intervene, would Xehanort make good on that threat?)

He weaves together several different metal alloys, finds that darkness seems repelled by them; he weaves them into a scrap of fabric, one he covers a mouse with. When exposed to darkness, the mouse survives.

This is a process that takes several weeks; in the meantime they have other things to worry about. The city is abuzz with news of Ansem’s disappearance; nobody seems to buy the “trip” route, especially since if Ansem wants vacation, the time needs to be approved. The city officials are concerned; they interview all of them, but return to Even several times. Each and every single time he pretends to be dumbfounded and as confused as they are; after all, why would he leave without saying something to any of them?

Even knows this is his chance to ask for help, to turn himself in, to stop them. And perhaps it’s the thrall of darkness, or Xehanort’s threat on Ienzo’s life, but he denies everything.

On the matter of Ienzo…

The boy’s not stupid. He’s no longer buying their excuses that Ansem is merely on a trip. He’s become surly, distrustful. Finally, they agree to sit him down and tell him Xehanort’s truth (really, wouldn’t the actual truth be far more damaging to the poor boy? Even can’t have him falling apart with the darkness so close, it’ll claim his heart--).

He approaches them, his teal eyes making him appear much older than merely eight. “Where’s Master Ansem?” he asks.

Even reaches out towards him, but Braig places a hand on his shoulder. Xehanort crouches down to Ienzo’s level. “He had to go away,” he says.

“Go… away?” He raises his eyebrow.

This breaks through Even’s numbness; he turns away and retreats to the window, unable to watch this play out.

“He wasn’t well,” Xehanort continues. “He’s… he’s gone mad. He’s abandoned us.”

Ienzo inhales; it’s a painful sound. Even shuts his eyes.

“You poor child,” he says. “You’ve already lost so much--but we couldn’t stand to lie to you.”

He gasps again, a sound on the verge of a sob; Even recognizes it immediately. He turns, his own heart racing. “He’s panicking.” He crosses over to the boy, seeing him tremble and struggle for breath. He draws him gently into his arms. “Deep breaths, little one. Count with me.”

It takes him a long time to calm down, far longer than any of his nightmares. Even finally agrees to give him a tranquilizer. After this, Even too must lie down for a while, guilt washing around the ache in his heart.

It’s too late to get out of this; maybe the best option is to go through? Give Xehanort what he wants? What does he want?

Ienzo is never quite the same afterwards. Like the beginning of his stay, he’s next to numb; there’s nothing behind his eyes. He does what he’s told no matter what it is--chores he hates, calculations the others have no time for. And anything Xehanort asks, up to and including speaking to their subjects. He’s gone cold.

If Even can perfect this protective fabric--if he, too, can learn to use darkness--they’ll go far away from here. He holds himself to this grimly, even as the darkness tempts him, calls to him, makes him want to push their subjects farther, past the threshold of inhumanity, even as he does so. This will end. Go through, not out.

It says a lot about the state of Radiant Garden’s affairs, that the officials never seem to connect them to the missing people the way Ansem did. Or perhaps they’re too terrified--not that Even can blame them. Braig, Aeleus, and Dilan take rounds, experimentally; they confirm that no one comes near the castle gates, when before visitors would come in and out for all sorts of different reasons. The staff, too, seem to be disappearing. It takes Even too long to realize this is where their remaining subjects are coming from.

A bastion of darkness settles over them all.

---

“I’m afraid it’s inelegant,” Even says at one of their roundtables; Ienzo sits with his eyes focused on the middle distance. “But it’s something.” He lays the bolt of fabric onto the table. It feels odd, not quite like any fabric he’s encountered, but like anything else it’s synthetic. It originally was white, but the chemicals seem to have reacted, and now it’s black.

Xehanort runs his hands along the fabric, a small smile lighting up his face. “Oh, yes. This will do perfectly.”

They fashion lab coats with it, clothing and shoes. Even hoped that the layer of protection would help with the thrall, especially with the rest of them, but he still feels it, pulling him deeper into a place he swore he’d never go, a place below ethics, below morals. He barely bats an eye when Xehanort suggests they examine children’s hearts. He wonders--hopes--that whatever Xehanort discovers can help Ienzo.

Which is why he shouldn’t be surprised when it actually begins happening with those kids, when-- “Dilan, I will not stand for this. He is too young to consent.” He’s trembling. The man’s violet eyes are cold, empty. “We’ve treated Ienzo with respect. I think he deserves a say. It’s only fair. He is different than the average child. I think it would make the data quite fascinating.” “I will not allow it.” He tries to hold to this feeling, to use it to dig himself out of the pull of darkness. He used to despise this paternal instinct, and now it’s all he has left. “...You’ve grown too soft for the boy.” Dilan sneers.

Even lowers his voice, all too certain that little pitchers have big ears; Ienzo, in the corner, gives no indication that he’s heard them, but that’s about meaningless. “It’s shocking that you have no respect for his wellbeing,” he spits. “After all this time.”

“Of course I respect it. That’s why we would get his consent. ”

Even shakes his head. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this.”

“I figured you of all people understand the work we’re doing,” he replies, with equal venom. “We must let go of such paltry bonds, to rise above. To do the work we’re meant to. Whatever tenderness you have for him is useless. I suggest you get rid of it.” He scoffs and leaves the room, the lab door sliding shut behind him.

They make another discovery, perhaps the most disturbing yet. (Is any of this disturbing anymore?) For the first time, one of the Heartless leaves behind a body. But instead of being wreathed in darkness, it’s wreathed in grayness, in silver, a sort of matter that’s physically difficult for the eye to perceive.

Braig shakes his head. “That’s no body,” he says.

And Xehanort laughs. “No. Indeed it isn’t.”

---

There are fewer Nobodies (Xehanort fancies himself a real poet) than Heartless; they soon come to the conclusion that one must be rather stronghearted for the body and will to exist after death. The others refuse to use that word, referring instead to it as “transformation,” but in the purest medical sense it’s true. None of these “Nobodies” have beating hearts, organs, or blood; like the Heartless, it’s impossible to take samples. They vary slightly in shape, some appearing more human than others, but all looking a bit off, a bit alien, all lacking lucidity. Without asking the rest of them, Xehanort has Braig calmly exterminate them. If there was any doubt before, now there’s none. They’ve out and out committed murder.

Even’s surprised he doesn’t feel anything. Then again, he feels so little these days other than anger and exhaustion, with pinpricks of concern for Ienzo now and again. Murder seems the least harmful thing they’ve done.

Something seems to be rising, to be changing. He isn’t sure what.

Xehanort again gathers them in the courtyard; minus, he notices, Braig and Ienzo. “The fresh air is so lovely, isn’t it,” he says. “It does get rather stale down there.” Even’s no longer accustomed to seeing him in his normal apprentice clothing after all the black. “I have a proposition for the three of you; one a touch more radical than my last.”

“It would take little to shock me anymore,” Dilan says tiredly. Aeleus just blinks.

“We know now it is possible to separate the heart from the body,” he says. “That our stronger subjects had stronger Nobodies… ones more human. We’re men of science, of reason; we’ve resisted the pull of darkness this long, so we’re strong. But if we’re to continue to work with it… it may make sense, to let go of such things. For our own wellbeing.”

“Our hearts,” Dilan says incredulously. “That is radical.”

Xehanort faces them. He looks, for the first time, utterly exhausted. “I don’t feel much of anything anymore anyway,” he admits. “And I’m not sure any of us do. What else do we need hearts for, anyway? They are merely things of pain… suffering… they hold us back from what we’re capable of.” He locks eyes with Even. “I’ve… figured out a way to do it. One which will not be nearly so painful or prolonged as those of our subjects. Without our hearts… we would be free to travel the realm of darkness safely. We could go anywhere… discover anything. There’s a whole World out there, waiting, that nobody knows about.”

“Do you believe this will help you with your memory?” Even asks. “Or did you forget this is where that all came from?”

The man smiles. “I no longer care about my memory. This is larger than me. Than us.” He pauses, to compose himself. “What do you think?”

Shocking Even, Aeleus murmurs, “I will volunteer myself.”

“I will too. I am also feeling numb,” Dilan says. “This may very well be… useful, regardless of the consequences.”

Xehanort turns to Even, a small smile on his face. “And you?”

“I…” He takes a breath. It would be good, to shed these chains; but is it natural? And how does he know it won’t kill him?

If he dies, who will look after the boy?

“What of Ienzo? He's a child, he's too young to make such a decision.”

Xehanort shakes his head. “We will not take Ienzo’s heart. If he decides, the boy can give it up in the future.”

Very well. “Yes… I shall…”

“Excellent.” His voice has gotten deeper as he’s gotten older. It’s almost like gravel. “I look forward to this new chapter in our lives.”

---

But nothing happens as expected.

The majority of that day is a blur to Even. They are examining their subjects’ hearts, pulled clean from their bodies and trapped in pods; Even watches Dilan’s fingers work across the keyboard in the computer room. Ienzo is next to him, standing on a chair, observing, along with Aeleus. Braig is polishing his crossbow, a look of boredom on his face.

All of a sudden there’s footsteps. “Were you expecting guests?” Even asks Xehanort.

The man’s gold eyes are deadly. “No.”

Two teenagers burst into the room; Isa and Lea, the neglected junior apprentices. “We know what you’re doing,” Lea yells. “We saw the lab, those people. We told the police. They’re going to get you.” Isa’s silent as he meets Even’s eyes, his green eyes positively smug.

Xehanort cocks his head. “That so. Very well.”

He sounds awfully calm. Too calm. He approaches the boys slowly.

Quickly, faster than Even can perceive, Xehanort moves, and all of a sudden the boys are on the ground, darkness slowly encroaching them. He grabs Ienzo’s hand, he’s not sure why. “That was not necessary,” he says slowly. “They’re apprentices, they could’ve seen reason.”

“They only became apprentices to expose us,” Xehanort says.

“They’re the ones who ransacked the lab,” Dilan says, with realization.

Braig looks up a moment from his polishing, sees the bodies, and resumes, numbly.

“Now is as good a time as any,” Xehanort says. “Don’t you agree?”

Dilan sighs, powers down the computer. “Quite.”

Even feels something for the first time in weeks; panic, and a deep, instinctual sensation that this isn’t right. He takes Ienzo’s hand; Ienzo’s gone still with fear, seeing Isa and Lea convulse in an odd silence. “The boy…” He says. “He shouldn’t have seen--” And then there’s a cold knowledge.

Xehanort has lied to him.

He draws Ienzo into his arms, tightly. The traumatized boy doesn’t fight him. Xehanort, so deftly, pierces Aeleus's chest with a Keyblade-- when did he get that? “You fools,” he says, and his voice is trembling. “What are you doing?”

Xehanort sneers. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He’s not sure why, but he tries to run; Ienzo’s gotten heavier over the years, making it more difficult than it used to be. Dilan trips him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Even throws his body over the boy’s, like a shield; the boy’s gasping in shock. “Take me,” he yells. “But don’t hurt the boy!”

The three of them close in on him. Even braces himself, clinging to Ienzo.

Xehanort’s gaze is pitiless. “The boy should’ve known better than to play in darkness.”

The tendrils descend upon him, upon them . It’s not painless as he's said, but perhaps the most agonizing thing Even’s experienced, his cells changing on a molecular level, everything coming undone. He’s still somehow awake, somehow able to meet Ienzo’s horrified eyes; he can see the darkness crawling over the boy as well. If anything, trying to protect him made him Xehanort’s victim all the faster.

Ah.

In his last moments of consciousness, he feels the tears in his eyes, cold as ice.

#beyond this existence: atonement #even (kingdom hearts)#ienzo #ansem the wise #aeleus #dilan #xehanort #terranort #subject x (kingdom hearts)#body horror #human experimentation #beyond this existence

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crue-sixx · 5 years

Text

Title: The Witches

Author: tiddly-winx

Fandom: The Dirt (Motley Crue)/American Horror Story: Coven and Hotel

Note: This is a cross over with the seasons of AHS Coven and Hotel. Apocalypse might get a mention, but not too deep.

Summary: It's 1981, you, your best friend Cordelia and your mentor Myrtle have been sent to Los Angeles to investigate strange happenings at the Hotel Cortez. You get side tracked when some young rockers make a deal they can't pay.

Warnings: Swearing, sexual references, violence, gore

Fiona Goode was a scary lady, she was made Supreme at an early age and paid little to no attention to Delia. You didn't know why she wanted to impress her mother so much, it seemed like anything Delia did wasn't good enough. You learned early on that a person's goal in life wasn't to make other people happy, but to live for yourself. You had the most unfortunate power of the Black Widow-you were cursed with the power to kill the men you had sex with. You found that one out when you had sex with your first serious boyfriend, and right after his brain turned to mush. You could do anything and everything any other witch could do, you just had to work harder at it than those with natural talent in that particular area.

Fiona had ordered you and Cordelia to go to Los Angeles and investigate the Hotel Cortez, under the tutelage of Myrtle Snow. You had the feeling that your Supreme didn't take either of you seriously-you having average magical ability and Fiona less than that, but she was more than proficient in botany and magical plants. She could whip up the best potions in record time, and they'd always be right.

Your chaperone adored the both of you, you not being one to show much affection found it endearing. If you felt protective over anyone, it was these two ladies. Myrtle's natural talent was her ability to accurately call bullshit on liars. She had volunteered herself to accompany you, seeing that Fiona was about to throw you and her own child to the wolves.

When you got to L.A. on Myrtle's private jet, you had some time to yourselves before you had to head over to the Cortez so you decided to take Cordelia with you to the Whiskey A Go-Go to hear some music. You were enjoying yourself, but you soon felt that she wasn't having a good time at all-it was too loud for her. You took her hand and began leading her out when you felt someone pull her back. "Hey baby you wanna dance with me?" he asked her, you being able to smell the rot of a bad soul in his bones.

"She's with me" you said, glaring at the man "Hands off."

The man looked at both of you, then nodded approvingly "Hey I'm down for a threesome! When do we start ladies?"

You knew this was escalating quickly, and this manchild was used to getting what he wanted. He was getting aggressive and you needed to get out of there. You had no hesitation and you began to utter Latin, a soft pink mist filled the room and patrons in the club began dropping like flies, fast asleep. Soon, it reached the stage where the band stopped playing to watch the spectacle.

Your eyes widened as you saw your spell didn't effect them whatsoever.

Are these assholes warlocks? Maybe they have some warlock blood in them, but they look like they haven't seen any real magic in their whole lifetimes!

Delia too sensed the danger and she took your hand and ran out with you. The four males followed you to the alley, and you two ran faster. Neither of you could transmutate yet, so you were trapped like rats when you hit the back of the wall. You glanced over at Delia and nodded in silent agreement. The both of you started chanting the spell of pyrokinesis-if you couldn't escape them, you would burn them.

Then, a familiar head of flaming orange hair cast the sleep spell. She was more powerful and could cast spells easier than you novices. The men flopped on the ground, snoring loudly. Myrtle stepped on one of them, the person she walked on making a grunting noise of pain. She was more than irate with you two "Miss Y/N and Miss Cordelia! This is improper behavior of students of Miss Robichaux's Academy!"

You stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt with your shoes "We just wanted to have a bit of fun Mrs. Snow! We may be witches, but we're still young!"

"We are on a mission" Myrtle reminded you "we must find out as much as we can about the Cortez without entering it's doors as possible, then get back to Louisiana!" she then noted the state of your clothes-dirty from running and began to furiously rub the stains out.

"I will keep this quiet from the Supreme this one time, but if you deviate from the plan I will send you back and you will have to explain to her why the mission was a complete failure!" the first and last time you challenged Fiona Goode's authority, she had telekentically pinned you against the wall. You could feel the weight of your bones increase, your body unable to support your new frame. She only released you when both Myrtle and Cordelia pleaded for your life.

"But if we don't interact with the normies, how will we accomplish this goal?" Cordelia asked.

Myrtle thought for a moment and said "I'll allow it, but only with these males" she motioned to the sleeping men, a look of disgust on her face "and only if YOU talk to them, Y/N. I am NOT putting Miss Cordelia in danger..."

You always knew that Myrtle liked Delia better than you, but that was fine by your standards. They had known each other all Cordelia's life, and you had only entered the Academy a few years ago. You agreed to the terms, wanting to experience the night life L.A. had to offer. You wanted to see what Fiona Goode loved about this place so much that made the Supreme neglect her own coven.

As Myrtle and Cordelia left, you stayed behind and cast an awakening spell. When all the males got up, you said "What the Hell are you dipshits doing sleeping in an alley? Don't you have a place to stay?"

The blonde rubbed his head and said "Yeah...how'd we end up here? We were playing the Whiskey..."

You snapped your fingers and they all immediately stood up straight, one slightly bent over. He was an older looking man, so you guessed that it was his age or a disease that caused his bones to stiffen. They had blank, sober expressions on their faces and you said "Be my good little dogs and take me to your place..." the one spell you could cast without a word was Concilium- the ability to impose your own will on others. It was able to be resisted, but that took too much brain power, causing the head to explode.

The two younger dark haired men took each of your arms and they led you to their place. They sat in silent council around the dinner table until you asked "What do you know about the Hotel Cortez?"

"I'm Tommy" the tall dark haired man spoke "The Cortez is a place where some check in, but they don't check out..."

"I'm Nikki" the shorter dark haired man said "Some of our friends have stayed and they weren't the same after. They said they seen some shit..."

"Like what?" you asked.

"Vince" the blonde one said "they told us that they saw a tall lady with platinum blonde hair drink blood, and a tranny receptionist serving cat food as tartar..."

"Mick Mars" the older man said "They wouldn't stop talking about demons and ghosts-saw little kids like in the Shining..."

After a few moments of silence, you knew that you'd gotten all you would be able to get from these mongrels so you snapped your fingers again, releasing them from the spell.

They all jumped, blinking "Where the fuck are we?" Nikki asked.

"Well, I certainly hope you know where we are!" you put your hands on your hips sarcastically "Y'all bought me back here, we had an amazing gangbang and now you're telling me this isn't even your apartment?!"

They looked around and realized they were home "Yeah this is our place..." Tommy said "How'd we get back here?"

"After you were done at the Whiskey, you began flirting with me and promised me a dicking to remember!" you laughed "We're all done now!"

They all blinked and Vince said "Hey, that coke earlier was weak as fuck!" you rolled your eyes at them.

"Now if you'll excuse me gents" you got up to leave "I gotta get back to my chaperone before she notices I'm gone!"

Mick got up slowly and said "I'll go with you..." he looked at you like something was up, like he knew your secret.

"Fine by me" you said, letting him lead the way. When you two were out of earshot you asked "What are you?"

"I'm a warlock" he answered "from the same stock as you. I am a descendant of Giles Corey" you stopped and looked at him. You hadn't expected to meet another descendant of a Salem coven member in this of all places.

"What are you doing hanging around with those losers?" you motioned to the apartment.

"They're like a fungus" he laughed "they grew on me" he looked back fondly.

"So since you're a descendant of a weaker warlock, then you don't have much magical ability?" you guessed.

"Yeah" he said bluntly. There was no beating around the bush with him-a quality you liked. "The only thing I can do is manipulate sound" he mimed an air guitar, but he sound of a real one erupted from his hands.

"That's really cool!" you said, meaning it "Nobody in Robichaux can do that!"

"So why do you want to know about the Cortez so much?" he raised an eyebrow "I try to steer people away from that place as much as possible..."

"The Supreme ordered me and two other witches to investigate" you admitted "she wants to see what's going on"

Mick took a deep breath, contemplating on whether or not to tell you, then deciding it was for the best "That place is a Hell Mouth-where demons from Hell gather and plan evil deeds...people who die there, their souls are trapped there...The Countess, the vampire lives there runs the place with an iron fist..."

You looked at him in awe "How did you resist the Concilium spell?"

"I didn't" he said "it just wore off on me quicker and I played along at the apartment to protect the boys" you two went on talking, eventually leading to Myrtle's door.

The woman quickly opened the door and took a moment to study the unkempt man before her. Her eyes widened in recognition, then utter contempt. Mick smiled and waved "Hey Myrtle!"

"Go away, swine!" she spat and slammed the door in his face. You could hear him laughing and the realization hit you.

"Oh my god!" you chortled "You and Mick Mars dated!"

"His name was Robert Deal back then..." Myrtle blushed and demanded what you'd learned. You relayed what had been said to you and Myrtle made an executive decision-the mission was over and you were to go back to the Academy as soon as possible.

During this time, a voodoo priestess saw what was happening, and decided to prey on the weak minded young ones back at the apartment. She'd promised them luck in their music careers, in return for something beyond value. She began her summoning ritual and soon the whole apartment became dark and thick with smoke. Papa Legba sat before them, offered them their deepest desires and they accepted his terms.

All you witches and the warlock felt Papa's presence, Mick running back and begging Myrtle to help him. She flat out refused to help one who abandoned the coven. He looked so dismayed that you offered your assistance, Cordelia right behind you. Myrtle strictly forbid it, but neither of you stopped.

When you three got back to the apartment, the deal was done and Papa was gone. The Voodoo priestess smiled at you, saying that she had just done what any witch could not. The three of you knew Papa's terms all too well, seeing the deal he'd made with Marie Laveau for her immortality. Cordelia became so enraged that she'd reached down deep inside her and reduced the priestess to dust.

Both you and Mick looked at her in astonishment. That was something that only the Supreme was capable of. You knew the coming shit storm the Voodoos would raise, so you knew what you would do right then and there. Myrtle was too late to stop it, and just stared in horror at the realization of what must happen.

You turned to the three younger men, nothing but contempt in your voice "Do you realize what you've done?!"

"We made it so we'll make it big!" Nikki protested, and was about to continue defending their decision when you let out a yell that shook the very street, setting off car alarms.

Nikki's hand flew to where his mouth used to be, only to feel smooth skin. The other two young men had the same ailment and tried in vain to separate their lips to allow words to come out.

Myrtle looked over to Mick and said "They've condemned us all..."

When the Voodoos came for Cordelia, you took the fall and said it was you who turned the Voodoo's sister into dust. Your laws states that you were to be executed by burning, but it was the ones who'd been wronged duty to do the burning.

Marie Laveau herself held the torch and with a soft voice she whispered in your ear "Tell the truth, child...do not die for another witch's doing..."

"I did it" you said "I turned your sister to dust" your gaze was unwavering and you were given the chance to say last words "Cordelia. Come here" your friend stood before you and held her head to yours.

"Don't you dare waste the life I am about to give you..." you were both weeping now, and in the distance you saw Mick Mars watching from afar "You be the best fucking Supreme the coven's ever seen..." you kissed Cordelia softly and told her to step away.

Marie Laveau stepped forward and set you ablaze, you didn't scream or cry out. It felt like a release of sorts-if your coven needed you, they'd bring you back from the dead. A few witches had the power of resurgence.

Your ghost wandered the halls of Miss Robichaux's Academy, watching your friends grow beautiful-inside and out. You watched the new generation of witches come and thrive under Cordelia's wing. In a few years time, you felt the greatest evil emerge and you were being called back to the realm of the living. There, Cordelia was waiting for you with open arms and you said "So, where do we begin?"

#motley crue #mötley crüe #the dirt #nikki sixx #tommy lee #mick mars #vince neil #motley crue imagine #mötley crüe imagine #mick mars imagine #motley crue fanfiction #mötley crüe fanfiction #mick mars fanfiction #submitted #not mine #submission

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noccalula-writes · 5 years

Text

I wrote a long-ass essay about the entire experience with my father, as it was happening, because that’s how I cope with shit.

CW: parental death, discussions of abuse, medical situations, dying.

(7/4/2019)

It’s Thursday. The hospice nurses don’t think he’ll die tonight and I don’t either, but his breathing pattern is beginning to change. The rattling of the gathering fluids at the back of his mouth. The way he sleeps with his mouth hanging fully open, a much further drop than the way he’d nod off in his chair or on the couch, open enough to drool and snore but not the near-scream affectation of his jaw hanging loosely that I’ve been seeing since we arrived here yesterday by ambulance.

His jaundice is returning, albeit more subtly than it was before. Sometimes he sleeps deep. Sometimes his eyebrows move, knitting and raising and fluctuating like he’s in the middle of a very important conversation with someone who just isn’t getting the message. For some reason, I keep thinking he’s talking to his own father. I hope he is. I hope it’s a good conversation.

But his breathing becomes erratic and the emaciated curve of his chest starts to heave a little or goes too still for too long and then rises harshly, and I hold my own breath while I wait to see if his is coming back.

I want to be here when he dies. I will be here when he dies.

***

I had booked a flight on Sunday for 7:45 pm. I made it out the other side of the TSA checkpoint when I got the text that American Airlines had canceled my flight.

I called and explained the direness of the situation, and the best they could offer was 7am the next morning.

Monday morning, I flew into Charlotte NC with a 36 minute layover, just enough to let me pee and refill my water bottle and make it to the gate with less than an hour’s wait til boarding.

No sooner had I sat down than American Airlines sent out yet another text. “Your flight has been cancelled.” I was five and a half hours away from Jacksonville as a straight shot. The next flight they could put me on was at 2:45 that afternoon. The nurses had been encouraging me to come down due to my father’s rapid deterioration – I spent the entire transit up until that point only mildly afraid that he would die before I would arrive.

There in North Carolina? I was terrified.

I called, talked to yet another sympathetic courtesy clerk who could do nothing for me, talked to a far less courteous clerk at the actual airport desk, tried to see if they could just get me a rental car instead. I could either sit for a six hour layover or I could get a car and make it to Jax half an hour before my flight would leave.

Nothing.

I did not have the money to fly here – a dear friend bought my ticket – and I do not have the money to fly back. I’ll work that out after. I definitely did not have the money for my own rental car.

Finally, I went back to the courtesy desk, cried to the older gentleman behind the computer, and how quickly his face changed when I said my father was dying told me he too knew what it meant to need to get home now, now, now.

He handed me a comp ticket for a 1:11 flight that no one else had even brought up with me and told me I had to run if I was going to make it across the airport in time to board.

***

Yesterday morning, he had the last period of real lucidity, unreplicated since we arrived and began comfort-care treatment.

His main doctor came into the ICU and explained to both him and me, freshly awakened by the sound of her pulling his curtain, father and daughter both bleary-eyed but alert and trying to look focused at the importance of the situation.

“There is really nothing else we can do,” she offered with empathy, looking more at me than at him. I don’t blame her for that. It must be harder to look him in the eyes and tell him he’s at the end of the road. We both nod grimly and I ask him, just to be sure, if he understands what she’s saying.

The day before, he slept through my consultations with his kidney doctor and his oncologist and through the group meeting (myself, both half sisters, their mother) with palliative care specialists but naturally was awake when hospice came. The word ‘hospice’ knocked the breath out of him, his left hand searching feebly along the side of his hospital bed, trying to hold on to the edge like he was cresting a daunting roller coaster.

I was crouching to his right, trying to stay eye-level instead of looming over him. I think he reached for my hand. Maybe I reached first. All I know is I took his hand and he squeezed mine.

He asked for a day to consider it, and when that patch of lucidity was gone in twenty minutes, so was his consideration.

That next morning, however, with his lovely doctor standing over us both while I rested my arm and chin on the bedrail beside him, like were co-conspirators instead of a distant father and daughter with a contentious relationship whose power dynamic was about to shift considerably, there was no question of the conversation we were having.

“Do you understand why we need to do this?” I asked him after explaining that we were out of other options. My Great Aunt Jane couldn’t handle home care, even with me present, and he would never get a moment’s peace with her hovering and micromanaging. The hospital was at the end of their ability to care for him, and any measures taken to sustain his life were only delaying the inevitable.

I don’t know if he fully understood that last part, but he nodded, looking away.

I waited for a moment, summoning my courage.

“You understand this is metastatic cancer, right?”

Another nod.

Another moment of gathering courage.

“Your oncologist told me you’ve known about this since last year…” I was cautious, careful not to make him feel judged though I knew it might be a moot point, “Do you remember that?”

He paused, taking assessment, his eyes moving slowly across the ceiling as he pulled through his own memory to find the answer.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t… but I must have known.”

***

I arrived on Monday afternoon, my cousin bringing me straight from the airport to the hospital.

I slept on the small sofa in his hospital room both Monday and Tuesday nights. I only left for an hour on Tuesday to meet a close friend at a restaurant right on the other side of the business park from the hospital, a quick catch up to eat and get some take out for Tara.

When I start to worry that I’m doing this because I need to feel like The Goodest Daughter, like I’ve somehow exceeded everyone else’s efforts by miles, I remind myself that I’m still putting chapstick on him, rubbing lotion onto his feet, helping the nurses turn and hold him to change his diaper, enduring the vilest of shit (that systems-are-shutting-down feces is no joke), making sure his dentures are clean and his goatee is free of food despite the fact that he’s called me Tara more than once.

***

My father and I have barely spoken in the last several years.

Nobody seems to suspect that.

***

I’ve been trying to journal but it’s difficult to keep up with considering how tired I am – writing by hand is still a beautiful pastime but I’m at the point where my memory goes so quickly that if I’m not in front of a keyboard, I lose whatever nice prose I thought I had going.

I know from a self-care perspective that I should probably leave a little more often. Go for a walk around the property at a more leisurely pace than my panic-stricken power walk – big body, short little legs, shitty shoes means my legs have been killing me since the day I had to hoof it across the Charlotte airport all the way until I got back from my quick Target trip today, four days later. But I can’t.

The idea of him being alone and afraid makes me feel sick.

But he’s calm now. He’s been calm since we arrived at hospice yesterday afternoon, after I rode in the ambulance beside him that took us from his 8th-floor ICU suite to the Hadlow hospice center on Sunbeam Road, a road only slightly off the path that I rode with my father so many times. We’ve definitely driven down it before together, though, and I can’t stop thinking about time, about how eight years ago today he put “happy 4th, love ya” on my facebook wall and within three years of that we were so strained we barely spoke, existed somewhere not quite yet arriving at estrangement but somewhere further away from familiarity.

***

I’m working very hard to not let that anger I carried for him all the way up until the phone call came on Saturday that he was dying get transmuted into guilt. Of course, it’s happened to some degree, that much I couldn’t fight off – but I’m trying to remember that this anger isn’t the dysfunction of a spoiled kid who couldn’t quit butting heads with her father, but someone who tried very hard to build a relationship that never took, who eventually decided to take her hand off the burner because eventually she stopped accepting pain as a trade-in for affection.

One of the things that has emerged the clearest to me during this transition between ICU to hospice, between periodic lucidity and near constant sleep, is how different a relationship to him Tara has had than Alina or I had. Alina has always carried the bitterness of feeling unfavored atop the conflict that close proximity built between them – she spent the first 7 years of her life with him constantly, traded off every other week after that. She’s angry at him for things that he did or said, for how he chose to shape her life from that vantage point. I spent two months of every summer with him and every Christmas and birthday as they fall during the same winter break from school. I was a part-time visitor in the life he had with both of them; I came and lived in his life, on his terms.

Her anger comes from a sense of entitlement. Mine comes from an ever-present ache of abandonment. Alina has always resented him for what he did when he was there; I resented him for not being there to begin with. I ached for a relationship with my father. I called him sporadically – far apart enough that it wouldn’t cramp his distant style, but close enough that we could maintain a steady narrative of what my life was like (always mine, almost never his – my father was as cagey and distant with me as I often was with other people). The rivers of bad blood between his longtime girlfriend and all 3 of his daughters made matters worse; she was the sort of woman who never made it past high-school level social skills and let pain and depression turn her cruel and callous, and once their relationship was over my father very openly blamed her for the strain between him and his daughters.

I once countered to him that he had made the decision to not step in and stop her. To me, it was more his fault than hers. She was awful but he was complacent with it.

Never being able to consolidate world views in general atop my feelings of having been abandoned to my grief after my mother’s death in a house that felt more like a prison (I once left a cup of water unemptied in the sink and came home to find he had dumped it all over my bed – another time, I arrived home to find my dresser from Alabama pluming up smoke from the burn pile in the back yard without so much as a word to me, because he said he saw spiders in it) made it incredibly difficult to stitch the distance between us closed. I started leaving at 5am to go to my boyfriend’s house before school and have breakfast with his family (or, more often, sneak in and either go back to sleep or have sex). I begged to move out, to leave and go stay at my great aunt’s house instead, and he resisted me only until his girlfriend needed my bedroom for her kids when they visited. Then, I was allowed to leave.

He kept all of my social security survivor’s checks. I only saw the very last one. I worked at McDonald’s to pay for my own gas (I inherited my mother’s car, a 1990 Cutlass Cierra, when she died) and insurance, and I bought my own food as well so his girlfriend didn’t get upset when I ate at the house.

He judged my mother mightily for her mistakes and while my sexuality didn’t seem to hang him up too much – he nearly choked on chicken when I told him I had been dating a girl, but he recovered quickly with a shrug and a “well… shit happens” – and my defensiveness of her put us at odds with each other again. I tried to call and set up dinner dates or ask him to come see whatever new apartment my girlfriend and I were living in. He visited one once and then never again. I brought over a pizza to hang out with him one night and within thirty minutes, Cynthia called me to tell me that one of our cats had died. Spending time together got harder to arrange, and the more he seemed indifferent to how hard I was trying to forge a relationship, the more I resented him for it.

My calls went unanswered. Seeing him required going out of my way, every time. He rarely met me halfway, almost never if it required real effort on his part.

By the time Cyn and I moved to Pensacola, we had been living less than 10 minutes away from one another and had seen each other less than 5 times in a year.

By the time we moved to Columbus, Ohio, I didn’t even tell him we were going. It didn’t seem to matter.

***

The jaundice and edema have returned by Friday morning. His breathing is becoming more and more erratic. Morphine and Ativan are coming in through a subcutaneous port because he no longer wakes up to swallow.

I have to fight the urge to try to wake him, make him take a sip of water for his parched tongue. His mouth stays wide open all of the time now. I gently rub chapstick over his lips a few times a day so they don’t crack, but the corners of his mouth are bruising from the constant tension.

I am letting him die. We are letting him die. It feels like a failure somehow, even though I know I would absolutely encourage literally anyone else to do exactly what I am doing now in exactly this situation.

***

When I was 12 years old, I played my first live show.

My father brought me onstage at the bar where he played lead guitar in the house band, a vast waste of his natural talent, and had me sing Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” while he accompanied me. We drilled it night after night in his studio apartment during the summer that he split from Alina and Tara’s mother. We worked on Tom Petty’s “Breakdown” but there was something to “Time After Time” that we both really loved – I had only recently gotten very good with pitch control and my young voice was still high and soft, able to curl over the notes gently. Now I sing with the base of my chest and what I suspect are several vocal nodes, my voice getting weak quickly but frankly it suits my style.

I was shaking, I remember very clearly wanting to throw up, but my father beamed at me from his post on the barstool beside me and started to play.

Years later, my Italian macho-typical misogynist of a father would come to the local women’s center where I worked as a victim advocate for a sexual assault response team and play in our courtyard during our survivor event in April. He played an Ani DiFranco song and I sang.

***

Time is a swallowed bomb, waiting. You pay for the whole seat but you only use the edge.

***

On Friday night, they’re saying less than 24 hours. His breathing has changed again, growing labored and strange.

I almost have a panic attack when I have to go to the funeral home to sign papers for a cremation and fill out what of his death certificate I can remember.

Tara is staying beside him. Alina joined us for a while today, all three of us sitting and holding his hands, petting his leg while we listened to his favorite Splendor album and sang “Yeah, Whatever” to him. Hospice brought his lunch; he doesn’t eat or take water anymore. We stole his cookie and split it and talked to him about how good it was, teasing the way he always teased us. We reminisced, talked about the past and our mistakes. We all cried. We all laughed. It was as good a moment as we’d had together in a long, long time.

He didn’t wake up, but we were holding his hands. We were keeping him safe.

***

I sing to him when we’re alone – his favorite Bonnie Raitt songs. Time After Time, of course. When I try singing Warren Zevon’s “Keep Me In Your Heart For A While,” I only make it to the second stanza before I can’t go on.

“When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun, keep me in your heart for a while; there’s a train leaving nightly called When All Is Said And Done, keep me in your heart for a while.”

I asked him for guitar lessons once. He tried to teach me a G chord, told me to keep it simple.

“With your voice, you won’t need to learn much,” he said, and I was so overjoyed for the compliment that I’ve never forgotten it.

***

My dear friend Diana comes in to see him, despite having only known him through me.

He would hate this, I think, but I need her to be there, if only for a few minutes.

We met at the abortion clinic we both worked at; she became my boss within two months of my starting and we’ve been close ever since. When she goes to leave, she addresses my father, coming to put her hand gently on his.

“Mister Vance, if I don’t see you again, safe travels.”

I don’t know where he’s going. If there is somewhere, though, it’s going to have so much music. He’s going to be playing his heart out, saying everything his pride never let him say with notes and bars.

Once, back in college, he called me and said nothing, setting the phone beside him on the couch while he absolutely nailed the Eruption solo from Van Halen’s cover of “Girl You Really Got Me Now.”

I have never thought of him as a good father. I have always thought of him as an incredible musician.

***

Back on Sunday, when I knew I would be flying out due to the severity of the situation, I told the nurse to tell Dad I was coming.

I didn’t think he was lucid enough to understand much of anything anyone said, but I missed a call from the hospital by margins of seconds. In an absolute tizzy over what might have been on the other end, I called back.

My father answered, his voice barely a hoarse whisper, his focus obscured by so much morphine.

“Dad? Is that you?”

“Bre?”

“Dad?”

“Bre?”

“Yeah, Dad, it’s Bre.”

His voice broke. “Oh, my baby girl.”

I felt my heart fall out of my ribs and drop down the staircase I fell down the year before and cracked my tailbone, shattered a tooth. I sat down on the stairs. I had been so worried he wouldn’t want to see me, that I’d get there and the ice coating would crawl back over our relationship and I’d have rushed down for little more than maybe a chance to say hello.

“Are you really coming?” he asked, over and over, like a child afraid of the answer being ‘no.’

***

On Saturday, he’s gasping for breath like a fish on a deck. It’s terrifying for me and Tara, who sit on either side of him wide-eyed and panic stricken, waiting for the higher dose of morphine to kick in. It’s violent to watch, but thankfully it starts to subside by that night.

The fear dissipates from the room, but we don’t forget the experience.

***

I show the night nurse pictures of my father with his long dark hair, his brown-tan skin, his brilliant green eyes. I show her pictures of him just two short years ago, round-faced and charming in his straw fedora as he played his guitar, blissfully unaware of all the shitty connotations of fedoras nowadays. She marvels at how handsome he is, how happy he looks holding a guitar. I tell her he’s a really good carpenter but he’s a much better musician, raised by a father who was notoriously talented as well. My father lit up onstage, not as towering as a front man but as the ever-present lead guitarist, just quirky and fun enough to draw your eye from the main microphone but practical, decades of practice and honed skill turning him into the kind of perfectionist he resented in his father.

The lead singer of the last band he played for comes to see him for the third time since Monday. He’s the kind of man who has a natural charm about him, a comfort with being the center of attention that most of us can’t cultivate. He’s sincere in his grief about my father, but he’s also the kind of person who acts as though it’s never dawned on him that not everything he does will come with applause. He performs a very dramatic one man show of his grief when it’s just him and my sister; when I’m here he holds court with his memories and talks about throwing back whiskey with my father at the bar they played at.

“He always said the doctor said it was okay!”

I fight back irritation when I respond, “The doctor absolutely did not say it was okay, he had liver damage.” It’s not this man’s fault my father took big gambles with his health and his addictions. It’s not his fault that my father has always loved a good time. It’s certainly not his fault my father lied about his condition to most people to avoid having to talk about it.

He makes open-ended statements designed to make us ask him questions about himself. Neither one of us do. This seems to bother him. It occurs to me that after a lifetime of being handsome and musically inclined, he might just be expressing himself the only way he knows how – from a vantage point where the world ends at the end of his nose.

Later, when his wife comes, it’s a complete 180. She is calm and warm and immediate, built small and slight like my mother, and between that and her unabashed Mom vibes I’m instantly glad that this virtual stranger is in the room. We watch my father struggle to breathe and she puts her hand on my back, one hand on mine on his, and for a second I shut my eyes and let myself cry – not the way I want to cry, I haven’t found the softest spot to rip that one open from yet, but quietly. If I keep my eyes closed, it feels like my mother is beside me. I can’t think of a not-weird way to tell her I’m grateful for that, so I don’t.

***

Tara and I hold vigil all day on Sunday. His lungs are full of fluid and his face is going grey. His breaths are gentle and small but he sounds like a coffee maker, an observation I make after waking from a catnap in the bay window.

It’s just the three of us and a Law & Order SVU marathon. Dad’s come to like police procedurals in his old age.

We put up a statement on Facebook asking people to send their well wishes via text and phone calls, that we are running out of road and we’d like to focus mostly on spending the last hours or days with him. Alina doesn’t show. She’s been present but sporadically, unable to bear the full weight of the reality of the situation perhaps or too distracted by her own personal demons. I wonder, of the three of us, which daughter will be the one living with the most regret. It’s probably between me and Alina.

When Tara finally goes home for the evening, the nurse comes back to check on him again. Between his blood pressure and his gentle, rattling breaths, he could easily go tonight or go into the morning.

I text my cousin and refer to my father as Captain Refuses-To-Die. She laughs. I feel guilty. She points out that no one would be laughing more than my father. I feel better.

On this, likely the last night we’ll ever have together, I read to him from the book I’ve brought from home (Dessa Wander’s My Own Devices, nonfiction essays that are beautiful and poignant), put Chicago PD on mute and play him Jeff Buckley. I read aloud from the chapter in which Dessa filmed the music video for “Sound The Bells”, and the ending lines crush me all over again: “Some places you need to go, even a chestful of air is too much cargo. Some places you can only go empty.”

I tell him, for the hundredth time, that it’s okay to go if he needs to. His blood pressure is lower and the rattling breaths are a sign we’re growing closer, but he’s still warm to the touch all over. If he’s mottling, we can’t see it. There’s gray in his face again but he reacts to the oral swab of moisturizer to keep his mouth from drying out by furrowing his brows, almost turning away but not quite. The nurses aren’t sure what to make of it. One of these literal angels asks me if I’ve tried telling him it’s okay to go – I tell her that might be what’s holding him up, because now that it was someone else’s idea, he’s just not going to do it.

I hear him in my ear sometimes. Quit rushin’ me. I’ll go when I want and not a moment sooner. Sit down.

We listen to three different versions of Buckley’s Hallelujah – instrumental while I read to him, live, and studio. We move on to the rest of the Grace album.

I’m afraid to go to the bathroom or take a shower when it’s just me and him, so convinced he’ll wait until the second the door clicks shut and then take his opportunity to slip away unnoticed, robbing me of the moment where I get to hold his hand and put some symmetry to our relationship. After all, he was there when I came into the world, purple and defiantly refusing to breathe until suddenly I sucked in air and began to scream. He saw me come in; I vow to at least be here when he goes out. I want to hold his hand the whole time, but if in all his wittiness he decides to kick while I’m half-sleeping on the World’s Okayest Cot, just being in the room will have to be enough.

***

When Alina arrived at my great aunt’s and found him on the floor, slumped against his bed bleeding and unable to get up, he told her he had become addicted to oxycodone since nothing else was helping for the pain. He told her he was done, that he was tired of being sick and tired of fighting.

Despite this, he’s still hanging on. I don’t think he wants to go. He’s only 61 years old. It seems far away to me now the way my mother’s 39 years seemed when I was 16, but now I am 32 and 39 gets more horrible and tragic every day. My father was the life of the party between his sense of humor and relentless flirting and I can only assume that on some base level, he’s not ready for the party to stop yet.

His fingers stopped searching for the fret board days ago. His eyes don’t move behind the lids anymore, and the shadows and bruises around them are coming in fierce. The Haldol is doing nothing to stop the secretions and he’s still in full brew mode, death rattle on all day long. It’s terrifying at first but after a while it’s just a rumble, just a purr. There are moments when Tara and I are perched in our respective chairs on either side of him, eyes turned to the TV or our phones, and this is… ‘fine’ isn’t really the word, but mundane. Just a thing we’re all doing. Boring, even. And then I glance at the bed and see my emaciated, sunken-faced father gurgling through yet another breath and it takes my own away how very not okay it all is.

He’d hate this, is the only thing I can keep thinking. He would hate all of this.

***

There’s a train leaving nightly called ‘When All Is Said and Done.’

Keep me in your heart for a while.

I love him with every ounce of my being. I’m so angry for all the time we missed. I’m so sad that he didn’t let me love him more.

***

It’s Thursday, again. The last few days have been a blur so emotionally exhausting I haven’t had the presence of mind to put pen to paper in any capacity.

When he’ll die is anyone’s guess. For a while yesterday his breathing changed so drastically, came in short little hiccups, that the PRN was sure he was breathing his last. Then, like nothing had ever transpired, he was back to the soft, shallow breaths of before, the rattling having disappeared within a day of its arrival. He started having spells yesterday where he exhales so hard that it engages his vocal cords, making a groan or soft moan like a zombie in a horror film; this terrified the shit out of Tara and me so badly that we grabbed the nurse. His eyes tried to open. It was incredibly upsetting.

The nurse explained that these were reflexive, the deep sighs were him fighting his own heart’s slowing down on some basal level. He’s been unconscious for an entire week now – the eyes opening are a reflex, not intentional and not a sign of any sort of awareness behind the lids.

When they opened after he was cleaned, they had rolled all the way up into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white, making me feel sick to my stomach. I knew dying wasn’t elegant and beautiful the way the movies would have you believe, but this is taking so very, very long and it’s so very, very awful.

It’s been a week without water now, so at some point something will have to give.

Tara has spent every day right next to me, sometimes holding his other hand, sometimes napping in the armchair while I nap on my cot. It’s often the two of us in comfortable silence for long stretches or cracking jokes over whatever is on tv. We share his trays when they come in – sometimes the worker slips us a second tray specifically for Tara – or she runs to grab lunch. We tried going out together a few times but no results; he would be exactly as we left him upon our return. Whatever he’s holding on for, he’s holding on with both hands.

I watch his pulse pound in the veins in his neck. I can see his heartbeat through the emaciation of his ribs. I wish to god this was a Death With Dignity state. I wish to god the end would just come gently for him already, and then I feel like a monster for wishing that. How do you want someone you love to die? How do you want them to stay and suffer? Damned if I do, fucked if I don’t.

I play him Joe Bonamassa, more Jeff Buckley, Bonnie Raitt, Bon Iver, Eva Cassidy, Warren Zevon. I sing every song he ever asked me to sing for him, even the ones he chastised me for singing too loudly for him to hear the radio. I hum when I can’t muster the energy to sing, which is increasingly often at this point.

I’m a ghost wandering the hospice halls. The staff greets me by first name and I know most of theirs now – Lisa, who is a literal angel, sent in a dining room cart loaded with sandwiches and chips when a big storm hit yesterday, thinking Tara and I wouldn’t likely go out to get dinner. Gloria dutifully checks on me and my dad and Tara. Jasmine, Victoria, Tinkey, Dolores, the cleaning lady named Cynthia (my wife’s name) is a particular comfort, going out of her way to talk to me every time she comes in to sweep.

The guilt is palpable. I miss my wife and my dog and my apartment; sleeping on this cot has triggered my already flared vestibular disorder and I am so dizzy I worry I’ll fall over at least once a day. I eat what I can when I can but my diet is garbage. I often forget to eat. I’m making it a point to drink as much water as I physically can without getting sick as it helps my headaches.

But I haven’t cried in what feels like days. I can’t anymore. I talk about the increasingly mottling on his fingers, his toes, his ears like it’s a matter-of-fact conversation about the weather. The sound of his sighs and groans still make my heart catch in my throat every time but I’m going numb to the rest. We’re just kind of trapped here in limbo between being able to care for him, which we no longer can, and being able to mourn him and grieve, which we cannot yet do. It feels like torture. I mentally calculate out how much therapy I’m going to need to get out the other side of this. I watch more cop procedurals than I’ve watched in years and hate every last one of them unless Olivia Benson is in them (except Criminal Minds, which I have a complicated relationship with but Tara and I both share a deep abiding love of Spencer Reid, so.)

I want to go home. I feel like dog shit for wanting to go home. I can’t leave him. Not like this. I don’t know how to ask for help but I feel like I’m drowning.

***

The only slices of time where I feel like I can breathe is when Tara and I run to Target for no good reason or when I’m in the shower late in the evening. At first I was too afraid to so much as use the bathroom, scared he would slip off the second I left the room in one final act of independence to prove once and for all that he didn’t need anybody else’s input or help.

Dad’s hospice room has a huge walk-in shower built to accommodate a sitting toilet for those who are still resisting the sponge bath with all their might. Dad was unable to walk for the three days he was in the ICU, much less now, so I drag the entire rig of pvc and toilet seat out into the bathroom proper and enjoy a shower with enough space to comfortably fit three people. In my apartment back home, we haven’t had a functional shower in months; the whole set up fell out of the wall, leaving us only with our very deep and very beautiful porcelain tub. It’s hard to complain about such a tub but the reality is that cup baths get tiring very quickly when you’re disabled and getting into and out of that gorgeous porcelain tank is real work.

This shower comes equipped with safety rails, which at the ripe old age of 32 send my chronically ill self into pure joy. I find reasons to stay in the shower longer than I normally would, water conscious as I try to be. My legs haven’t been so shaven so frequently since I was a teenager. I don’t always have the energy to slip off and stand in hot water for twenty minutes at a time but when I do I try to take advantage; we don’t know when he’s going to decide he’s had enough and I’ll be quickly packing our things into all these Zaxby’s carryout bags I keep hoarding.

***

At some point, this has begun to feel deliberate. Am I locked in one final battle of wills with my father? Is he testing my mettle – and Tara’s, for that matter – to make sure we’ve got the stones to follow up on our promises?

My father made a lot of promises he didn’t honor. Whether they haunted him or if he just forgot is anybody’s guess.

***

I’m on the lanai near my father’s room when I noticed a few people going in and out of the room. I tell my aunt Sharon, “If he slipped off while I was outside on the phone, I swear to god.” He hasn’t, but we’re close; they’ve repositioned him to try to help things move along. The doctor tells me the mottling has moved quickly up his legs and that we’re looking at hours now, maybe even sooner.

His eyes are partially open again. I grimace and close them gently. I remember my mothers’ open eyes, dead for hours when I found her, and it’s something that sixteen years of road between that moment and now have never been able to rub free from my memory. I wonder what about this will haunt me in specificity – the whole experience, sure, but the little things. If I’ll smell someone wearing his nurse practitioner’s perfume and it’ll send me straight into fight or flight. If I’ll be so consumed by my grief that I can’t eat but the second I can I find I can never eat trail mix again. If something will slip just under the edge of my self awareness and then one day I’ll be crying in the aisle at Kroger for no reason.

Bronze nail polish, unexpected splashes of Daffodil yellow, and “Girl You Really Got Me Now” stop me in my tracks in regards to my mother, but she was part of my life every single day. This man laying in this hospital bed is undoubtedly someone I love so much it makes my chest hurt to think of, but not much in my day to day life will change when he is gone – he wasn’t a part of it, hadn’t been for years.

A storm is rolling in. I call my sister.

***

He dies at 10:40 on July 11th.

Tara is asleep on the cot on one side of him, I’m sitting in the armchair on the other, listening to him breathe and texting my wife. Chicago PD is on because of course it is. I get a strange prickle of discomfort and pause, realizing that I no longer hear the heaving of his breath.

At that exact moment, my sister wakes for no reason and goes into the bathroom, passing me as I quickly come around the bed to look at my father’s face in the blue tv light, his eyes slit just barely open. His chest unmoving. The thrum of his heartbeat, so visible for so many days, stilled. I pressed two fingers to his neck, fought the urge to recoil, and pressed the call button to the nurse’s station.

We get an hour and a half with him before the funeral home arrives at nearly 1 am. With my mother, my shock and fear kept me from being able to go anywhere near her body after I dropped her when I tried to turn her over. My criminology studies made me slightly more comfortable around the dead but that quick recoil didn’t leave me and before long I was doubly nursing a burgeoning drinking problem and a crippling fear of death. I’ve done the reading. I’ve pushed myself past my comfort zone. When my beloved dogs died in 2015 and 2017, I spent time with them before burying them myself in the backyard of my aunt’s home.

When the doctor backs out of the door gracefully, quietly, I press my ear to my father’s chest and hear nothing. I put my arm over both of his. I let myself sob into his still, unmoving shoulder and I remember for a moment how he held me in my bedroom at his house the day I moved in, when my mother’s death was suddenly too real to stand under the weight off. How he let me lean fully into him and slid down to the floor with me, let me sob until I was too sore to keep crying, how for that one blessed moment he was the father I needed at exactly the moment I needed him.

They come to take him. The funeral home worker watches me with a soft expression as I dip down one last time and tell him, “On to the next adventure. Thank you for everything. I love you, Dad. Goodbye.”

***

I love you, Dad.

Goodbye.

***

I think I’m going to feel better but really, I’m just tired. Bone-deep tired. A tired I can’t put a name to. I want to go home and be held by my wife more than I want anything in the world. I spend the day with my sisters, alternating between being mostly-okay and having my breath snatched from me by how not-okay I am. Alina submits herself back to rehab to return on Monday. We make plans to go through his things, together, in September, when I’ve returned for a wedding. It feels okay-ish, and then it feels less okay, and then it’s so awful I can’t wrap my head around it.

And it will continue to be awful. I know that. But it will gradually become less awful, the edges rubbing down until it doesn’t cut me every time I brush against it. It will always be awful. But it will turn into a shape of awful that I can breathe around.

I take stock of what I’ve got left in my hands now that my watch has ended. I went from “my father is not in my life” to “my father is dying and I am caring for him in his final days after a lifetime of his antiseptic behavior to my attempts at building emotional bridges with him” to “my father is dead” in the space of about 13 days. There was no time. It all happened too fast.

On my last day in Florida, I drag both of my exhausted sisters to the beach. Alina sleeps on a towel. Tara and I wade out into the ocean, and I let the salt water of my sweat and my tears remind me how we all came from the sea, how we all return to the earth, and how one day this planet will keep spinning without me, regardless of whether I’ve left a list of things undone or not.

I don’t scream. I don’t cry. I just float for a while.

#personal #noccalula updates

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crow-snek · 5 years

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Maybe the real human transmutation was the friends we made along the way :)

#not frog #fmab #full metal alchemist brotherhood #anime #just watched it for the first time! very good!!!

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eyesaremosaics · 6 years

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Letting Go/Releasing Fear

Having a lot of realizations lately. Coming through a “burning time”, and having been resurrected—I am now able to face the world differently. The one thing I feared to lose the most... I now am not afraid of anymore. For the first time, I was able to stand up to the shadow of my father, and try to take back some power by reinforcing my boundaries. It was painful and hard, but very good for me.

“I can’t be with the man I love, I can’t breathe when he treats me rough.” I keep hearing this song in my head, and I realize the toxicity I was dealing with... in him.... in me... in the way we related to one another. I see now, all the ways in which I contributed to the unhealthiness in our connection, but I can’t deny, that interacting with him in his current state—drags me back into old behavior patterns that I thought were behind me. The truth is—I am no longer that girl. I am not a raging alcoholic, I have self worth, self respect and I am able to face the world free of drugs and alcohol for the first time. I want to live, I am patient, gentle and sweet. Though I still struggle with insecurity, I am LOADS better than I have ever been.

The issue we kept running into, was talking about past relationships. If there is one thing I’ve learned in all my years of failing at them—it’s not to bring them up. It’s okay to bring it up to explain why you have a certain issue, ex: “someone did this to me once, which made me feel this way, can you please not do this thing, because it triggers me to feel that again.” Totally acceptable. Talking in detail about your sex life with that person, or the nice things they did for you, even if you are complaining... it just shows you are not over it. You are still in another relationship, so how can you be present in the new one?

I admit, I was not ready for love when it came to me the first time. I have been abused and brutalized for much of my life, and like a wild stallion that has been fenced in... I kicked the back gate open in my panic and fled. “Stop trying to control me!” But they weren’t trying to control me, they were trying to love me. The unfortunate part is that they went about it the wrong way. Threatening with abandonment is negative reinforcement, and it will not motivate others to change their behavior, it will only motivate them to dodge and avoid your anger.

My drinking was always the main issue. Since I began to get sober, the fog in my bead cleared.. I stopped drinking after my 3 1/2 year relationship, because the stimulus that caused me stress and insecurity was no longer there. I am very clear now why I drank, but I am also clear that I should have stopped. It just felt inevitable, because the one thing I asked was me we acknowledged. It was emotional abuse, but I was abusive too. It was a toxic dynamic. I felt pushed to the brink of my sanity, driven mad with jealousy and insecurity. Then I would drink to purge my pent up emotions, or physically harm because I would be teased until my rage had no words.

However, this is the past. I truly have let go of that past. I know why I acted that way, I understand why he acted the way he did too. I made peace with all of it—finally. My intention was to build a friendship, and relate to each other in a different way. More compassionate, better communication, less pressure and stress. I tried to hold fast to these ideals, but everything became murky. He is deeply lost and broken, seeing him hurt so deeply over other women... reminds me of my own broken heart. A heart that was almost completely healed... but the wound keeps getting ripped open with intimate details of his relationships since me.

This brought my insecurities up, which made me anxious. I never knew where I stood. It didn’t feel right. I felt like a caretaker, or a band aid... a mother... but not a person of real consequence. I tried to hold the space for him, so he could release and share his processing, but after a few months, it began to wear on my self esteem. This is not his fault, I am responsible for how I respond to things, but the truth is—it does trigger me, and it does bring up all kinds of ugly sad emotions for me. I just want to be present with this person. He says, I need to talk about these things, insinuating that if I can’t talk to him about other women in his life that I’m not a real friend.

Given the tragic nature of our history, I felt it was inappropriate. Though I too shared details of my relationships in an attempt to relate better to him, I really have no anger or sadness towards any of my exes. The only one that causes me pain and confusion still—is him. Not because I am holding on to the past though... when we first began talking again, I felt we were patching holes. It was tremendously healing for me, an emotional veteran, but very exhausting for him. A lot of deep pain resurfaced for me, because I felt he needed to know just how affected I actually was. I needed him to acknowledge my pain for once, instead of dodging it because he couldn’t take any responsibility. Granted, I could have handled things better then, but in actuality—I couldn’t because I was an utterly defeated person who lost the will to live.

Fully aware, that the self sacrificing love I had for him was unhealthy, I wanted so much to transmute that energy into a positive healing force, for both myself and him. Forgiveness was fostered in me, and like a garden, it needed time and tending to. Still, I tend that garden. Gently cutting away the weeds in my thinking. I was steadfast and true, but everything felt... groundless. I never knew what was going on. Insecure attachment. Whenever I tried to talk to him to clear the air, he felt instantly overwhelmed, and withdrew further and further. Each time he did this, my heart grew more and more sad. Like sand spilling through the cracks in my fingers, I felt him going away from me.

Weeping gently, heartbroken and not knowing what I did or how to fix it. Abandonment issues, yet I see him suffering, and all I want to do is help. I see him limping and I want to put his arm around my shoulder and help hoist him up, help steady him. My sadness now, is knowing I can do nothing to help him with this. It is a journey he had to take alone, just as I did all those years ago. It took me three years to get stable as I am now, I can’t afford to lose that progress. I can’t keep sacrificing myself for those I love, compromising my own health and happiness to make sure they are okay. For once I had to protect myself, and reinforce the boundaries I set.

Though I wish I could be there to guide him, to comfort and care for him... I can’t. It hurts too much. To feel like a consolation prize, or a security blanket. My last relationship was one of love, trust, and devotion. It’s hard to go back to something that leaves me feeling worthless (no matter how unintentionally). Knowing myself now as I do, the time is ripe for me to find a life partner. I am careful, discerning, and have little tolerance for bullshit. I am ready to love and be loved, for the first time in my life. Sadly, Love is not enough. It was not enough with this person, or my last relationship either. You must work together, it’s a partnership.

Focusing on my career and my goals is my primary concern right now. I want to harvest and cultivate wealth and success in my experience now. Not just monetary (though that as well), but also wealth of experiences, relationships, self awareness, self confidence. Feeling really good about how I take care of myself on all levels.

Minimal drinking (limited to outings, once maybe twice a week max), no drugs, no smoking. Taking vitamins, exercising everyday... today I did Pilates for 30 mins, and ran for an hour and a half. Cleaned my room, cleaned out my closet, sold/donated clothes, meditating semi regularly, reading, writing, painting/drawing again. Rehearsing scenes to film on a reel. Filming a commercial, short play festival, booked solid for a whole month with photo shoots, repairing vintage clothes to sell in my Etsy shop. Prepared to hustle so I can take acting classes again. Trying to fill my life with art, love and creation. That way when someone comes along—I will have to make room in my life for them to come in, because my life is so full without anyone else.

Then I can blend my assets with this person, I have a decent inheritance coming to me, land to grow grapes on and start a boutique winery. I hope my life partner shows up soon, in the next year or two. I really want to be a mommy. I know I will be good at it, I want so much to have a baby of my own. I just need to focus, get clear eith the universe... take care of myself, and it will come. Be gentle with yourself, all is ultimately okay... even if it doesn’t feel like it. Trust. I must learn to trust myself, and the universe. Fear has eaten up so much of my time, I don’t have energy to put there any more.

#me #healing #positive intention #new moon in pisces

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less-than-hash · 6 years

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Holes in the Firmament

Every dev I know has at least one dream game - stuff that they'd love to be able to make some day. The more ambitious these get - the more complex or long - the less likely they are to get made. And in a collaborative medium like games, the more people (and the more money!) involved in a project, the less control any given individual has over it.

This isn't intrinsically bad. (It can also be wildly valuable to a project and rewarding personally.)

But we devs still dream of those games we'd make if we had, say, the resources of a two hundred person studio, the backing of a major publisher, and absolute freedom.

Three of mine are behind the cut.

As a note, none of these reflect upcoming Obsidian projects. Nor are they projects Obsidian would likely ever make. They don't fit the studio's brand. Which is why I'm dreaming about them here, and not pitching them internally.

So, first up!

A Squad-Based 1st-Person Firefighting Game with a Robust Relationship System and a Branching Narrative

I don't understand why there aren't more games about firefighting - though if I had to guess it's largely because making fire look good in-game is extraordinarily difficult. As is making an environment decay over time (though I suspect there are probably some pretty good, easy solutions for this using dev sleight-of-hand).

There are actually a Iot of interactive sim games about firefighting for training purposes. Much like war and flight, firefighting is something best trained without risking real life and limb.

Firefighting appeals to me as a gameplay space because it's actively protective - it's about limiting destruction and saving lives. But it can very easily be modeled with similar gameplay loops to shooters - ultimately both are about emptying rooms of danger - here it's just with water instead of bullets.

I could be water!

In short, firefighters engage in almost unequivocal good. They're heroic. They’re human. They’re flawed. And they brave dangers every day. But our industry basically ignores them.

Firefighting would give us the opportunity to set games in the modern world with people who, during their off hours, experience much more relatable struggles than your average freedom fighter, super spy, or elite soldier - relationship difficulties, debt, children, and the like.

So what would this game actually look and play like? It would likely be mission-based (calls come in of their own accord, after all), make use of movement and environmental hazards (not unlike a cover-based shooter), and have simple companion-direction mechanics similar to the Mass Effect trilogy or Spec Ops: The Line.

(Alternatively, the action could be dialed down a bit to focus on positioning a la Valkyria Chronicles.)

The gameplay would be focused on keeping your squad alive while saving as many people as possible.

Between missions you hang out at the station, or the bar, or at home - or try to balance all three, a la Catherine. You build relationships, helping your squad perform better together. You never recruit anyone, but your companions, your fellow firefighters, can die in missions, altering the narrative in both tone and content.

tl;dr: Mass Effect 2 meets Rescue Me with some dashes of Catherine

Next!

Narrative-Focused Urban Fantasy RPG/Immersive Sim

How does this not exist yet? Where's our Dresden Files or Hellblazer inspired RPGs? Or even The Magicians or Harry Potter, for that matter?

Where my Chilling Adventures of Sabrina RPG?

There's Vampire: The Masquerade: Bloodlines, which, while fantastic, is 13 years old.

While I'm looking forward to Necrobarista, that seems like a pretty tight, focused experience.

We've plenty of games with magicians in fantasy realms or in space - AKA BioWare's entire oeuvre - but few in the AAA space set in the modern world.

Unless you count superhero magicians.

Wait. Did Dr. Strange even get a game? Google suggests no. What’s going on here, videogame industry? Why won’t you suffer a witch to live?!

Honestly, I get to an extent why this is. There's a reason there've been Vampire: The Masquerade and Werewolf: The Apocalypse games, but no Mage games, either for Ascension or Awakening. Magic is broad, and often (especially in games) wildly destructive, which can be at odds with a modern setting (or rather what makes a modern setting interesting).

Art by Jason Chan, from Reign of the Exarchs by White Wolf.

But it doesn't have to be.

The flexibility of magic actually allows for a lot of different gameplay styles. You can do straight up first-person action like The Darkness or stealth survival like Last of Us. If I were to adapt Phonogram, a comic I love deeply, you can bet your ass there'd be beatmatch spellcasting.

A lot of gameplay mechanics we take for granted are actually damned-near magical.

Maps that point you where to go and tell you where your enemies are?

Dropping from a second story window without difficulty?

Regenerating health?

Items that make you smarter, stronger, or more likable?

Bullet time?

Rewinding to an earlier point in time to avoid death or a bad decision?

So that's another question a developer has to answer: if magic comes in so many shades, what color is yours? What are you hoping to accomplish?

For me, the presence of magic in the modern world demands a layer of secrecy that implies other layers of secrets. A modern world in which magic functions immediately deepens. What else lurks out there? Where are the other magicians? How are they using their abilities?

Additionally, magic is surreal. Bend and twist reality, and you're forced to look at it from new angles. If you can tweak people's emotional responses to you, how do you know the relationships around you are real?

And that's before you realize your dreams literally might come true - especially the nightmares. Is the face in the mirror a reflection, or something sinister and jealous? Is the ghost haunting you your literal past reaching out to reclaim you?

My dream modern magician game is an open-world immersive sim in an urban setting. Drop Prey, Dishonored, or BioShock style gameplay into a sprawling city filled with physics objects ripe for transmutation and NPCs waiting to be enchanted. Add an otherworld accessed by stepping through mirrors (the entire map within is reversed).

It's about what power can accomplish, what justifies its use, and what its limits are.

Populate the world with a few powerful magician NPCs with their own agendas; dozens of NPCs to chat up, learn more about, seduce, and manipulate; and a threat that could consume reality's very soul if someone doesn't step up to deal with it. Shake. Serve.

tl;dr: Dishonored meets Vampyr by way of Hellblazer and Hellboy

And finally!

Friendship Simulator 2019

My favorite parts of the Persona games and Catherine are the things outside of the core gameplay loops. The bits where you're hanging out with your friends, chatting with them, finding out more about them, and guiding and supporting them (or tearing them down).

Or hiding in the toilet to text your significant other.

One of the things I love about Persona 5: Dancing Star Night in Starlight is that the narrative is almost solely in this mode. It's entirely about learning more about your fellow Phantom Thieves.

Lest you think I uncritically and unabashedly love it, P5D has some major narrative problems - it entirely fails to pay off its initial premise, for example, and there's no persistence to the player choices or (player-driven) reactivity within the narrative.

Nor does the way the player "progresses" the narrative make a tremendous amount of sense within the fiction of the world.

Sorry I got distracted.

Point is, from a narrative perspective it's a game about getting to know people better - literally exploring their lives - and then supporting (or undermining, if you're terrible) them.

Similarly, nothing the player says in Persona (or, for the most part, Catherine) has any impact on the game. The player might progress a Social Link more slowly by being an ass to the protagonists' friends, but they'll still increase that Link over time, provided they put time into it.

And I don't want to be dismissive here. Time management is one of the major ways in which the player engages with the Persona games. Outside of combat and maybe monster-training, it's probably the most important mechanic at play. Taking longer to max out a Social Link means you're missing other content and missing opportunities to increase your stats. Or maybe the Social Link doesn't get completed at all. (Sorry, Haru.) Or maybe you’re not powerful enough to overcome the next Shadow in time and your game ends. Those are non-trivial consequences.

But the story of the Social Link, or the story of the game, will never change based on (the vast majority of) the player's interactions with their buddies.

Despite that, the games give the player a lot of freedom as to when (or whether!) they approach those relationships.

On the other end of the spectrum, Life is Strange (and Before the Storm) does a fantastic job of letting the player get to know the characters around Max (and Chloe) and responding logically to the player's choices.

The kid who has a crush on Max (Warren, I think?) remembers what the player promises him and then responds to whether or not the player follows through on it.

If Chloe plays A Game That Absolutely Involves Neither Dungeons Nor Dragons with her friends, they'll refer to it excitedly later and ask her to join in another round.

The TellTale games are also pretty good at this, especially Wolf Among Us, but that'll take me a bit far afield.

What Life is Strange does not provide the player is any control at all over the flow of the narrative. When the player completes a narrative beat within a scene, they're rushed along to the next scene, which is never one of their choosing. There's plenty of flexibility within the relationships (and within many of the smaller subplots), but little within the game's larger structure.

Ultimately, Persona provides little variability, while Life is Strange provides little narrative control.

I want to make a game that grabs the strong aspects of both of these while jettisoning their weaknesses.

(Far, far easier written than done!)

Basically, I want to make a game focused on the exploration of relationships. Where the personalities are the mysteries to unravel, and the interpersonal relationships between characters the dungeons to be navigated. Where the inner demons are the beasts in need of slaying - not through mystically entering the subconscious and doing battle with the Shadow, but through conversation.

I want a game about building a community, a family, and helping it come to support itself.

I think that one essential change that would make this significantly more doable is discarding the larger threats to the characters, especially those supernatural in nature. The relationships among the cast of Persona 4 are propping for the story of the Midnight Channel Murders. Arcadia Bay's pending apocalypse distracts from the relationships that seem to be the actual core story of Life is Strange.

(I find Before the Storm a stronger narrative than the original Life is Strange in large part because it's not being torn in multiple directions.)

Which isn't to say that there can't be threats, obstacles, and dangers. The world presents all manner of difficulties. Most of them requiring far more challenging and interesting solutions than "stick a sword in it."

That's a lot of abstraction, so what would this game actually look and play like?

Well, as I mentioned above, I think the Persona games, esp. Persona 4 Golden and Persona 5 already do a fantastic job of providing the player the framework for exploring a space and approaching relationships at their own pace.

Add into this characters that the player can engage with in order to learn more about them (not unlike Vampyr), help with their problems, and build (or break!) relationships with them or others, and you have something of an open-world interpersonal relationship game.

The narrative of these relationships would change based on the player's actions (both in regard to how they interact with the character and how they deal with (or fail to deal with) the character's problems). So would the player's reputation, which impacts their interactions with other characters.

(The reputation system is actually one of my favorite ideas in Pillars, but I think we sometimes fail to use it to its full potential. I certainly know I do.)

Side note: in this dream game, the relationships I'm describing are not expressed in a systemic way. They're not ranked like Social Links, and they don't have reputation bars like in Dragon Age or Tyranny. It's much more akin to Life is Strange here, with each character containing their own narrative(s) to be navigated.

Over time, you bring some of these characters closer to your protagonist, recruiting a tight-knit circle that helps you face the game's primary conflict. These relationships bounce off of one another. You can never make everyone happy, after all, and some people will never get along. Late game play requires that the player balance these relationships and help forge friendships or avoid catastrophic fallings out.

Yeah, but what is that primary conflict?

Potentially anything the world could throw at a person. A lot of television shows have provided us a framework we can borrow from. Veronica Mars comes immediately to mind. (Or one of my favorite films, Brick.) Then there's Lost, which is overtly about building communities and relationships in order to survive. The Wire is another possibility. (Imagine playing as a Stringer Bell type trying to build a crew while maintaining relationships with rival crews.)

My point being that we already know what these kinds of stories look like. We just have to be brave enough to make a game that's focused around understanding other people rather than shooting them.

tl;dr: Life is Strange meets Persona, minus the strange and the personas

And that’s three glimpses into my brain. Into my dreams.

You may have noticed a few through lines. I'm pretty clearly interested in making games:

Set in the modern day

That tackle modern, realistic (and I use that term extremely loosely) concerns

That are largely non-violent

With non-linear narratives

That involve exploring the lives and feelings of non-player characters

And give those interpersonal relationships systemic narrative bite

Obviously, the projects I've been involved in recently don't check off every one of those boxes on my wishlist. That's generally how it is, if you're making games with other people.

But if you're very, very lucky, you get the opportunity to work on projects that scratch at least one or two of those itches.

I've been very, very lucky.

Cheers, <3 <3 <#

#gamedev #game design #narrative #relationships #persona #catherine #mass effect #life is strange #prey #dishonored #vampyr #necrobarista

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icameheretowinry · 6 years

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Roy Mustang !

Casey you are blessing me with this ask!! I will take any opportunity to gush over my anime husband. (/▽＼*)｡o○♡

How I feel about this character:

Like Ed, Roy is one of my favorite characters of all time, within and outside the fma universe. In fact, I’d go as far as to put them on equal footing. (I said Ed was my favorite fma character in his ask, but I really can’t choose between them.) While a majority of fma characters are excellently written, Roy is uniquely spectacular in the complexity of his backstory, personality, and relationships with other characters.

Save Wrath, Riza and Hohenheim, Roy’s origins are not only incredibly intriguing, but actually account for many of his unique skills and personality traits. Growing up under the guardianship of Madame Christmas and her network of spies, it’s easy to see where Roy picked up his effortless ploys of charisma, and the nuances of espionage, also likely an environment where he learned to grow up very fast. His aunt’s connections to Grumman, coupled with the cooperation of his adoptive sisters, not only convincingly fortified his false reputation as a womanizer, but put him in the prime position to receive any range of military intel higher ups would blab to a pretty face. In addition, while the nature of his alchemy is/was known to the Hawkeyes, Roy finds himself in the unique position of not only being its soul bearer, but its last, while painfully aware of the damage his power can inflict, and be exploited by others. Interestingly, while there is a lot of turmoil that separates the idealistic boy that spoke to Riza in front of her father’s grave, and the colonel we see during the Elric’s story, he still deeply cares about the state of the world he lives in and how he can change it. However, time has brought a portion of that sense of justice to the personal level, rendering Roy that much more determined, and that much more unstable.

Despite the dark nuances of his past in Ishval, a distinct side of Roy remains remarkably childish and goofy. Forgoing professionalism, he often mirrors Ed’s belligerence in an attempt to enforce his authority, blatantly ignore checks to his own power (i.e. rain) to overcome a problem on his own or assert his own credibility as an alchemist (i.e. that thing where teens think they are invincible), and finds sheer entertainment in tasks he should probably be taking seriously (see above). I’m honestly not quite sure how to define this aspect of his personality. At times quite endearing, I can’t help but think it has something to do with his time spent in Ishval. Is it a coping mechanism? A portion of his teenage self that was sequestered and shut away? Or maybe I’m reading too much into it and he’s just a goof. However, I like to think he only whips it out around people he is truly comfortable with (the Elrics included).

Also, let’s not forget that Roy is incredibly intelligent, and was the youngest state alchemist in history before Ed showed up. He was only 20, I believe, so I can understand his reading of Ed’s personality, and what he could do with his alchemy. He saw a version of himself in Ed, no doubt. He can create explosions large enough to destroy an entire building, yet precise enough to burn a single piece of paper or boil the fluid in Envy’s eyes, even when overcome by rage. Nothing about his alchemy is haphazard or uncalculated. He figures out he can carve a damn transmutation circle in his hand to continue fighting, and has enough medical knowledge to cauterize a serious wound. His skillfully plays within the lines of the Amestrian military, yet all with the intention to turn it around to his advantage. Even when things go wrong, he has his artfully cultivated support system of subordinates, friends, allies, and informants to catch him. Finally, not only is his alchemy more complex than that of any other state alchemists, Roy can perform is blind with little instruction. He’s a calculated strategist, excellent spy, and just plain brilliant.

Finally, Roy is the perfect parallel to Ed. They are both idealistic young boys at some point. They’re both hopeful of a better future. They aren’t foils of each other, but exist beautifully together. Roy is Ed, more or less, 15 years older. They both have past sins to atone for, and unlike Father, they learn to embrace them, and become stronger individuals for the future benefit of the communities they surround themselves with. They’re equally serious, and at times, equally immature. Roy has the advantage of age, while Ed has the advantage of time. From what one has done wrong, the other has done right, and they respect and learn from each other. Roy is very protective of the Elric brothers, and encourages them along their quest. Ed, while he makes fun of Roy, looks up to him, and is one of the few to pull him to his sense from the pits of rage. Neither of them are perfect, but despite all the headbutting and jokes, these two are the ultimate allies, examples, and, just let me say, friends.

And just as an indulgent side note, Roy is HELLA attractive. I can’t remember who made the post recently, but I sincerely agree with the point of how bafflingly handsome he is. His aesthetic is something I personally go for, so yeah, anime husband. *screams into the void* *the void agrees*

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Ummmmmmmmmm. If it isn’t possible to ship royai, I don’t need to exist in this world. Cancel my subscription! I more than ADORE these two. The subtly of their relationship is masterful, and every interaction is honed; built on years of experience, and is beautiful to watch. I adore Roy’s friendship with Maes (see below), but his relationship with Riza is next to none. They are so in sync that they terrify me. It is, honestly a relationship that transcends love. In short, while I don’t always see this in the real world, they are, imo, soulmates. They understand, respect, and love each other. It’s so effortless, the world doesn’t even need an explanation. There are people who get along. There are people who get each other, like Maes and Roy. And then there is the person whose existence fits seamlessly your own, just so. That’s Roy and Riza.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

This is the friendship that created the term bromance y’all. I LOVE these two. For two people that became friends over a piece of damn quiche, I will cry over the development of their relationship for the next 10,000 years. Roy and Maes are THE example of a perfect friendship. They support each other in their goals, joke around, know when to be serious, and just plain GET each other. The only other person who could possibly read that deep into Roy besides Riza, is Maes. They went through hell together in Ishval, and came out on the other side with a steadfast promise to fix the state of their country, and to see it ripped apart ENDED me. I have the distinct feeling that Roy looked up to Maes; seeing the future he had, and believing it could be real. He could fall in love, and have a family. He could be happy. Then, it was all torn away. His prophecy on the battlefield came true, and I bet Roy hated himself for it. I bet he despised himself. This is where the inspiration for my fic “Young” came from. (If you want to read, here’s the link.) If the man he cared for the most, the man who had done less wrong than he, not be happy, not be allowed to live, then why should he even consider the possible existence of a brighter future for himself?

My unpopular opinion about this character:

I really wanted to see other emotions from Roy that straight rage regarding his response to Hughes’ death. We get the “today is a terrible day for rain” moment, but for a character as driven by his emotions as Roy, I really expected more outward displays of grief and despair from him over the death of his best friend. Vulnerable Roy is excellent to watch, and honestly, I’d love to see more of it. While both he and Ed are emotionally vulnerable over the course of the series, it’s shown more blatantly in Ed’s corner, even though he doesn’t cry. There are moments where he expresses genuine despair and helplessness, and they are uniquely powerful (see the scene within Gluttony as a prime example). I get that Roy is supposed to appear cold and collected, but the few times his emotions manifest in ways other than rage, are beyond excellent. He doesn’t need to cry, per se, but a few more varied expressions would be more than appreciated.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon:

If two (2) things happened, I would be forever happy. First, if Arakawa ever made royai canonically official. *swoons at the mere thought* Second, I need a Team Mustang spinoff series! I need all the office shenanigans, meetings to exchange intelligence gone wacky, initial assembly of the team, flashbacks to Roy’s childhood with Madame Christmas, all the inside jokes about Fuery being the smol son of the group, Havoc’s fail of a love life, Breda’s fear of dogs, and everyone secretly trying to get Roy and Riza together?!?!?! GIVE. IT. TO. ME.

Send me a character, if you dare.

#roy mustang #fma #fma brotherhood #character analysis

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fanficsofmine · 6 years

Text

Equivalent Exchange - Chapter 2

Plot: Amara’s best friend, Kim Junmyeon and her boyfriend, Jeon Wonwoo, despised each other. She always assumed that it was because Junmyeon had become a very skilled Alchemist, and Wonwoo had always seemed against that… but is there more behind this feud that she wasn’t ready to learn?Characters: Kim Junmyeon, Amara Archemides (OC), Jeon Wonwoo

Word Count: 2,591

A/N: Almost smut? But not?

Chapter 1

When Junmyeon arrived at Amara’s house again, it was dark outside. He didn’t even bother knocking, but threw the front door open. He heard Amara yell, “in the study!” from down the hallway, and followed her voice. He walked in to see her standing in the middle of the room, holding a little book. She handed it to him without a word. Her eyes were wide. The moment Junmyeon saw the cover of the book, he gasped.

"This is--" He clamped his mouth shut before he could spill anything dire. Amara stared at him expectantly. She'd called him for answers anyway. “May I?” he asked softly, not wanting to invade her boundaries. She nodded and he opened the cover of the book. In a hand written script on the inside cover it said: “Property of Edward A. Archimedes - The Air Alchemist.”

“Amara, your father was a State Alchemist?”

The question hit her like a wall of bricks. She had lived with an alchemist all along? How had she not known? Surely there had to have been signs. Anything that should have alerted her to what was going on in her own home.

“It looks like he started this about six years before you were born." He flipped through the first few pages, recognizing words and recipes. He pursed his lips together, and said, "Amara… If you read this, you might find out things about your dad that you don’t want to know.” She reached for it without hesitation, but did not open it. Instead Amara looked up at Junmyeon.

“Why did you answer when I called?”

He looked at her, confused. “What does that have to do with anything right now?”

“It just… it's important.” Amara set the journal down and looked back at him. She asked again, “why did you answer when I called?”

Junmyeon stepped up to her. “You’re my best friend, dummy. I’ll always answer when you call.” He was close enough to her that he reached out and cupped her cheek. He rubbed his thumb over a streak in her makeup where she had been crying earlier. His other hand rested on her other cheek and he used it to lift her face up to look at him.

“And because Wonwoo is right,” he whispered, “I’m so in love with you it’s crazy. I will never not answer when you call.” With those words, he finally kissed her. Years of yearning poured out into this one moment and he kissed her with everything that he had.

Amara kissed him back. Her hands flew around his neck and she pulled him closer. His hands wrapped around her waist, embracing her fully. She pulls him backward until her legs landed against her father’s desk, and Junmyeon wasted no time in lifting her and setting her on the desk. He used his body to spread her thighs apart and stood in between them. This was hardly the time nor the place for this, but he was not about to let a moment pass where he could finally physically show her what she meant to him.

He leaned down and placed aggressive kisses along her neck line and ripped the shirt she was wearing open, buttons popping everywhere along the floor.

“You owe me a new shirt.” She teased him between moans.

“I’ll make you a new one.” He nipped back.

“Alchemy can’t be that resourceful or everyone would be out of jobs.” Junmyeon stopped reaching for the button on her jeans.

“Are we going to talk about alchemy’s effects on the economy or are you going to let me make you cum?”

His blunt words only fueled her want for him more. Amara pretended to zip her lips closed as she leaned back and let him remove her pants from her body. He took his shirt and jeans off quickly before stopping to admire her. There she sat, in nothing more than her bra and panties. Junmyeon ran his fingers over the skin at her chest. She was as soft and beautiful as he had always imagined. His hand moved to rest on her chin as he pulled her closer for a softer, more sensual kiss.

“Please?” Amara finally whispered against his lips. Junmyeon was happy to oblige. He went to take off her underwear, but something caught his attention. It was a red mark peeking over the top of the fabric at her hip bone.

“You have a tattoo?” He didn’t remember her ever mentioning that she had gotten one, and that would have definitely been something that he remembered.

“Oh, that. I dunno. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. I used to tell my dad I had a funny ‘lizard eating his tail stamp’ and he would laugh and tell me I was crazy.” Amara shrugged, pulling Junmyeon's face in close again. But this time, he resisted.

“Lizard eating his tail.” He repeated the words and his heart stopped as he did. He quickly moved the fabric over, and his worst fears were confirmed. “An Ouroboros.” he gasped. Leaving Amara confused, horny, and mostly naked, he scrambled for the journal on the other end of the desk and flipped to the first page.

“January 24, 1984.

Elise told me today that she wishes to have a child. I have been so busy these days that I had not even considered the thought of a family. The longer I thought about it, however, the longer I loved the idea of a little one running around. Who knows? Maybe one day, I would be able to teach him or her alchemy! What fun that would be!”

Junmyeon flipped a few more pages until something jumped out at him.

“September 9, 1988.

Elise can’t conceive. Four years of trying and we have recently found out that her body is incapable of creating life. She is so devastated. I’m not sure what to do anymore. I’m heartbroken, although I cannot even begin to comprehend the hurt that she is experiencing.”

I have to find a solution. I have to find a way to give her a child of her own.

I’m so desperate to help her. I even considered the ultimate taboo. Although, with the legend of the Elric Brothers still being the warning against it, I’m honestly too afraid to even attempt human transmutation. I don’t know if that story is real or not, but if it is, the horrors are too drastic to try.”

“Who are the Elric Brothers?” Amara made him jump, forgetting that she was there.

“Uhh, they're...uhh." He sputtered, half distracted by her still naked body, and the fact that she was...she was...

"They’re supposedly two of the strongest alchemists to ever live. The story goes that they attempted to bring their mother back to life as kids. One lost his arm, and the other lost his body completely. His brother bonded his soul to a suit of armor until they were able to exchange their power for his body back.” Junmyeon glanced at Amara, a new hesitation in his eyes that she had never seen before. “They fought through hell and high water to get his body back. They fought against the first ever recorded Homunculi.” He watched her face for a reaction, but received none other than confusion.

“What the hell is a ‘Homunculi?’” She asked, and Junmyeon sighed.

“They’re fake humans, essentially.”

“Okay. So? Why exactly are you not kissing me? Why did my birthmark make you lose your god damn mind?”

“Just please," He begged, knowing that he could possibly be giving up everything he ever wanted with her, "give me a minute to prove myself wrong.”

“January 11, 1989.

I have obtained the help of a neighbor boy as an apprentice. The boy was in his yard, and he was showing some amazing alchemy for only being three years old. I promised to train him in return for his assistance and silence. A little boy watched me create fire with my hands. He was willing to agree to anything. “

“February 19, 1989.

I have figured it out. It’s happened. I have figured out how to create a Philosopher's Stone. Although I refuse to write it down in hopes that, should anybody find this journal. Whether it be my apprentice or my future, (hopeful) child, I can’t have anybody knowing any of the dark secrets behind it. Along with the means necessary to create a stone, I have also obtained the knowledge that, one day, I will have a child. I will. I will make Elise happy.”

“June 1, 1989.

I have taken the first step toward creating the stone. It was difficult. I can only hope that the end will justify the means to get there.”

“Dammit.” Junmyeon whispered. He closed the book and pressed it against his head. He looked at Amara who looked beyond lost. He knew that she didn't know what any of this meant, and that made it even worse. His heart shattered the more that he read. “The way to create a Philosopher’s Stone remains unknown to almost the entire alchemic community. It would give someone too much power. They've been known to be the heart of the Homunculi, and gives them life and abilities when they aren’t even actual people. They look like us. They breathe like us. But they're not human.”

“Okay? And?" She sighed, knowing there was no was he was going to make her cum now.

“To create a Philosopher's Stone, Amara, you have to--” Junmyeon hesitated and took a deep breath, “you have to kill people. You have to kill a lot of people.” For a tense moment, they just looked at each other; her figuring she should put on a shirt, and he not daring to even breath. Amara wanted to ask more questions, but, instead said,

“Keep reading.” Junmyeon nodded, flipping several pages forward.

“December 21, 1989.

I think that it’s time. My apprentice, though just a young child, has been working so hard to understand alchemy. His powers are years beyond his age, and I genuinely believe that he will be able to help me complete this task. We are on the verge of success. I can feel it. Soon, we will hold a beautiful baby in our arms.”

“March 7, 1990.

She’s here. She is really, genuinely here. A heart of stone, but a smile so beautiful.

I gave it all up. I surrendered my alchemy over so that she could become and grow like a normal baby. She will experience a full life. She’ll take first steps and she will speak first words. My beautiful daughter will make her mother so happy.

I will never tell her who or what she really is. I can’t. Although the sacrifice to create her would show her just how fully loved and wanted she really was, I don’t know that she could ever really live knowing she was a homunculus. She never needs to know. I can not wait to present her to my wife. This beautiful, stunning, baby girl.

My Amara.”

Junmyeon’s heart sank.

Amara’s would have too, had her's been real. There were no words exchanged. They sat and stared at each other for a very, very long time. What were they supposed to do with this information?

As the shock wore thin, the doubt set in, and Amara snatch the book from Junmyeon's hands, tearing it open to read the words.

"This is some kind of stupid joke." She muttered as she flipped through the pages. Detailed accounts of her creation, her natal charts, and records. "No, no, no, no...I had a mother!" She angrily shook the book at Junmyeon, like she was trying to convince him, like he wasn't looking at her in horror.

"No, Amara...you didn't." He whispered.

"This is just some stupid--" She started to yell again, but he caught the book in her hand.

"Some stupid what? If it's a prank, who pulled it? If it's a lie, why would your father have written it? God this is all my fault..." He ran his fingers through his hair angrily.

"How is this your fault!" She snapped, and even when she was looking for every reason not to believe...it would never be his fault.

"If you hadn't caught me using alchemy, you never would have known what the book was. You could have lived in peace." He stood and started to pace the length of the study in his boxers. The truth was sinking in the longer the refused to look at her. Her world was falling apart all over again.

"...lived?" She whispered, and his eyes whipped to hers. Amara wasn’t real. Well, she was. But she wasn’t. She'd never lived. “I’m not real.”

There was a sound of clapping from the doorway, and both Amara and Junmyeon jumped at the sight of Wonwoo standing there, applauding softly.

“I wondered if I would find you two fucking when I saw Junmyeon’s car in the driveway,” he started, “but this is even better."

"Wonwoo...this...isn't what it looks like--" Amara tried to form a sentence, but his eyes were too menacing for her to think of a decent lie. He scoffed at her attempt and pushed off the door. "It's not? Are you sure? Because it looks like a state alchemist in training finding out the love of his life is the exact thing he dedicated his life to destroying." Junmyeon’s brow furrowed as he tried to piece together everything Wonwoo was saying.

“Wait. How the hell do you know what a Homunculus is?”

“I’m kind of glad that all of this is out in the open,” Wonwoo said, ignoring Junmyeon's question. “It was exhausting having to hide the truth.” He snapped his fingers, and the top layer of skin on Amara's hands began to burn away. She cried out when, under the skin that she was convinced was real, there were two thick black transmutation circles tattooed on her flesh.

Her world started to spin as she stared at them, with a kind of detached confusion. Those weren't her hands, were they? This wasn't her reality was it? None of this seemed real! All of this was too much. Wonwoo was an alchemist?

“I learned alchemy under your father, Amara. He took me in when my own deadbeat dad was too busy being piss drunk on the couch. He was actually the first soul that we took to create yours. Funny how the circle of life works, isn’t it?

“Anyway- when your dad died, he left you to me. He couldn’t stand to imagine his creation be left alone without somebody to care for. He had given me everything. It only seemed fair that I take you in and that I abide by his wishes. He didn’t want you to know about Alchemy, so I hid it. It’s why it was such a big deal when Junmyeon here started his. I was afraid that it would trigger something inside of you that would activate your powers. The good news is that it seems as though yours won’t show up since it’s been so long without them.”

Wonwoo rolled up his sleeves and sighed. “Now, though, I have to kill Junmyeon for knowing too much. It’s going to get messy, Amara. Go to our room so that you don’t have to watch this. I’ll come upstairs and we can talk about where we go from here.”

Sneering, Amara stepped in front of Junmyeon. “I won’t let you kill him.”

#exosnet #exo #fma au #fullmetal alchemist #junmyeon #Kim Junmyeon #suho #kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfics #kpop fan fiction #kpop fan fic #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo fanfics #exo fan fiction #exo fan fic

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