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timid-orchid · 3 years

Text

Captive Part 6/?

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Summary: Kidnapped and experimented on by Umbrella, the only thing you wanted so desperately was to finally be free.

Warnings: typical RE stuff, zombies, human experiments

Word Count: 3,510

Thomas came back to your cell a little later to introduce you to his temporary replacement before he left.

The new guard seemed young and naïve, he obviously hasn’t seen what goes on in this hellhole, and you hoped for his sake that it stayed that way for as long as possible.

“Alright, Wesley, this is 0377.” Thomas gestured to you before looking at you and gesturing to the new guard, “0377, this is Wesley.”

“I—It’s nice t—to meet y—you…” Wesley said, his voice was quiet, so you had to hold your breath to be able to hear him.

You could tell he was nervous, his body completely gave it away, from the way he trembled and wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Is everything okay?” You questioned him, he squeaked as you furrowed your brow at him.

Thomas laughed as he clapped Wesley on the back.

“Ol’ Wes ‘ere is one of them shy types.”

Your mouth formed an ‘o’ as you understood, “well, I promise I don’t bite.” You joked.

His big brown eyes widened even more as he shook his head, “n—no, I didn’t mean to come off that way, I—”

“Wes, 0377 was jokin’ with ya. She’s tryin’ to get ya to warm up to her.” Thomas explained as you nodded in agreement.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I misinterpreted the whole thing, I—”

“There’s no harm, I promise.” You held up your hands, “take a deep breath, I’m not difficult to deal with.”

Thomas snorted, “the doc would say otherwise. Barlowe was the one who briefed Wes ‘ere on yer…’unique attitude’, as he called it.” Thomas quoted.

You slapped a hand to your forehead, “no wonder you’re so worried—wait a damn minute, what does ‘unique attitude’ mean?”

“Why don’t ya ask the doc himself?” Thomas laughed while Wesley stared at you in horror, brown eyes widened even more—if that was possible.

‘What the hell did Barlowe tell this poor man?’

“I only direct my ‘unique attitude’ at Barlowe, the bastard deserves every ounce of it.” You tried to reassure him, “I may be—”

“Sassy? Sarcastic? Mockin’? Snide? Snarky?” Thomas offered.

“Thanks, Webster Dictionary.” You grumbled, narrowing your eyes at him before looking back at Wesley. “I may make jokes or be…” You glanced back at Thomas, watching a smirk form on his lips, “sarcastic, but I mean no harm, it’s just how I am.”

“Yea, I can attest to that.” Thomas nodded, “0377 ‘ere told me she was done hearin’ me butcherin’ English, but look at us now, we’re best buds if I do say so myself.”

“N’ I do say so.” He finished, grinning from ear to ear.

“I’m sorry if Barlowe gave you a bad impression of me.”

Wesley’s head and hands shook back and forth in sync, “no, no. It’s my fault for listening to what someone says about another person. My mom always told me never to judge a book by it’s cover, nor to listen to rumors.”

“Your mom sounds like a smart woman; she raised a son with a good head on his shoulders.” You smiled, “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Wesley.”

His face turned beet red as he looked down at the floor, “y—yeah, I think so too.”

“Welp,” Thomas stretched his arms over his head and groaned, a sickeningly loud pop sounded from his spine. “I better hit the ol’ dusty trail before my ma comes n’ drags me by my ear all the way home.”

He gave you a pointed look, “try not to scare the kid, 0377. It’s his first day.”

“Kid? I’m only a year younger than you!” Wesley whined.

“First day?” You asked.

Thomas held up his hands in surrender as you and Wesley spoke at the same time. “Now, now. Hold yer horses. Wes had his orientation yesterday, getting’ briefed by the doc n’ such.”

“What did he tell you?” You turned to Wesley, who immediately tensed when he felt your eyes on him.

“J—just to keep an eye on you.” He choked out.

Thomas looked down at his watch, “shit, it’s already 9 am, I better git if I wanna get to Richmond before 2 pm.”

You tilted your head in confusion, “Richmond, Virginia?”

“Yea, that’s where my family lives, where I lived ‘til I started workin’ ‘ere.”

“But Richmond is a thirteen-hour drive from here. How would you get there before 1 pm?” You inquired.

Thomas gave you a puzzling look, “Richmond is only a two-hour drive from D.C.”

“Wait,” you furrowed your brows, “w—we’re in Washington D.C.?”

“Yeah, this facility was recently built not even two years ago.” Wesley interjected, “I remember the crowds of protesters trying to stop the construction. Nobody wanted Umbrella anywhere near here ever since news of Raccoon City came out.”

“But since they had enough money to have security for the construction site, they were able to build it relatively quickly.” He finished.

You stared down at your feet, trying to fully comprehend what they were telling you.

“I—I was kidnapped from Stonington, Maine.” You looked up at Thomas, “I’d never been to D.C. before.”

Thomas frowned at you; sadness evident in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Wesley looked between you and Thomas, looking completely lost.

“It’s not your fault, I already told you that.” Smiling sadly, you glanced back over to Wesley, “just know I won’t give you a hard time.”

“O—okay…” He nodded, still looking confused.

“I better git, I’ll see ya later, Y/N.” Thomas smiled at you before staring Wesley down. “Ya be good to 0377, alright?”

He tensed up and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

It was quiet for a moment before Thomas’ laugh echoed through the cells.

“Kid, this ain’t the military.”

“O—oh, right…”

You waited a few days after Thomas left to let your body completely heal from the damage Barlowe and Mr. James inflicted on you. It gave you ample time to think about what Thomas and Wesley had said—about you not being in Maine anymore.

It was strange how a normal occurrence could lead to something so fucked up like kidnapping and holding someone against their will to experiment on them.

All you wanted to do was get drunk off your ass with your friend, then go home and watch shitty romantic-comedy movies while eating an ungodly amount of popcorn.

Was that too much to ask?

Looking back, you had to laugh at the fact that you thought your last work week had seemed stressful to you, piles of paperwork, e-mails, meetings, and dealing with your boss who loved to put his hands on every woman in the office.

All that seemed like child’s play compared to the bullshit you had been subjected to in this place. Between the viruses, monsters, and torture sessions, you weren’t exactly sure why or how you were still alive.

You planned on making your living status Barlowe’s problem, starting with burning that damn clipboard he loved so much. You wanted to stare into his eyes as he realized all his work was gone—burnt into tiny ashes that he could never become an inspiration from.

You wanted to watch his hopes and dreams escape his grasp, pulled away from him by the very person who would’ve made him a famous scientist if all of this got out.

And then, you wanted to watch him die a slow and painful death, with the taste of bitterness on his tongue from watching his dreams be crushed before his eyes.

You wanted the bastard to suffer for everything he did to you, for everything he planned on doing to you, for everything he dreamt of doing to you, for even existing in the first place.

He would pay.

You would be sure of it.

“H—hey, 0377,” Wesley walked up to your cell door, looking around until he spotted you in your sleeping corner. “Dr. Barlowe has r—requested you to go to his office.”

You sighed as you pushed yourself to your feet, Barlowe promised a week of rest, and it’s only been two days.

Wesley unlocked your door and turned to lead you up the stairwell to Barlowe’s office.

“Do you know what it’s about?” You inquired, wondering how much Wesley knew about the goings-on within the facility.

He tensed, “s—something about a meeting with you…I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

“You don’t need to be scared of me, Wesley.”

“I—I know, I’m just n—not good around new people.”

You nodded, “you feel like your heart will beat out of your chest and your stomach turns in circles until you become nauseated at the mere thought of someone even looking at you, let alone talking to you...”

He spun on his heels to look at you with wide eyes, “h—how did you know?”

“I wasn’t good with meeting new people either—ever since I was a kid.” You patted his shoulder, “I used to work in an office building with twenty other people every day, so I kind of gotten used to talking to people."

"But I refuse to make phone calls, even if it’s an emergency and I need to call the police or an ambulance, I would rather walk to the hospital than to make a call.”

His eyes gleamed over as he stared down at you in a new way. It was the same look you gave your friend when you realized she was afraid of people as well, and you felt as if you weren’t alone in your struggles anymore.

You hoped your friend made it home safely that night, she never came back from the bathroom so you couldn’t help but worry about her.

“If you ever need help or want to practice talking to someone, you know where to find me. I’m more than willing to help you with your people anxiety.” You offered, giving him a kind smile, “my friend did the same for me, she would walk me through tips on how to steer a conversation, and it helped me come out of my shell—well, partly out of my shell.”

“You’d really do that for me?” His bottom lip trembled, as if he couldn’t fathom why you would be so kind to him.

“Of course. Regardless of whatever Barlowe told you, I am a nice person. I just…” You looked away from him, staring off down the hall, “I’m just not nice to people who hurt others for their own personal gain.”

“Thank you, 0377.”

“No problem, now, let’s get to Barlowe’s office before he has to come looking for us.”

Sitting in your usual chair within Barlowe’s office, you weren’t surprised to see the room was empty after you arrived. Barlowe had a bad habit of making you wait for his late ass to show, and it was really starting to grind on your nerves.

“Ah, 0377,” He greeted, shutting the door behind him. “You look to be doing much better since the last time we met.”

“No thanks to you.” You grumbled.

“Look at that, you even have that scary look in your eyes back.”

“Stop beating around the bush, the hell do you want?”

He clicked his tongue as he walked over to his desk, sitting in his chair.

“It has occurred to me that you haven’t had the pleasure of getting bitten by one of the infected yet.”

“And what’s so pleasurable about that?” You irked your brow at his choice of words.

He leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone receiver, “let me re-word it then: I haven’t had the pleasure to see what would happen if you were bitten by an infected.”

You shook your head in disgust. “Ah, yes. The crazy, self-absorbed scientist wants to see someone get hurt, what a surprise.”

“It’s just in the job description.”

“That you willingly signed up for.”

“Touché.”

He reached for his clipboard and stood. “I’ve sent Wesley away for the time being as he has no experience with the infected yet.”

Yet.

That word echoed around your head for a moment, fear sent tingles down your spine. You saw Wesley as a younger brother, even though you just met him that morning. You didn’t want him to have to deal with that monsters these corrupt scientists made.

Hell, you weren’t even sure he would survive if he ever encountered one.

Barlowe crouched behind his desk, affectively hiding out of sight of the door.

“What the hell are you doing?” You asked, furrowing your brows at his child-like behavior.

The top of his head peeked over his desk, “not all of us were gifted with immunity to the T-Virus, 0377.”

The door slammed open as a guard kicked a zombie into the office, quickly shutting the door and trapping it.

“I took the liberty to borrow a zombie from the T-Room for this experiment."

"I know the infected don’t react to you, so you need to go put your arm in its mouth. Oh, and make sure to get a clear indentation, I want to inspect the bite wound afterwards.” Barlowe ducked behind his desk.

“One of these days I’m going to put you in its mouth…”

“What was that?”

“Oh, you know. Plotting murder and such.”

He peeked over his desk again, “continue with the experiment, 0377.”

You sighed as you stood in front of the zombie, its dead, milky white pupils watched your every move.

“I wonder who you were before you ended up like this…” You murmured; the zombie wasn’t wearing a subject’s garb: which consisted of a plain white shirt, pants, and sneakers.

This zombie had a tattered business suit on, perhaps on his way to a meeting before he came face to face with his undeath. Then—after becoming infected—it was probably captured from the outside world and brought here.

Just like you.

You held your arm out in front of its face, it watched with little interest as you pushed your skin up to its mouth, grimacing as its cold lips brushed against your warm arm.

“Bite me,” you spoke firmly, “not in a kinky way though.”

Its eyes looked at your arm before looking back to your face, showing no indication that it understood what you said.

“Alright…I’ll do it myself.”

Grabbing its chin with your other hand, you pulled down as hard as you could. The muscles in its face were strong, giving you a hard time as you tried to crack its mouth open.

“Damn,” you grunted in frustration, sweat beading along your hairline, “what the hell is this thing made of?”

“The undead don’t possess a limit in their muscles like we do, they can use their muscles to their full capacity; not having to worry or care if they rip or tear.” Barlowe informed, “plus, the masseter is the strongest muscle in the human body, running from the cheek bone to the lower jaw. It allows us to grind up our food with our teeth.”

“You’re always full of fun facts, huh?” You shook your head, slowly but surely pulling the zombie’s mouth open.

“I’m a scientist, I like science.” He peeked over his desk.

“Yeah, and I’m alive, I like being alive.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you, 0377?”

“On the outside, maybe.”

You finally opened its mouth wide enough to stick the side of your arm inside, allowing it to crush you between its teeth.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” You questioned.

“Because science is fun?”

You glared at Barlowe, wishing he would drop dead.

“Because I threatened your family?”

“Oh, yeah. Now I remember.”

The zombie wouldn’t chomp down onto your arm, so you flattened your palm under its chin and pushed upward as hard as you could, getting the damned thing to finally bite you.

“I don’t get paid enough for this bullshit…” You hissed at the burning pain from the bite.

“You don’t get paid at all—”

“I didn’t ask.”

You pulled your arm out of the zombie’s mouth, grimacing at the dull, stinging pain that pulsated up your arm, making your elbow ache. The zombie had torn some skin from you, nothing too damaging, but you watched in worry as it chewed on the scraps of your flesh.

The zombie finished munching, then resumed its staring. You sighed in relief, you were worried that it would try to attack you since it got a taste of your flesh.

But it never tried to bite you.

It just stood there, milky pupils watching your every move once more, as if you forcing it to bite your arm didn’t just happen.

“Look at your arm, what does it look like.” Barlowe asked, excitement lacing his voice.

“Uh, well, it’s longish, connects to a hand and shoulder—”

“I meant the bite, you sarcastic loaf.”

“Do I look like bread to you?”

“What does the bite look like?”

“Like someone bit me: teeth marks, purple and red skin around the marks, sore as hell, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Barlowe huffed in disappointment, “that’s all, huh?”

You turned to him, “why don’t you come give it a try?”

“I’m the research-er, not the research-ee.”

Facing the zombie again, “Hey, you wanna go chomp on that researcher over there?” You pointed at Barlowe, “he’s got some kind of a pain kink.”

The zombie’s dead eyes traced down your arm to your hand, then looking to where you pointed. Its eyes landed on Barlowe, nostrils flaring as it stepped closer to the desk.

“Oh, wow!” You laughed, “it can fetch!”

“This isn’t funny, 0377!” Barlowe yelped, jumping up as the zombie approached him.

“Really? Because I think it’s hilarious.”

“Call it off!”

“You think I can control that thing?” You placed your hands on your hips. “The only reason it's after you is because I pointed out your location, it’s just following instincts now.”

“Try to call it off!”

You rolled your eyes, “heel, boy!”

The zombie ignored you, rounding the desk as Barlowe ran behind you, hiding like the coward he truly was.

“No!” You held your index finger up as the zombie got closer to you. “Bad zombie, no bite!”

It looked at your hand, then to your face.

“No bite!” You reaffirmed.

It stopped for a moment, head tilting at you as if it was trying to understand you.

“Holy shit.” You gasped.

“Tell that thing to go back to the T-Room.” Barlowe demanded, still hiding behind you.

“I don’t think I can control it; I think it’s just confused at what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you going to do to stop it?”

You irked your eyebrow at him as you looked over your shoulder. “Me? I’m not the one who thought it would be a good idea to bring it here in the first place.”

The zombie’s eyes followed Barlowe, trying to keep him in its sight so it wouldn't lose out on an easy meal.

“I didn’t think you would send it in my direction!” Barlowe panicked.

You snorted, “and why the hell wouldn’t I? You made my life a living hell, this is just karma if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you—”

“And I didn’t ask you to experiment on me, so I guess we’re even now, aren’t we?”

You shook your head, keeping an eye on the zombie. You wanted to step out of the way and let it bite Barlowe and make him a zombie, but you also wanted to be the one who brought Barlowe to his untimely end.

You had to play nice this time, but next time, you will be Barlowe’s undoing; you would make sure of it.

Pushing against the zombie’s chest, you huffed as it barely stumbled backwards. “I’m going to push this thing back, once it’s far enough away from you, run to the door and get the guards in here, got it?”

“Yes.” Barlowe confirmed.

“Alright, here goes nothing.”

You kept pushing against its chest as hard as you could, the damn thing refused to let Barlowe out of its sight.

After pushing it a good two feet back, Barlowe ran for the door with his tail tucked firmly between his legs, you’ve never seen a grown man run in fear as quickly as he had.

The guards ran in and immediately terminated the zombie as you stretched your arms out, they were tingling after pushing the infected so much.

Barlowe walked in, clipboard in hand as he tried to compose himself. “Let me see your bite.”

You held your arm up, the mark had completely healed, making Barlowe visibly upset.

“Great, how am I supposed to document this?”

You snorted, enjoying the fact that he didn’t get to document your bite in his precious clipboard. “Sucks to suck dick, now, doesn’t it?”

He walked away from you, muttering curses under his breath as he sat behind his desk once again.

“That’s all for today, 0377.”

“It’s been an absolute delight, we should do this again, doc.”

He glared at you as he kept muttering.

“Whoops, looks like I struck a nerve.” You laughed, leaving his office in a better mood than you arrived.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon scott kennedy #leon scott kennedy x reader

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frombeyondtheblackhole · 3 years

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Hermit DSMP Swap AU: Part 10.5

Gem woke up and stretched with a yawn the sunlight streaming through her window in rays of dusty light, casting bright squares across her blankets and face. She ran her fingers through her hair and paused as her fingers brushed against a strange hard lump on her hairline. She frowned and pulled her blanket aside, getting up and moving to her washstand. She gripped the table and pushed her hair out of the way as she peered at her reflection in the mirror. Her reflection peered back. Two small stubs poked out of her forehead and her ears, instead of pink and round, were brown speckled doe ears.

Gem wrinkled her nose and flicked her ears as she turned her head back and forth to get a better look at them. She brought her face close to the mirror and touched the tips of the horns and ran her fingers along the edge of her ears. They were real. She grabbed the edge of the table and blinked at herself, her green eyed reflection blinking back. This was strange.

Gem stepped back from the washstand and grabbed her boots from next to the front door. She needed a second opinion.

---

“Stress, Stress, Stress, Stress! Something happened,” Gem called, running through the front door of Stress’s shop and scrambling to a halt.

Stress looked up from stocking the shelves, her arms full of glittering enchanted books. “Woa, slow down, what’s going on, Gem?”

“Look, look at my ears. And I have horns.”

“Oh my gosh, you do, don’t you… it’s a good look for you, very cute.”

“I guess so, but I didn’t do this. I just woke up like this. And what if it gets worse?” Gem started pacing around the small shop, “Beef is turning into a lizard or something. What if I lose my nose or my feet turn into hoofs. I like my nose.” Gem stopped short, touching her nose and crossing her eyes to make sure it was still normal.

Stress put her stack of books down and rested a hand on Gems shoulder, “I wouldn’t worry too much. Plenty of people turn into hybrids and they all seem to be doing fine. Maybe try talking to Ren, he’s been a hybrid for a long time, I bet he knows a whole lot more about it than little ol’ me.” She chuckled.

“That’s a good idea,” Gem smiled absently. She scratched at the base of a horn “ugh, why are these so itchy?” She forced herself to stop scratching and pulled her hand away from her face. She stood up straight and squared her shoulders, “Alright then, I guess I’ll be going, thanks for the advice, Gem said with a wave as she headed out the door.

“No problem, come again,” Stress sang, waving back.

---

Gem walked down the road to Ren and Doc’s base. She looked up at the strange walker that towered over the landscape. Just the other day she had been startled by a deafening sound as thousands of lightning strikes hit the top of the tower. Apparently the contraption had turned a normal axolotl into a blue axolotl. She didn’t understand how it worked, but right now she had bigger things to worry about.

She rounded the corner and found Ren on the beach outside his van hanging up laundry to dry.

“Hey Gem, what’s up?”

“I… I wanted to ask you about something…”

“Sure, my dude, fire away.”

“I, um, we’ll, I woke up this morning and my ears were like this, and I have antlers,” She said, flicking her ear with her finger, “You’re a hybrid Ren, Stress said you might be able to help me figure out what is happening? Is it going to get worse? Are my feet going to turn into hooves or something?”

“Oh, I see, well that’s something isn’t it. Come on, sit down why don’t you.” Ren said, sitting on a log by the fire. Gem sat down across from him. “You probably don’t have to worry about your feet turning into hooves if they haven’t already.” He summoned some sticks from his inventory and stuck some fish on the ends as he talked, propping them up over the fire to cook. “You can probably expect a couple of changes over time, you know, longer horns, maybe some skin spots.” He shrugged, adding some more wood to the fire. “It’s not all awkward and uncomfortable-like either. I can hear better now, more than I ever could before and I got a pretty good sense of smell… though that hasn’t been as good since the cyborgification thingy,” He said looking at his mechanical arm and flexing his hand.

“Hum,” Gem nodded, “Better smell you say,” She closed her eyes and took a deep sniff. Wood smoke, fried fish, salt and sand, birch, chickens, gasoline from the van and goats, filled her senses. “Wow, you weren’t lying about the smell thing.”

Ren smiled, “You know it.” he said, taking the fish off the fire and handing one to Gem.

“Thanks,” Gem said, reaching out to take it. The fish fell from Ren’s hand and fell to the sand.

Ren flickered in and out then gone, replaced by a scruffy looking ram-horned man in a rumpled suit and tie and disheveled brown hair; a white streak running through it. “What the Fuck, Not this again. Where the fuck am I? Who the hell are you? What don’t you people understand about ‘I don’t want to be revived.’” He said, rising from his seat.

Gem scrambled up and backed away staring at him in shock “I- I- I,” She stammered fumbling for her phone.

[GeminiTay: Doc, a little help.]

#hermitcraft dsmp swap au #hermitcraft #dsmp #dream smp #hermitcraft au #dream smp au #dsmp au #hc x dsmp au #art #geminitay #docm77 #stressmonster101 #jschlatt #rendog

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fistsoflightning · 4 years

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stories you want to write...

...but for some reason haven’t yet.

tagged by: @to-the-voiceless!!! thank you cyan for giving me the opportunity to dump out my slightly dusty idea doc onto everyone’s dash sdgsndfnsdfn

tagging: hmmm... @windupnamazu (double tag yes yes) @whitherliliesbloom @windup-dragoon @heirsofdiscord @ancientechos and you! as you can see, i like fic concepts >:3c

1) okay, so. there’s a section of my idea doc that’s labeled ‘azim steppe shenanigans’ because i Can and Will rewrite as much of the azim steppe MSQ as i please including characterization (yes i’m looking at magnai) ANYWAYS. top idea of the list, which is also the one i want to write The Most, is the naadam duty rewrite! catch me on the ‘why is the wol the khagan of a land they probably don’t even belong to’ train, more news on how zaya and oktai beat up hien at 11. or whenever i get around to writing it since it has Combat and i’m. not the best at it. honorable mentions to the pre-canon sadu, magnai, and zaya tearing through bardam’s mettle fic and the solar eclipse remix that i don’t currently have the energy for ;W; sorry oktai and magnai you’ll have to reside in “are we actually. dating.” hell for a bit longer

2) second on this list is the ‘ysayle lives’ fic!!! honestly there is a whole ass series sitting in my idea doc that also includes moenbryda, papalymo, and maaaybe bad-end flavored minfilia lives? but the ysayle one is like. 60% done but i need to trash and restart since i don’t. like it that much. highlights include: ysayle but a little more dragon flavored, separation of iceheart vs. ysayle, and gratuitous earth imagery versus the ice of coerthas

oh god okay im sticking the rest under a cut this got. Long

3) there is also a section of my doc labeled ‘angst elie isn’t allowed to have as a treat’ because at this point all of mom squad deserves to swing a bat straight for my head, buuut the idea i’m looking at is lightwarden au related! funtimes. ehsk al, anyone? (yes that means either promised love or love’s promise in dragonspeak. yes there’s a reason for this.) the line keeping this idea’s spot is: “ thancred climbs up mt. gulg one final time to meet the mourning dragon.” :)))

4) i want to go more into the various different cultures of my wols!!! i detest the lack of ala mhigan lore (monk lore too. i’m Salty about SB) which is why i haven’t gone into dewah’s family that much but i have an idea and some minor worldbuilding in the making? there’s also lumelle, whose emotions on ishgard are (as all emotions are) complicated, and zaya, who hasn’t been home in a literal decade give or take. i have to think real hard for it tho sdgnsdfsd that’s why they’ve been collecting dust for months.

4.1) the amount of hrothgar and viera lore is also criminal. don’t make me homebrew more lore squeenix give us Actual Lore. duscha and valdis deserve More.

5) okay i. i am very embarrassed by this but i have a longfic draft for a fic that at this point legally has to be tagged “slow burn, if by slow burn you mean 18 years” whenever i finish enough to be able to start posting it and YES ITS ZAYA AND THANCRED.

yeah. i know. this has been haunting me since ffxivwrite last year-ish. it is also very D U S T Y but it has about 15 different ideas i’ve just mass dumped into it and i despise it and myself. additionally some ardbert feelings slipped into the SHB bits and i’m. maybe unrequited ardbert/zaya.... mayhaps

6) i love carbuncles and i love dt’s writing about the carbuncles which may have led to the thought bunny “what if: black opal carbuncle for zaya’s nameday” and it has haunted me but since zaya’s nameday in real time was a day off from the 5.3 drop it promptly got buried under all the ideas i got from 5.3

7) SPEAKING OF 5.3 CONTENT: carmela predicted correctly that i would like the ‘you’re a long way from home, moogle’ interaction you get if you choose the option that has kupo when talking with thancred and i’m possessed. i want to write something surrounding zaya’s honorary postmoogle title and thancred finding out they spent three weeks delivering eorzea’s mail.... there’s a bunch of canon rewrites but for multiple WOLs i’d like to do but i’m Tired

8) rhmrhrr.... AU time! main street au is still haunting my bones and i want to write more because mom squad spent like. an hour talking about how it’s just like dime store romance fiction amassed into an entire au and there’s a certain flowershop romance i need to write >:3 there’s also the ol’ CHB AU hanging around Somewhere and a very small part of me that craves to keep writing hanahaki au which is just slowburn 2.0

9) OH WAIT. i have Exactly One idea that’s mostly npc-based which is just me having feelings about the going-ons of norvrandt before the WOL is summoned, mostly revolving around ryne/baby-filia which i think? will have four parts? it’s really just me worldbuilding with norvrandt and having a great time. i scribbled down a beginning to try and shake off some rust (it did not really work) but:

10) honorable mention goes to the ‘zaya, thancred, and co. give ryne a nameday celebration despite her not really having a nameday’ idea and to this, which never fails to give me a chuckle when i read it in my idea doc:

#tag meme #i. guess that works #yasshoi my dudes #i will reboot my queue sometime this week. i hope.#im really tired and the chaos i woke up to on sunday Really Didn't Help

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eeveevie · 4 years

Text

indecent promposal

From this prompt list: basorexia - the overwhelming desire to kiss

Introducing: Rosemary “Rosie” Sheridan! She’s baby. Also has a super suppressed crush on Butch. It’s complicated. Thank you @dreamxng-forever for prompting and letting me write for her! I went overboard!

Butch Deloria x Rosie Sheridan (Lone Wanderer)

2473 words | [read on Ao3]

Rosie thrived on scavenging—she loved discovering new wasteland objects or pre-war oddities that reminded her of home—Vault 101. She supposed the real reason she enjoyed surrounding herself with so much junk was because she was still trying to figure out her place in the Capital Wasteland, still forging her own path now that she was on her own.

Well, mostly alone.

Butch—she could hear him rummaging though boxes in a different part of the store, shouting little exclamations over to her when he’d find something of interest. He was something else that reminded her of home—she liked to think that was the only reason why she had agreed to string him along after finding him in Rivet City. Weeks of bickering had turned into months of amicable companionship, bordering on friendship. Rosie slowly found she disliked him less but was unable to formulate rational explanations in her mind as to why. Her childhood bully deserved civility, sure, but niceties? A second chance? Preposterous. Anything more than that made her head spin.

The light of his Pip-Boy illuminated his face as he unearthed an intact box, letting out a low whistle as he inspected the contents. “Hey Stitches, get a load of this!”

Butch had been calling her that since adolescence, as soon as she was old enough to begin assisting her father in the Vault clinic. About that time, the youngest Deloria would find himself needing Doctor James Sheridan for a myriad of reason, including stitches. It wasn’t uncommon that Rosie would perform these duties, and after so many visits, the moniker stuck. She would’ve preferred her actual name, but anything was better than Doc, or Nosebleed—both of which he still called her.

In the stretch of silence, Butch had brought the box over to her to see for herself. It wasn’t full of the usual wasteland garbage but instead contained what appeared to be pristine articles of pre-war clothing. Hesitantly she reached inside, gently touching at the soft fabric of the pink dress before removing it completely. She was careful as she unfolded it, holding it fall against her vault suit as she imagined briefly what it would be like to wear such a delicate piece of clothing.

Butch peered inside the box, tugging out a dark suit blazer from beneath another dress. He chuckled, eyebrows quirked up as he waved the arms of the jacket sleeves around. “Kinda reminds you of the gettup we wore to prom, huh?”

Rosie remained silent, sucking up her bottom lip between her teeth. She didn’t have fond memories of their time leading up to graduation, including the small dance the Overseer and adults had organized to celebrate the teenagers’ successes. She clung to the dress for a moment longer, before allowing the fabric to fold over her arms.

Butch’s expression faltered, but instead of becoming annoyed like he would’ve in the past he awkwardly shifted. “What?”

She decided that maybe an explanation was owed. “I didn’t go to the vault prom.”

“Whadd’ya mean?” he asked in return, brows furrowed. “You were there! With Amata!”

Rosie had to give it up to Butch’s memory and wondered how much more of their childhood he remembered. Though, this was only a few years ago, and they had known each other their whole lives. She sighed, suddenly unable to maintain eye contact. “Fine. I was there for all of thirty minutes before you spilt punch on my dress, and I had to go home.”

She expected him to argue or to deny it even happened. What Rosie didn’t expect was the frown and glimmer of guilt that flashed through his expression when she glanced his way. She continued looking at the pink, satin dress in her hands, wondering why this civilized version of Butch unnerved her. Not that she wanted him to taunt and torment her, but at least that would be relatively normal—but after all this time, would it?

“It’s not like I had a date, anyways,” she added, resentfully. Not that she had very many boys her age to choose from anyways. “I’m sure you did.”

“Ya’ don’t have to guilt trip me, Stitches,” Butch finally spoke, his laughter indicating a teasing tone. “Let ol’ Butch make it up to you.”

Rosie groaned, detesting the third-person speak for two reasons—it was corny, and usually mean that ol’ Butch had an incredibly bad plan. She didn’t even want to ask, but he was already gesturing to the dress in her hands and waving the tailored coat he held around.

“We could get dressed up, the two of us—”

She cut him off immediately. “Absolutely not.”

He stumbled, not anticipating her strong refusal. “Whoa, whoa! Let a man finish! Some fancy clothes, some good drink from the bar, some music on your fancy jukebox?”

“What?” she questioned. “A prom do-over?”

Butch grinned. “Exactly!”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard the best part yet!” he argued.

She didn’t have to—did she even want to?. “No.”

“Come on, Rosie. Give a guy a chance why don’t cha?”

Sure, he was pouting a little too much for her tastes, but he had also done something so incredibly rare in speaking her name that her interest was piqued. She wished it wasn’t that easy for him to get under her skin, but something told her he wasn’t completely aware of what he was doing. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought about what it would be like to be the center of attention for once—to be the center of his attention. Her skin crawled—and she couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

She relented. “Okay.”

Butch clenched his fist with a grin. “Alright! You won’t regret it.”

The mirror in Rosie’s bedroom was cracked and dusty but served its purpose as she examined her appearance. She had pinned back her long dark hair, applied what little makeup she owned and had left her glasses atop her nightstand—for the first time she looked more like the maturing woman she was supposed to be and not a scrawny teenager chasing her father’s shadow. An enduring thought reminded her that she was still young, she had time to grow into her womanhood.

When she took a step back, she felt a rush of anxiety flood her senses. The dusty pink dress was very flattering and fit her in all the right places—Rosie was materialistically a girl’s girl and loved the color and fabric—but overall, the very fact she was dressed up while the rest of her surroundings were in shambles seemed foolish. Why had she allowed Butch to talk her into this? They had countless of important matters to attend to—no time to be reliving the past just because he wanted to make amends. As she adjusted the tie around her waist, she reminded herself that maybe it was more than that—thoughts she didn’t want to dwell on.

Rosie could already hear the Ink Spots playing when she emerged from her room, glancing to the fuzzy outline that was the jukebox and determined that Wadsworth was floating nearby. With a steady breath she approached the stairs and gripped the railing tightly as she began her descent. Butch was leaning against the back of the downstairs sofa, arms crossed as he stared up at her. Or at least, that’s what she thought, suddenly wishing she had opted for practicality instead of vanity when forgoing her glasses.

Halfway down the stairs, he whistled at her and the cat-call made her flush in a foreign way. Butch chuckled, catching the way she nearly stumbled. “Where’re your frames?” he asked, gesturing to his face.

She didn’t dare to let go of the handrail until her heels were planted firmly on the first-floor ground. He was more reminiscent of a blob until she approached, features clearing up as she stood before him. He was wearing the black, styled suit he had found—sans the tie—with the first few buttons of his collared shirt left open. Rosie figured that had been on purpose—she could teach him how to fix a tie later. He pointed to her face, reminding her he had asked a question.

Still blushing from the way he had whistled at her, she brushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face. She wasn’t entirely comfortable indulging her childhood insecurities. “Pretty girls don’t wear glasses to prom.”

“You’re such a dork, Stitches,” Butch softly laughed, but there was no insult to his words. Instead, he nodded at her, a hint of red peeking at his ears. “Ya’ look good,” he added. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Rosie smiled, still feeling flustered by the entire situation. She wondered if it was too late to back out and suggest dinner at the Brass Lantern instead. As if Butch could see the excuses formulating in her mind, he jumped into action, raising his hand up between them in offering.

“Does my best gal want a dance?”

She desperately wanted a respite from how flushed her cheeks felt, wondering if they were as pink as her dress. She was mortified by her own embarrassment, confused by her own emotions—it would be so much easier if she had somebody else to talk to about all this. Like her father. A second thought made her realize her dad would be overly clinical, blaming it all on teenaged hormones. But she did want a dance—what else did she want?

“No dirty dancing!” she said, in her own way of acceptance. She grasped his hand, biting back the sensation of warmth that radiated up her arm. That hand was usually pushing her away—she hadn’t expected it to be so comforting. Butch smirked as he carefully placed his other hand along her waist, prompting her to rest her palm against his shoulder.

“Do we need a ruler?” he joked, eyeing the space between them. Rosie rolled her eyes, shifting a little closer as he led them in a little square-step, all the space her home allowed. Butch was surprisingly a natural and predictably, she was awful.

“I’m bad at this,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet as she very nearly stepped on his toe for the third time.

Butch paused, nudging his hand against her chin to catch her attention. The action was so bizarrely intimate that Rosie stared at him bewildered, her skin aflame—but he didn’t seem to notice that he had shocked her senseless, gripping her fingers to lead them back into another step. It had to be intentional—no way he was that clueless—the way he touched her. He had to know exactly what he was doing to her, and she wondered if it was all some kind of big joke.

“Better than most,” he assured, bringing her back to her senses. He winked. “So you’re a good date after all.”

Rosie wasn’t good at matching his wit or his teasing, but she wanted to try. She couldn’t just stand there and be undone by some nice words. She thought about asking about the full prom package—reminiscing about the day after in the vault when a few lucky girls walked around the halls wearing hickies like badges of pride. Forming the right way to ask such a thing didn’t sound right in her head—she wasn’t a natural flirt, didn’t have the experience and after so many pretend conversations floating in her mind she had to stop and ask herself why she was thinking about Butch Deloria kissing her neck.

Her heart was racing as she found herself staring at him, wondering when he had sprouted up and became so tall. Years ago, when they were fifteen. She had stayed tiny while he filled out, muscles more defined now that he was her companion out in the wasteland. Of course, he still cared about his hair—thick black strands quaffed to the front like the gangster-type he aspired to be—too bad he was the only Tunnel Snake left. When she met his baby-blue eyes, she was done for, cursing the day she found him in the Muddy Rudder. But maybe it was a forgone conclusion since their paths crossed that fateful evening—she’d forgive him, and eventually, gradually, perhaps begrudgingly fall in love with the boy.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, Rosie thought, as Butch gradually scooted her closer despite her earlier warning. Nat King Cole was crooning a slow song, and they had slowed in their movements. He squeezed her hand in his, raising an eyebrow. “More quiet than usual, Stitches.”

She didn’t want to admit how annoyed she was with herself, and certainly wasn’t about to divulge how in that moment with Unforgettable playing from the balcony she wanted him to kiss her. She didn’t want a calling card on her neck—no, that could come later—what she wanted was something sweet and demure and chaste. What she wanted was something she had missed out on in her youth—her first real kiss. Ridiculous didn’t even cut it, feeling incredibly absurd for thinking she could ever get it from Butch—that she even wanted it from Butch.

“Um,” she hesitated, thinking he must’ve been able to feel her pulse racing along her wrist. She tried not to stare at his mouth, darting back up to his eyes—but that was worse. The heat radiating off her face could cook a brahmin steak.

He smirked, lips quirking up to the side. At first she assumed he was all too entertained by the sight of her aflutter but when she studied him carefully, she realized it was an endearing look and beneath the surface, he was perhaps just as nervous as she.

“Come’ere,” he tugged her right into his chest, and before she could protest he had wrapped his arms around her waist and back, one hand resting against the back of her head. “Dance like this for a lil’ bit.”

Not a question, but a statement. After a few sways, Rosie adjusted, tucking her arms around his middle and resting her cheek against his shirt.

The longer she stayed there, swaying to the songs that continued to play, the more she understood that they both needed this distraction that evening. Butch wanted to apologize, make up for the past in his own way, sure, but what they really needed was one night where the wasteland wasn’t demanding their attention. She was just as confused as ever, heart and mind filled with endless questions about life and love and everything in between, but for the first time in months, Rosie felt calm. Kissing Butch could wait, if only it meant she could dance with him for a little while longer.

#fallout 3 #butch deloria #butch deloria x f!lone wanderer #rosie sheridan #otp: it's just a flesh wound #because ya know she's a medic lol #I have no idea what I'm doing with this ship oh god #also I wanted to write sweet baby rosie here she is #young stupid teenaged love #these two are dorks and I am in love with them

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analvelocity · 4 years

Text

Rubbernecks

This is a submission I wrote for @thewebcomicsreview‘s “Write a Story You Worthless Piece of Shit”, a writing prompt meme with prompts silly enough that I wanted to try my hand at one of them. I realized I haven’t written any prose recently and I felt the itch, so thanks Daniel for giving me an excuse to go mad in front of a Word Doc for way too many hours.

This one, uh, got away from me, but I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope people have at least half as much fun reading it. The prompt I chose was as follows: A middle-aged southern redneck truck driver finds the legendary Kitsune-Neko Katana, the only weapon that can save the world from an invading alien race.

You can find all 4,600+ words of Rubbernecks below the cut.

ANALVELOCITY DOT TUMBLR PRESENTS: RUBBERNECKS

Bobby cracked open the window and felt the now-cooling Mohave air ripple through his cap. As the sun hid once more behind the end of the road, he took off his aviators and hooked them over the top button of his shirt. It was going to be one of the long ones, he could feel it. Just him and the white lines 20 feet ahead of him as he directed 40 tons of cargo through the dusty blackness. This was home to him, and if he was one of those strange monk fellers, he’d much rather be meditatin’ here than on a mountaintop. It was for this reason he chose to leave his radio off, letting the breeze whip his ears at 65 miles an hour as he breathed a sigh of contentment.

This was the life. No Garth Brooks or radio chatter to disturb his personal zen. Always the feelin’ of progress, feelin’ like no matter where you’re gon’ end up, you’ll be right where yer’ meant ta be. When all was said an’ done, there was nothin’ more peaceful than- BOOM. A ripple shook his steel cocoon as he felt an electric shock run from his toes to the last remnants of his hairline. Stunned for a moment, he glanced to his right as he saw blames bellowing out of a line of Joshua Trees running about half a mile of the highway. He could feel ol’ Bessie begin to wobble and shake, and Bobby knew that was a sure sign that he should pull up. As Bobby stepped out of the truck, he felt a blast of hot air lash at his face. He reached into one of the back pockets of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled box of cigarettes. He felt around his pockets. Nothing. He looked up at the door, then again at the bent cigarette in his mouth. With a sigh, he walked up to one of the nearby burning plants and lit it. As he took a couple of puffs and surveyed the landscape, he saw it. At the end of the trail of flame, a series of blinking lights. Now Bobby here was no Boy Scout, but he knew Morse Code when he saw it. “Prob’ly one of them there Wright Brothers types gettin’ ambitious.” He chuckled to himself as he began to walk toward the lights. Far as Bobby was concerned, the ground was good enough for him. His eyes began to readjust to the darkness as he approached the source of the fire. His eyes widened. That was no airplane. The flaming ball of chrome sticking out of the cracked earth before him looked like it had no doors or windows, but as he stepped around it he noticed a single hole burned through what he presumed was the side of it. He inspected the hole, and realized that whatever shot this thing, used some serious hardware. The kind of hardware Jimmy One-Eye would probably give his left nut just ter’ get a look at. Bobby had dealt with more busted radiators in his time than he could count, so he knew this thing was goin’ to be too hot to touch. Still, he left his gloves and kit in the truck, and he needed to get this cargo to LA before morning so he wasn’t interested in staying any longer than he needed to. Bobby’s task was simple - see if there were any survivors, and leave the rest to whatever guvamint acronym dealt with flaming sky eggs. No time to get this engine back runnin’, assumin’ this thing even had an engine.

Wrapping his baseball cap around his right hand, he tested the egg by poking it. Cold to the touch. Cautiously, he put the hat back on his head and placed his bare hand on the surface of the object. A series of beeps. Some more flashing lights. A ripple in the surface, and then beginning to shudder and groan. Bobby stepped back.

The shuddering began to grow and grow in intensity, shivering and rippling as it morphed into alien shapes. Bobby stepped back once more.

Then it stopped. Then it made a tiny, almost imperceptible dinging sound. Then it spat out a girl. At this point Bobby didn’t know how to react. But if he didn’t the egg sure didn’t either as it flung the girl several feet in the air, landing her face-first with a thud at his feet. Bobby leaned over and checked her pulse. He couldn’t feel anything. He rolled her on to her back. She looked Asian, that much he was sure, and covered in deep lacerations and burns from head to toe.

She seemed young, definitely too young to be out of high school. She wore a short blue skirt, the kind of short that would make the most progressive mother clutch her pearls. A white shirt that seemed way too small, exposing her belly button. An odd-looking boy scout necktie that seemed to glow in the dark. She looked like one of those girl hero types that he caught lil’ Jenny watchin’ back at home from time to time. And in her hand, the most absurd looking blade he’d ever seen in his life.

It was long thin blade, with what looked like nine fox tails working as a guard at the hilt. Several inscriptions of cats, were engraved on the blade, each one glowing a searingly bright pink.

“Well that there’s a bit fruity, ain’t it.” He reached down to check her pulse. Nothing. Bobby furrowed his brow. He took his hat back off and wiped the sweat off his forehead. With a sigh, he reached for the sword clasped in her hand and picked it up. What happened after was immediate. The girl’s clothes shifted into some kind of modest private school uniform. But more frighteningly, Bobby felt a surge of energy flow through the sword. Bobby’s world shook, and then everything went black.

********

“Wake up, Chosen-Senpai.”

Bobby shuddered awake to see a blurry figure standing over him. As his eyes adjusted to the bright lights around him, he sat up and felt the shallow pools of water rippling between his fingers. “I ain’t in the Mojave anymore.” As he looked around him, he could see the girl more vividly now. The same girl he pulled from the wreckage, but strangely uninjured.

“Very astute of you, Senpai.” Bobby eyed her with a mix of scorn and confusion. He looked at her, she looked at him. After what felt like half a minute of waiting for the other to say something, Bobby decided to break the ice. “Where ar-“ “The sword holds the past lives of all who have wielded it before. This is the realm where the Chosen meet, to share their combined knowledge and experience with the Hero who wields it.” Bobby’s eyebrow slowly raised. “Who ar-“ “My name is Sakura. Heiress to the GenkiNeko toy chain, forty-seventh wielder of the Neko-Kitsune sword, slayer of the Kawaiiju. I will be your spirit guide on your journey as you continue my work, as the previous owners of the sword have done before me.” Bobby stood up. “Now wait here missy, I ain’t about t-“ “You are the forty-eighth wielder of the Neko-Kitsune sword. It is your destiny.” “I’m a trucker. The only destiny I got is-” “Listen, old man, I like this even less than you do. But the Kawaiiju aren’t going to stop with me. Whether you like it or not, you will need to face them.” Bobby laughed. “Let’s see how these illegal immig’rints handle the 12-gauge I got in the back. I don’t need no’ gay knife fer’ tha-“ “Your shotgun will have no impact on the Kawaiiju, Senpai. Only the sword can pierce their flesh” “Well ain’t that convenient.” Bobby was stunned for a second. He actually finished a sentence with this crazy woman. “What-“ “You must take the sword and follow your path. The sword is just a blade in your hands now, but the Power of Friendship will ignite the Neko-Kitsune Sword’s true power.” “No.” “What?” “I’m not goin’ ter do it. I don’t even know what you want me ter do-“ “You have no choice. It is your destiny.” Bobby scoffed. “Lady, this here?” he gestured to the void surrounding them. “This is America. And it’s my gosh-durned right to do whatever I want. That’s the American wa-” Sakura rolled her shoulders backward and groaned into the sky. “Burgerland, of course. Why did I have to crash here?” Bobby chuckled, looked at the sword still clasped in his hand, then smiled. “Listen, Say-koo-ruh. What if I take this thing to the nearest truck-stop and give it to the first teenager that rolls by?” She paused, pinching her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “That, uh, might work? But there’s a pro-”

“Good, it’s settled then. Now I don’t want ter hear any more of this talk about Nee-Koes and Keet-Soons and Cow-Why-Juice, you hear me?” She shrugged, an almost resigned smirk on her face. “Fine. But when what happens happens, make sure you keep the blade nearby. The last think we need is humanity’s last hope in the hands of an alien invader.”

Bobby shrugged dismissively, and for a while the two stood there for a moment in awkward silence.

“So what the heck is a Sen-Pi-“

********

Bobby shuddered awake, sweating. He checked his watch. Damn, he’d been snoozing out here for 15 minutes. If his boss called in while he was out here, that was probably comin’ out of his paycheck.

“Strange dream.”

He looked around. The sword was still in his hand, but the body was gone. Bobby decided it was probably best not to question it, as he shrugged and made his way back to the truck. On the way, he considered throwing the sword away, but something prevented him.

“Could probably get gas money selling this to a scrapyard.” Bobby chuckled. In fact, now that he thought about it, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

By the time Bobby was settling back into the driver’s seat, he’d already decided on the place – a scrapper mentioned by Billy-Bob in the Trucker’s Network just off the beaten track. And better yet – still on the way to LA.

The past hour, he thought, must have been a hallucination. There were certainly enough engine fumes to rationalize that as such, but a Japanese schoolgirl? That one was certainly new. A pang hit him as he warmed up the engine – was this guilt? Bobby quickly brushed the feeling aside as he pressed his foot against that familiar accelerator.

********

thru-thrum.

A few hours had passed, and a strange feeling washed over Bobby as the white lines on the empty road began to blur together. Hair standing at the back of his neck. A chill of… anticipation? He pushed it aside as he reached to the passenger seat for another cig- hang on, was the sword glowing?

thru-thrum. One eye on the road, he looked across the car and sure enough, leaning against the glovebox was that girly blade. The inscriptions were now pulsing, but the blade itself was now glowing with a pink hue that was growing steadily brighter. This time, Bobby knew he wasn’t hallucinating. thru-thrum. thru-thrum. “The Kitsune-Neko senses her prey. The hunt begins.”

That familiar voice.

THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM.

“But who is the hunter, and who the hunted?”

“Oh fuck me! Now I’m hearin’ the dead!” THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM.

Bobby wiped the sweat off his brow. His head was pounding. His hands were shaking. And then, in the corner of his eye, he glanced something in his rear-view mirror. Something advancing. His eyes widened as terror ripped the breath from his throat.

THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM.

Something giant was slithering along the road at an incredible speed, steadily, advancing on ol’ Bessie. Like a Beanie Baby fucked a Kraken. And it looked livid. Bobby didn’t think. He punched the gas and picked up the microphone on the CB Radio. Shaking, he clicked the button and spoke. “10-33, 10-33. This is Freebird, callin’ from the Interstate 40 en route to Shakytown.” He paused for a moment. “10-33 please respond.” Static. Second after uncomfortable second rolled by. And then, a familar;

“5 by 5, this is the Ludlow Watering Hole. What’s your situation? Over.” He breathed a sigh of relief. But that relief was fleeting as the spectre loomed over his rear-view. But now he knew Maeve was in town. This varmint was gon’ find out the meaning of Southern Hospitality. “I’m about 20 minutes east of your position. I got the hammer down and a bogey on my tail. I need all the drivers you have. And guns. As many as you got. Over.”

A moment.

“Copy that. I’ll contact the boys. You know, I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.” Another sigh of relief. “Oh, and Freebird? Welcome back. Over.” Bobby hung up the mic and glanced at his rear-view. Yep, definitely close now. Whatever he was going to do, he would have to do it fast. And hopefully Maeve wasn’t dragging her feet. THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM. THRU-THRUM.

The sound was very loud now, the sword to his right now shimmering with light, shivering like it was itchin’ for a fix of the good stuff. And that’s when he saw the sign - Fender Joe’s House of Scrap. A lightbulb moment – if he was gon’ take this thing on, with or without the Trucker Network, one of them was gon’ die in that metal graveyard. He twisted the steering wheel to the left, and felt Bessie tilt with him. But Bobby knew Bessie like she was his second wife. And with a flourish, the truck righted itself as he flew through the exit. The pursuer was not as elegant, slamming itself into the wall of a nearby overpass, splattering glowing technicolor blood. But the blood stopped in midair, and rushed back to its host as the tentacled monstrosity regained its composure and resumed its pursuit. As it did, the radio once more crackled into life. “10-8, 10-8. Freebird, we have some boys heading to your position. What is your situation with the bogey? Over.” Bobby had never been so overjoyed to hear anyone speak over that radio. He picked the mic back up. “10-4. I’m about to dig in at Fender Joe’s. Get here as quick as possible. 4-10? Over.” A moment.

“Negatory, you’re a Mud Duck. Please repeat, over.”

“I said, I’m at Fender J-“ The truck slammed through the gates of the scrapyard as he hit the brakes. Carefully adjusting the steering wheel, he shifted the handbrake and the truck whipped around, skidding through the clay for tens of feet before glancing the piles of old whitegoods littering the compound. No time to think. Bobby reached behind his seat and pulled out his 12-Gauge and a few boxes of ammo. “This is going to be Freebird’s last stand.” He thought as he stepped out of the truck and turned to face the entrance. His rearview told him that objects may be larger than they appear. That was a gosh-durned understatement. The Kawaiiju before him stood at least 20 feet tall, with a mass of tentacles ripping through the fence as it advanced on him. As the creature drew closer, he could faintly hear the sound of… was that meowing? “Okay, I know you’re new to this country so lemme teach you somethin’ about the Second Amendment!” he shouted at the creature, as he unloaded two shotgun shells directly into its My Little Pony-lookin’ face. It doubled back and made a high-pitched, ear-piercing shriek, and then rearranged its face back into its original shape. Bobby laughed. Clearly this thing didn’t get the memo, he thought to himself as he popped some new shells into his gun. He was preparing his next one-liner when an errant tentacle whipped him, sending the man careering into a pile of old toasters.

********

“Ergh… Just give me a sec” he said to the figure looming over him. It took a moment for his clearly concussed brain to register that a familiar Japanese girl was standing over him. He fumbled around helplessly on his bed of toasters for a moment until he looked across the compound, realizing that his shotgun was currently sinking into the creature’s bags of flesh.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. Hearing him, the creature whipped around and began rushing toward him.

“Reach out your arm.”

“What?”

“Just do it. And say, ‘Neko Neko Nii!’” “WHAT?”

The creature was once again looming over him now.

“Just do it!”

Bobby blushed and gritted his teeth. “Argh! Neko Neko Nii!”

The Kawaiiju raised a clawed tentacle in the air, and slammed it down above him. SHWING!

Bobby opened his eyes. Somehow, he was still alive. With a pink sword in his hand, held above his head. The creature’s tentacle sliced clean off, wriggling limply on the toaster bed at his side. Sakura laughed. “I can’t believe you actually said that.” Bobby didn’t have time to think. Primal survival instinct kicked in as he shot up, grabbing the hilt of the blade with both hands as he slashed at tentacle after tentacle that whipped at him. And one by one, they all fell. The Kawaiiju roared mightily once more as it threw its full weight at Bobby, who ducked to the side and with one swift uppercut, slashed right through the creature’s torso. Neon blood spewed everywhere, coating Bobby as he wiped the goo from his eyes. The Kawaiiju was hurting now, that’s for sure. “Yeah! How’d you like that?” The creature stood still for a second, then the blood once more began to return to its body, peeling itself from the toasters, the sword, and Bobby himself. Sakura, still standing with her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her blazer, looked on at this with mild bemusement. The tentacles wriggled back into life as they crawled like worms back to their host, reattaching themselves to the sockets as Bobby looked on in horror. He clutched the sword and held it before him. “All right girl, you said this sword could kill these things. Why isn’t this working?” “I told you before, didn’t I?” “Tell me wha-“ he failed to ask as one tentacle, now balled into a fist, slammed him in the face, knocking him to the ground. He could only look on disorientedly as the blade skittered off and disappeared into a pile of refrigerators. He reached out. “Neko Neko Nii!” Nothing. “Neko Neko Nii!” he shouted. The Kawaiiju almost seemed to cackle as it readied itself for the killing blow. “Well Bobby, I guess you were going to die someday.” he said to himself as he relaxed his body and closed his eyes, allowing himself to embrace the void. Six tentacles raised into the air as the creature gurgled with something adjacent to laughter.

It was at that moment that a truck burst through the entrance of the scrapyard, careering through the mud to collide face-first with the creature. Once more it shrieked as it exploded into that glowing rainbow bodily fluid that Bobby was becoming uncomfortably accustomed to.

Dazed, Bobby looked to his side, and shouted out a hoo-rah as five trucks circled around the interior of the compound, before trying to get up once more. Several familiar faces emerged from the doors, each one more heavily-armed than the last. And last, stepping out of the truck that saved him, was a heavy-set woman holding an LMG like one would hold a briefcase. “Just in the nick of time, hey Freebird!” Bobby smiled, pumping his fist into the air as he righted himself. “Maeve! And not a moment too soon! Good to see you babe.” “Now Bobby, you wanna try saying that again?” she said, tapping the LMG with her other hand like a used car dealer would slap a car. “Point taken. Eyes up, everybody, because this ain’t over.” Maeve frowned. “You sure about that? This situation is lookin’ pretty handled over-“ It was at that moment that the truck flipped into the air, spinning into the other trucks as the Kawaiiju revealed itself once more, enraged. Maeve stepped back, shocked for a moment at what she was seeing, and readied her machine gun. “All right boys, let’s show this rubberneck what happens when you mess with the Trucker Network!” The team nodded in acknowledgement as they all began to unload their firearms into the tentacled horror. Pistols, assault rifles, SMGs, shotguns... oh shit, is that a rocket launcher? Maeve and Bobby both ducked out of the way as the first rocket connected with flesh. First an explosion of blood and fire, then the creature reforming just in time for another rocket to scatter alien meat once more. “It’s not working!” said Maeve. “Do what you gotta do – we’ll cover you!” Bobby’s eyes darted around the landscape, riddled with flashes and metal and enough colour to make Lisa Frank start bleeding out the eyes. “Thanks for comin’, Maeve. Glad to know you have my back after all these years.” “Naw, are you gettin’ sentimental, boy?” Maeve looked back and grinned toothily. “We’ll always have your back. We’re the Trucker Network! And more important, we’re friends.” An epiphany struck Bobby like a bolt of lightning.

“The Power of Friendship will ignite the Neko-Kitsune Sword’s true power.”

Without a second thought, Bobby held his arms before him as he lunged toward the beast. It was like time had slowed down, as he moved faster, superhumanly so, toward the creature, ducking and weaving between tentacles. As he approached the creature’s torso, his arms clasped together in a thrusting motion.

In a flash of bright pink light, the sword once again appeared in his hand, and drove straight through the heart just recently exposed by an errant stick of dynamite. The creature shrieked one more bloodcurdling shriek, and then collapsed inward on itself like a black hole. The Kawaiiju was dead, and this time it wasn’t coming back. Everyone looked on, dumbfounded. And then the cheering began. Bobby and Maeve moved into the circle of trucks, Maeve setting down her LMG as a few of the other truckies pulled out some beers from the trucks. Cracking open some cold ones, they all began to chatter among one another. Maeve approached Bobby once more. “Well Freebird, I can’t say this was the evening I was expecting to have, but I think we’re all going to remember it.” She eyed him up and down. “For more reasons than one.” Bobby looked at her quizzically, then glanced at the apparition of Sakura. She was doubled-over in laughter. “Okay what are you laughin’ about?” It was at that moment that he noticed that everyone was looking at him with a bemused look on their faces. Bobby looked down. “…oh.”

********

“…happy birthday dear Jenny, happy birthday to you!”

Bobby looked on at his daughter with pride, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Thank y’all for coming!” she said, buzzing with excitement as she blew out the 18 candles dotting her carrot cake. She looked over at Bobby, beaming. Bobby knew he wasn’t around all that much for her – he was wed to the road and it never let him stay in one place for long. A glance over at her mother’s piercing glare indicated that she concurred.

As the party began to wrap up and the family began to tidy the barn, Bobby approached his daughter.

“Hey Dad!”

“Hi, Jenny.” He furrowed his brow. Was this really the right time? Is this really the right choice? “Come with me, I want to give you your birthday present, but it’s out the front”

“Sure thing!” Jenny gleefully responded.

Bobby was getting cold feet. Her mother would certainly kill him when she found out. Probably for the best that he get out of the state as soon as possible.

He turned around to her as they stepped through the front gate. “So this isn’t just a gift from me, it’s a gift from the whole Trucker Network. So make sure to say thank you to Maeve next time she’s in town.”

“Will do!” Jenny was clearly overflowing with excitement, with her hands balled into fists.

Bobby opened the door of his truck, sighed for a moment, and then pulled out an intricately-wrapped box, short in height and depth but a few feet long. He looked up – Sakura’s ghost was sitting there, sporting an almost Cheshire-Cat grin.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this? You know how dangerous it is out there. You know you’ll be exposing her to a world she’ll never come back from.”

Bobby frowned determinedly. “Yes, but will she want to?”

He handed the box to Jenny. Like a ravenous beast, she ripped the box open with her teeth, the ribbons and paper falling in tatters on the dirt road beneath them. Bobby winced – he’d spent all night on that.

She looked inside the box. “Whoa! Thanks Dad!” A moment of silence. “…uh, what is it?”

“This,” said Bobby, smiling as he drew the long metal object from the box. “is a tyre iron. You’re going to need it for the other half of your present.”

He gestured over toward the other side of the street. Jenny gasped. There it was, a brand-new semi-trailer. Not one of the most heavy-duty bits of hardware around, but if his Jenny was going to learn to drive, she was going to drive the best.

“Is it- is it-“ she was practically vibrating.

“Yeah, kiddo.” he smiled. “She’s all yours. Keys are in the ignition.”

“Um, I don’t want to ruin your moment, but…”

He looked out toward the gate of the house. His ex was advancing on him and he didn’t need any supernatural sword powers to know that his time was up.

“Well, it was fun while it lasted.”

********

Jenny ran to the truck and sat in the front seat. She’d never felt so alive; her Dad may be gone a lot but there was always something so magical, so fantastical about the stories he’d tell her about his time on the road. Sitting in this truck, she felt closer to him than ever before. She sighed contentedly, then looked over at her dad. And then a pang of sadness, as she heard the truck rev up and pull out, disappearing into the street once more, her mother screaming and shouting at him the whole way down the block. Tears began to well up in her eyes. Just like that, he was gone again. *chhhk* Jenny looked up. The truck radio was coming to life. “This is Freebird to Sailormoon, Sailormoon please respond, over.” Jenny wiped the tears from her eyes as she hurriedly picked up the microphone. “10-4, 10-4, This is Sailormoon, hearing you loud and clear, over.” “Freebird to Sailormoon, I’m proud of you. Sorry I had to hightail. You know your mother. Over.” She giggled. “Sailormoon to Freebird, it’s okay. Bring me back something nice. Over.” A moment. “10-4 to that.” “Motherbear to Freebird and Sailormoon, this is adorable but you are hogging a vital channel. Cut the shit, over.”

Jenny dropped the mic, embarrassed.

“Sorry Maeve” said her dad. “I’m back on the road again, what have you got for me?”

“Some rubbernecks causing havoc in a town just south of your position. Follow the highway and you can’t miss it.”

“Freebird to Motherbear, roger that.”

Jenny grinned before picking up the mic again. “Give’ em hell, Dad.”

#short story #short fiction #writing prompt

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bssaz97 · 5 years

Text

RWBY Ancestries Chapter 3

* So I want to apologize to those who have been waiting for me to update, I wanted to upload this close to the last chapter but I recently got the flu over the weekend and still am recovering. But to bring out the pacing of this story, the big reveal probably won’t occur until chapter 5. Mostly to get a feel for how the characters are going to be feeling before the big reveal and because it’s Salem of all people coming to Atlas, you need to set a good canvas in sense, no rushing here. Anyway on to the story!

- In Mantle, Unknown Building -

Mercury: So let me gets this straight. The Queen of Grimm, your boss, just found out that she has a living relative, and in that excitement decided to say ‘fuck it’ with the plan to get the relic and come here to have somekind of a family reunion? Did I get all that right, doc?

Watts: (Groan) While I would have worded that more tacitly, yes that is correct.

Mercury: (Nods) I see, so on a scale of one to ten, how fucked are we?

Emerald: (Whispers) Look Mercury, maybe this is a good thing? We don’t have to retrieve that dusty old heirloom anymore, and to top it all off maybe her ‘highness’ won’t be so threatening?

Watts: I wouldn’t count on that goodwill too much. Now that Ironwood knows that she is coming, it’ll make our escape more difficult. I’ve never seen her act with such abandon and she seems completely oblivious to any of her other goals.

Tyrian: (Humming)

Mercury: (Looks at the joyful psycho, then to Watts) What’s he so happy about?

Tyrian: (Decides to cut in) Oh? Lil ol me? I’m just happy that my theory about the blonde knight became a reality.~

Emerald & Mercury: (Ō_Ō)

Watts: (Facepalms) You see children our dear associate here has been holding a belief that the boy was in some form or another had a relation to our ‘wonderful goddess’

Tyrian: And for so long! The good doctor here as been chastising me that my theory was ‘work of fiction and obsession’ he said. But guess what?~ I’m the the one proven right in this matter! And I’m just basking in my genius?

Watts: What you mean is you got lucky and for once one of your preposterous theories was correct! Just because you’re right about this one doesn’t mean your other ones are right either!

Tyrian: You say that but we both know that you are just petty that I was right and you were wrong!~

Watts: Ok to go back to the subject at hand, we are going to need to improve our escape from the kingdom as I’m sure that Salem is too preoccupied to other matters to concern herself with us.

Mercury: So how do we that, steal a airship?

Watts: Of course not what do you take me for an amateur? No. We’re not stealing an airship, in fact I have a newly acquired friend with bottomless pockets who can give us the aid we need.

- Atlas Academy, 45 minutes before Wyvern arrival -

Teams RWBY and JNPR are in the girls dorm so the team leaders can properly explain the situation to their teammates.

Yang: You know I always figured that one day we’d probably have to face Salem, it’s just... didn’t think it be so soon. (Chuckles unhumorously)

Ren: Did General Ironwood say what exactly is the plan. The last time we encountered a Wyvern... it didn’t end well for anyone.

Ruby: (Exhales) Look everyone I know how much this situation is bringing back bad memories, myself included, but we’re not the same first years we were all those years ago. We’re a lot stronger than when we’ve first started and now we have enough experience to deal with this. But if anyone has anything to say before we head out that door... now would be a good time as any.

Silence fills the room for a few moments.

Ocsar: (Stands up from his sitting position, everyone directs his attention towards him) Everyone, I know I haven’t been apart of this group long, heck I haven’t even been a hunter in training until about a few months ago. But I just want you all to know one thing.

Oscar gathers up his courage.

Oscar: I’ve always lived on a farm, and didn’t know too much about the outside world. In fact the only thing I ever knew about huntsmen was from old stories my uncle used to tell me. Though for some reason it always seemed like a fairy tale to me. But then I got reincarnation of an old wizard inside my head, I left my home to go off an quest to save the world, I met a group of people who would become some of the best friends I could ask for. I know it hasn’t been easy and it’s been hard for everyone, but I just want you all to know... I’m glad to here with all of you in the end.

Nora: ... End? Who says this is the end? I mean sure we know you-know-who can’t be killed but that doesn’t mean it’s the end. I mean we’ve come this far, it’s like Ruby said we’re stronger than we were before. So why don’t we just show that Grimm lady just how strong were are.

Nora stands up as well and stands beside Oscar. Pats his right shoulder.

Nora: And don’t you worry hun’ we’ll be there with you all the way.

This motivates the remaining members of of the group to stand as well.

Weiss: I must say you two really have a way with words for when it counts.

Yang: Yeah don’t think we could put it together guys.

Blake: Besides well have each other’s backs.

Everyone stands in a circle and extends their dominant hands for a team huddle.

Ruby: No matter what happens, we’re all coming out of this alive, whatever it takes.

Both teams break and start heading out the door, only with the exception of the two team leaders.

Jaune: ... Whatever it takes huh? Can’t help but feel like you were directing that at someone in particular.

Ruby: (Directs her attention towards him) I was saying that to everyone. But maybe I needed to say it loud enough for someone in particular to notice.

Jaune: (Chuckles) Guess that makes two of us.

A silence emits from both of them.

Jaune: Well guess we should go meet them.

He moves to head out the door, but gets stopped by a hand on his chest plate. Jaune looks down and looks at the owner of his roadblock.

Ruby: I never got to say what I needed to say.

Jaune: ... (Mods for her to continue)

Ruby: (Deep breath) I wanted say thank you for always being here. I know I don’t need to say it, but I want to. You have been with me these past two years and we’ve both been through trial after trial together, when you easily didn’t need to. I’ve seen you at your lowest and at your best, and I’ve seen how much you’ve grown.

Ruby: (Exhales) What I’m trying to say is, I don’t want this to be the only memories I have of you. I want to see you become exactly like the huntsman of your dreams and I want to see you grow in the years to come. (Starts to tremble) And I want to be there to see it too. Even if the situation we are currently may imply not all of us are going to make it tonight, I still want to hold onto that dream where we’re both greatest hunter and huntress and we make it past the dark days and that we-

Jaune cuts her off to bring her into a hug. After a little bit she wraps her arms to his shoulders.

Jaune: You’ve been holding that in for awhile haven’t you?

Ruby: (Nods into his chest)

Jaune: I don’t envy the burden you carry, but just remember one thing. (He gently nudged her chin to look up at him) You don’t need to carry it alone. I’m still your co-team leader so if things ever get too much, you can talk to me. Trust me, like I trust you.

Ruby: (Stays silent for a moment before nodding) I will. Sorry, I guess I’ve been acting as a leader for so long I’ve kind of forgotten that I have another leader who I can confide to.

Jaune: (Smirks) That’s what I’m here for Crater-Face.

Ruby: (Smiles) But just so you know that goes two ways, Vomit-Boy.

Jaune: (Changes smirk to a genuine smile) Whatever you say.

A silence is left in the room between the two leaders and friends. Momentarily forgetting they haven’t let go of each other. That is until something broke up their tranquil moment.

Nora: Oh my Gods! Are you two gonna kiss already! The suspense is killing me!

The two immediately break apart and look at the source of the interruption, who was none other than the pink bomber. And she wasn’t alone.

Weiss: Dolts the both both of you, we have a literal crisis at our doorstep and here you two are acting like Jake and Rosie from Titanica. (She tries very hard to sound annoyed but fails to hide her smirk)

Both leaders blush up a storm at the former heiress’s reference to an age old romance/drama movie. They quickly try to diffuse the situation.

Ruby/Jaune: U-um well you see, he/she was feeling under the weather so I tried to encourage him/her. Wait what! I was encouraging you not the other way around, stop repeating after me. I’m not repeating, your repeating! Aaaaah!

Nora/Weiss: (Smiles at the sure density of both leaders, before they start laughing)

Ruby: (Pulls up her hood to hide her blushing) L-Look Weiss is right we need to head out soon. Can’t waste any time on preparation.

Jaune: (Looks up in opposite direction to avoid eye contact from the red reaper) Y-yeah, we should all get going.

Neither of the two move an inch for a moment then both make their way to the door and bump each other on the way.

Ruby/Jaune: S-sorry!

Without another word both starts making their way towards the others.

Weiss: (Sighs) Honestly I don’t see why they try to hide what they obviously feel towards each other. It’s almost like they’re deliberately trying to avoid the subject of confessing when it’s obvious for others to see.

Nora: I think they’re just afraid that being more than friends will be the end of their friendship, but they obviously don’t have much experience in dating life to know that isn’t true. At least most of the time.

Weiss: Ah so like Ren and you for the the longest.

Nora: (Blushes In embarrassment) You have been hanging out with Yang far too long.

Both teammates make their way to towards their leaders anticipating the battle ahead of them.

- End of Chapter 3 -

////////////////////////////////////////

- Bonus Clip -

On the disguised airship supplied by Neo’s Semblance, both Cinder and her make their way to the kingdom of Atlas.

Neo: (Has a very concentrated face and focuses to keep the ship hidden)

Cinder: I must say you have really outdone yourself with this new trick of yours. We’ve been traveling across the Atlesian border for an hour now and no one has flagged our ship so far.

Neo: (Holds one hand up to stop Cinder’s praise, motioning she needs total concentration)

Cinder: Ah yes, of course, I’ve seem to forgat that little bit of this new skill of yours. But only for a little while longer, once we’re inside of Mantle we can begin the next step in our plan for revenge.

The two continue to fly through the landscape and make it past what should have been the first check point for Atlas’s military to check incoming airship. However, after what was five minutes no one had attempted to hail their ship. This fact, makes Cinder confused.

Cinder: Something is not right.

Neo: (Taking a glance at Cinder, she gives a questioning look)

Cinder: It’s quiet, and we haven’t had anyone attempt to hail this ship for identification.

Neo: (Gives Cinder a more questionable expression)

Cinder: What I mean is when have you ever heard of someone making it across Atlas’s order without interruption?

Another five minutes pass before Cinder looks towards Neo again.

Cinder: Drop the illusion.

Neo: (Now looks at Cinder like she’s crazy)

Cinder: Just do as I say and drop the illusion.

Neo: (Hesitant but ultimately drops the illusion around their ship)

After waiting for a short while, both start to become concerned.

Cinder: ... (Sets the ship to auto pilot) I’m going outside.

Cinder makes her way out of helm of the ship and makes her way towards outside on the deck. What she sees honestly shocks her. Numerous of Atlas’s defense systems are destroyed and judging from all the scorching and smoke something large had attacked this place long before they’d arrived. Neo comes joins Cinder to see what’s all the commotion about, once seeing all the destruction she gains a surprised and horrified expression.

Cinder: It appears that our plan may have become more complicated.

- End of Bonus Clip -

#rwby volume 7 #rwby lancaster #team rwby #team jnpr #cinder fall #neo politan #villains #jaune is salem's descendant theory #rwby ancestries

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ahelpfulpeach · 5 years

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I was gonna ask All for the numbers but that might be a bit Much I guess so how about odds!

Fuck it I have no self control, you get all of em

1. Sun lesbian or moon lesbian: 🌙 love me a night sky

2. Flannel lesbian or sweater lesbian: flannels! Though I enjoy sweaters as well, I just don't wear them as much cuz they're harder to take off and I overheat easily

3. Curly fry lesbian or waffle fry lesbian: CURLY FRIES

4. Thrift store lesbian or high brow lesbian: thrift store bro

5. 70’s disco lesbian or 90’s grunge lesbian: probably more grunge

6. Fat cat lesbian or hairless cat lesbian: all cats are lovely and deserve my undevided attention

7. Chinese takeout lesbian or pizza delivery lesbian: pizzzaaaaa

8. Big dog lesbian or tiny dog lesbian: all dogs also deserve my undevided attention, but I do have a preference for large dogs

9. MoMA lesbian or metropolitan lesbian: never been to either but I love museums and would enjoy both!!

10. Matte nail lesbian or glossy nail lesbian: glossy! Gimme that glittery nail polish that looks like a galaxy fuck yeah

11. Red lipstick lesbian or dusty rose lesbian: I don't wear lipstick soooo

12. Crop top lesbian or maxi dress lesbian: don't usually wear femme stuff, or women's clothing in general, but I own one maxi dress and it is so soft and a lovely like lakeside scenery

13. Neck kisses lesbian or forehead kisses lesbian: I mean. Both? Both is good. But also neck kisses fuck me up good

14. Fluffy fat cat lesbian or tiny hairless cat lesbian: boooooth. But I do own a big ol fluffy boy who I am trying to keep from getting to fat for his own good

15. Leather jacket lesbian or letterman jacket lesbian: looking to find a good leather jacket

16. Puts too much salt on food lesbian or too much pepper: usually I underseason cuz I worry about over seasoning and then put too little

17. Glitter eyeshadow lesbian or matte eyeshadow lesbian: I do not makeup

18. Flower lesbian or succulent lesbian: both! But I do love me a cute lil succulent

19. Ugly cat print sweater lesbian or jean jacket that looks like it’s been through a war lesbian: also looking for a good jean jacket, wanna get one from a thrift store so it's already broken in a bit

20. Spaghettios lesbian or Kraft dinner lesbian: Mac and cheeeeeese

21. Hot chocolate lesbian or lemonade lesbian: God I love both but I think lemonade edges out hot chocolate by a little bit

22. Champagne lesbian or whiskey lesbian: neither. I will drink a sweet wine though

23. Dark aesthetic lesbian or pastel aesthetic lesbian: I guess closer to pastel cuz I like colors

24. Silk velvet lesbian or crushed velvet lesbian: silk velvet! Crushed velvet is... Unpleasant

25. Ball gown lesbian or tuxedo lesbian: tuxedo

26. Forest lesbian or space lesbian: again, I like both, but probably forest

27. Lennon glasses lesbian or aviators lesbian: I do not own sunglasses, but we'll go with aviators

28. Hestia lesbian or Artemis Lesbian: Artemis!!!

29. Nose piercing lesbian or belly button piercing lesbian: I am a wimp and have no piercings and do not have any real desire to obtain any

30. Electric guitar lesbian or ukulele lesbian: I cannot play either, but both seem like they'd be cool to learn

31. Converse lesbian or doc martens lesbian: I wear more boots but of these two I've only ever owned converse

32. Hayley Kiyoko lesbian or Mary Lambert lesbian: I like a few of both of their songs, but I'll go with Mary

33. Olive Garden lesbian or Chiles lesbian: I think I am contractually obligated to say Olive garden cuz one of my roommates works there.

34. Tarot card lesbian or astrology lesbian: tarot cards are pretty cool

35. Peppermint lesbian or cinnamon lesbian: that depends. For candy and toothpaste and whatnot, peppermint. For baked goods, cinnamon

36. Playing-with-her-hair lesbian or getting-hair-played-with lesbian: I am usually a playing-with-her-hair one but I would love for someone to play with mine

37. Victim of tickle attacks lesbian or tickle attacker lesbian: probably more often the victim but I am both

38. Tiny tattoo lesbian or whole sleeve of tattoos lesbian: I'd love to get a big sleeve but I am, as mentioned before, a wimp

39. Lady and the tramp lesbian or aristocats lesbian: aristocats! It has more fun music

40. Cool Rock collection lesbian or cool leaf collection lesbian: I have a pretty nice little rock collection

41. Art hoe lesbian or music hoe lesbian: neither I think

42. 80’s windbreaker lesbian or 80’s blazer lesbian: I don't think I own either

43. Mom jeans lesbian or skinny jeans lesbian: third category- men's jeans

44. Silver lesbian or gold lesbian: silver

45. Flower crown lesbian or snap back lesbian: I kinda want a snap back but I have not found one I like

46. Annie on my mind lesbian or rubyfruit jungle lesbian: haven't read Annie on my mind, rubyfruit jungle by default!

47. Breakfast club lesbian or princess bride lesbian: haven't seen breakfast club but even if I had princess bride all the way

48. “Wanna cuddle?” Lesbian or surprise hug attack lesbian: depends on who I am with but generally "wanna cuddle?"

49. Jupiter lesbian or Pluto lesbian: PLUTO

50. Make her mixtapes lesbian or sketchbook filled with drawings of her lesbian: mixtapes fuck yeah

#anonymous #anon #ask #thank!!

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Heist Review: Netflix Doc Appreciates That Crime Pays

https://ift.tt/3ACIR5Y

You can watch, but you may not want to try these at home. Heist, Netflix’s new crime-docuseries, makes it look very tempting to go for the big money grab. Whether it comes in paper or bottles, bushels or barrels, cash is king, and it is fun to be a kingpin. Living large on illicit funds is a blast. Pursuit is inevitable. Capture is probable. Jail is doable. Especially if there is some money stashed away.

The interesting thing is, of all of the cases investigated in the show, the only criminal who might not have something saved for retirement is the one who got away with the crime and turned herself in. Told by the people who pulled them off, Heist is a cautionary tale that throws caution to the wind. The docuseries was produced by Dirty Robber, it chronicles the events of three famous modern heists. Each case gets two episodes, the build-up and the downfall. But underneath it all is a running romance with crime.

In the first episode, “Sex Magick Money Murder, a 21-year-old woman steals millions in Vegas casino cash. She does it for love, gives it up for love, and hopes her lover enjoyed his enriched life. That is, if he’s still alive. In “The Money Plane,” a man swipes $6 million from an airport warehouse in Miami to adopt a child for the woman he loves. “The Bourbon King” siphons off enough liquid gold to get a whole county drunk and the whole country watching, but the team captain gave up local softball fame for his wife.

The dramatic reenactments of the heists are as enthusiastic as the crimes. Heist sticks to robberies where no deaths occurred during the crime. This makes it easier to like the people who pulled off the jobs. We root for them. For the most part, they’re not career criminals. They are normal working stiffs who were lucky enough to be presented with an opportunity which was too good to pass up. Anyone watching might do it. That’s the hook. Remember, these people did time for it.

Director Derek Doneen had me at the title with “Sex Magick Money Murder.” When Heather Tallchief starts talking about tantric sex magic, you can feel how the very promise of crime pays off. Tallchief had a rough childhood, her mother dumped her on a father who scared crackheads because he smoked pot laced with formaldehyde. She finds the perfect man, a paroled murderer, with the greatest pickup line: “Do you believe in the devil?” Roberto Solis shot and killed an armored car guard during a robbery attempt in 1969. He wrote books while in prison, and had a way with words. A conversation begun in San Francisco ends in Las Vegas when they make off with over $3 million in a heist on a Loomis Armored truck.

Money Heist: What to Know About the International TV Phenomenon

By Gene Ching

Heather, who had just gotten her driver’s license, gets a job as a driver just to pull off the crime. Her co-workers thought she was cute, but had such a bad sense of direction when she was late picking them up, they were afraid to call it in and get her in trouble. An actress playing Tallchief captures the wild ride with a wide range, from the whirlwind romance to the jealousies that broke it up.

All of the episodes are paced similarly to feature heist films like Ocean’s Eleven and Catch Me If You Can, but Cuban immigrant Karls Monzon hadn’t seen the film Goodfellas when he scored the biggest airport take since 1978 Lufthansa heist at New York’s JFK airport. It’s probably the only background cinema he didn’t study. Monzon schooled himself by watching crime shows on TV. He was a fast learner. The haul in the Martin Scorsese film was $5.875 million. Monzon nearly got away with stealing $7.4 million. He’s done his time, and swears none of his share of the money is left. But audiences would be well within their rights to hope he’s stashed some extra bundles in that PVC pipe.

“The Money Plane” was directed by Martin Desmond Roe, and he presents it with heart. The love story between Monzon and Cinnamon is told with wit, warmth and street wisdom. He wants the perfect American life: wife, house and baby, but even after several expensive treatments at fertility clinics, it looks impossible to hit the trifecta. When Monzon puts his mind to it, he can do anything, he says. He gets word of the cash transfer from Onelio Diaz, who works as a guard for Brink’s Security. Monzon’s mind works in mysterious ways, and he comes across as a natural talent.

“The Bourbon King,” directed by Nick Frew, takes a deep swig from Gilbert “Toby” Curtsinger’s personal stash of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. “Pappygate” was a headline news darling in 2013, when more than 65 cases of Pappy Van Winkle and Wild Turkey bourbons and rye whiskeys were reported stolen by the Buffalo Trace Distillery. Curtsinger was a good ol’ boy, and wasn’t doing anything everyone else wasn’t doing. He was just doing it better. On the Kentucky softball team he plays on, he could drive a grounder into a pitcher’s nuts at whim.

Curtsinger worked at the distillery for 26 years, starting at the loading docks and working his way up. He cops display bottles, and takes and makes deliveries at the finest of gatherings. He gets popped for having five full barrels of stolen Wild Turkey 101 bourbon on his property. Even though they specifically say the scenario isn’t anything like Dukes of Hazzard, Curtsinger’s team peels out off the most unbeaten paths. A player named Dusty is the most fun of the crew. Once he finds out he’s being followed, he plays with the cops, seeing just how far they’ll go before he strands them in some backwoods area with no offramp. He sets a meeting with county deputies just across the line of their jurisdiction.

The high points are the details. Not only on how the crimes were committed, but why. The human stories that lead to legendary lawlessness. Also, most true crime documentaries, like Making a Murderer, still leave audiences with questions. Their function is to solve a case, and more often than not are cold cases. Heist presents closed cases. It is unique because people who committed the crimes get more airtime than the ones who solve it.

The stories are told from the perspective of people who know what it feels like to pull off an impossible crime. The criminals openly discuss the finer points, from a wise distance, but with fond memories. What does $7.4 million look like? It looks beautiful. We get how they select their targets, put together the crew, the meticulous planning, the emotional journey, the redemption, and the regret. But there is one more dividend. Each installment leaves some hint about unrecovered swag. Heist pays off, because the thrill of the theft is its own reward.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Heist premieres July 14 on Netflix.

The post Heist Review: Netflix Doc Appreciates That Crime Pays appeared first on Den of Geek.

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cursewoodrecap · 3 years

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Session 18: The Trollstones

It’s time for LORE.

Before we head out to our next adventure, we obviously have to go shopping. Clem buys a bunch of liquors and mixers, to test out the Boozenomicon we found at the artist house. Gral gets himself a “phat outfit makeover.” Shoshana and Clem buy something out of the back of a caravan called Old Badgerbeard’s Fine Valdian Liquor, guaranteed to add +2 to any Taint save by remindin’ ya of the simple joys in life.

Shoshana spends a little time playing translator and introducing people to the couple of orcish outriders who are gonna stick around. (“This is K’evin, he likes long walks on the beach and mah-jongg…”)

Anyway: we’ve just saved a town from people who hate parties, so naturally it is time to roll on the carousing table. Valeria finds a group of people to teach her favorite game, Man-go, and proceeds to lose 25 gold gambling against “complete newbies.” Clem wins a suspiciously similar amount at gambling, and can neither confirm nor deny that the noob hustling Valeria is just her in a fake mustache. Gral and the outriders teach a few orcish games, and Gral handily cleans everyone out by channeling the spirit of an experienced gambler. Bard Poker ain’t for amateurs, y’all.

Shoshana, still getting used to having more money than her entire village combined, buys a couple of drinks for some folks…then gives some cash to some needy travelers…and then the word gets out she’s giving out free money, and she has to use her Shadow Powers to gtfo before she’s swarmed. Whoops!

In the morning, Clem sends a letter back to her caravan, saying hi and updating them on the latest news. It’ll probably arrive alongside the original package, but that’s fine.

We head out and spend an uneventful journey retracing our steps to Mornheim. We notice Old Lady Jolene has moved out; the cottage stands empty and abandoned. Before long, the trees begin to take on that distinct skeletal cast and the skies begin to dim. We get that familiar sensation of the life draining away from the land. The birds stop chirping, except for the harsh caw of carrion birds. Flies cease to buzz. The air takes on the dusty, dry smell of grave dirt as we once again approach the necropolis Mornheim.

The hastily assembled walls of the town rise up before us. A few people are out working the orchards, with sentries posted to keep an eye out for the dead.

(There’s a wooden sign posted: “NO DEAD PEOPLE. This means you, Frank.” This sign won’t stop Frank because Frank can’t read! It’s posted on the end of a shovel, probably for hitting Frank when he comes back around again.)

Kyr Crabber is on duty when we show up, leading some repairs on the walls. “Oh hey, yer back!” He hauls the gates open for us. “Where’d you go? Heard you were going off to get some medicine. Want me to get the doc?”

Valeria shifts awkwardly. “Um…I’ll tell her myself?”

“So you’re not delivering meds, then.”

“Uh, it’s a magic thing. Don’t worry about it. How’s the town?”

He lets us deflect. “We got hit hard last night, and the Penitents didn’t show. Some sort of super-ghoul, I guess? It hit the walls pretty hard. Lady Aubrey took a hunting party out to the catacombs to try to track it down and kill it. They musta only left an hour or two ago.”

Shoshana shouts up that we’re gonna do a magic ritual to purify the water supply so it stops making the people sick. He’s like huh, it’s the water that’s doing that? That’s why I don’t drink it. 😉 Shoshana tells the old drunk an ancient Valdian proverb: HYDRATE OR DIEDRATE.

Anyway, It’s still early in the day and Valeria is buzzing with excitement, so we’re gonna get right to it. She’s gonna get to Be A Hero!

The ritual has a limited range, and the notes on the scroll say to plant the magic item at the river source, so we hike on up to the local landmark known as the Trollstones. Crabber says they looked pretty normal the last time he did a patrol; looks like a “big pile of rocks with water comin’ out.” Well, he’s not wrong.

In Valdia, “trollstones” is a catch-all term for any kind of standing stone, henge, or menhir, the assumption being that they were erected by trolls in ancient times. Many of them are assumed to be old druidic sites. This one, though crude, is huge and impressive. Hundreds of enormous stones are piled into a huge cairn. River water flows out of the gaps – some upper sections in impressive waterfalls, some flowing from underneath directly into the river basin. The water has a murky look to it, and the grass closest to the water is sickly and dying.

Valeria Investigates the area by strapping the Eyegis to the Aethis and sendin’ them swimming in. Our very good gator soon finds an entrance into the Trollstones! Turns out there’s a pretty substantial hollow under the big pile of rocks.

There’s air inside the cave, but we’ll have to swim a bit to get there. Shoshana strips off her big heavy skirt and Valeria hauls her onto the gator. We all dive underwater. CON saves all round! Valeria rolls a six and picks up 2 taint as the necrotic curse in the water seems to sap the life out of her. The cave is dark and dank, so we light up A-Luxor. We can now see a tall, craggy cavern, water dripping in rivulets over the jags of stone. Between the running water, uneven rocks, and slippery moss, it’s definitely difficult terrain. Clem nat 20s a Perception check and shudders as she feels the visceral power of the Pale King pulling at her soul.

The DM debuts a Special Location Rule. Due to the uneven footing, we may either treat the area as difficult terrain or try to move at full speed with a DC10 acrobatics check. If you fail, you slip on the rocks and fall prone partway through your movement.

We spot carvings in these stones, all over the place. Massive letters, deeply chiseled into the cave walls in a script we don’t recognize. However, there’s a smaller carving underneath in Old Valdian, seemingly a translation. Shoshana reads it out to the others: “This is the Tomb of Urdemak, First and Last King of the Trolls. Grandson of the Woods, so [unintelligible] with Life, that Death could not hold him. May we weep for his passing, and dread his return.”

Gral considers. “Perhaps this Urdemak is an agent of the Pale King?”

Shoshana rolls her eyes. “Uh, DUH. He sounds undead, don’t he?”

“No, I mean like the Lurker, or that creepy ringmaster. Something that’s higher in the Curse’s hierarchy than the dybbuk, something that’s controlling the Curse in this town.

Before we can plan a potential Boss Fight, Clem hears movement coming from outside the radius lit up by A-Luxor. It sounds like the rattling of bones. She draws her Warhammer and we all roll for initiative!

Shoshana backs up behind Aethis and readies a Chill Touch while Gral readies his crossbow and Clem draws her sword. Two massive skeletons lumber into view. Judging by their shape and their enormous claws, these are troll skeletons, clattering across the slick terrain with surprising ease.

One charges Clem, bowling into her like a truck even as Gral and Shoshana strike at it. She stands her ground, though, and meets it head on with her hammer for two crushing blows, bloodying it. (Well, if it had blood.)

Behind us, the water roils as two huge shapes rise out of the pool, forming into Water Weirds. Each has a skull floating in it. Valeria uses her shield as an umbrella against a deluge of water and breathes ice at them, but their churning water breaks up the ice crystals that form.

Clem whacks the crumbling troll skeleton again. Shoshana Burning Handses out of panic as the Weirds close in on her, which turns out to be a terrible idea against water monsters.

Gral manages to hook a troll skeleton right on a vertebra – hey, this looks important! – and yanks it right out of the spine, collapsing the skeleton. Meanwhile, the Water Weirds try to engulf Valeria and Shoshana, grappling them.

Valeria casts Command on the one holding her and tells it to Drop It. It obligingly drops her into the shallow waters. Aethis loyally slaps the Weird with its tail, cutting a slice through the water. It blorps itself back into shape, but clearly it’s been disrupted somewhat. Then, unfortunately, it just picks her right back up again. Aethis just keeps on slappin’.

Shoshana, like any cat that has been picked up against its will, claws and bites at the big water hand, dealing a decent amount of damage. In retaliation, the water rushes up over her face, and she takes 1 Taint as she chokes on stank cave water.

Meanwhile, Gral casts Phantasmal Force to momentarily convince a troll skeleton that magic shackles are wrapping around it. Clem sees a skeleton acting like it’s restrained and is like sure, I’d hit that. She crunches it to dust, Second Winding and charging toward where Valeria and Shoshana are getting absolutely soaked.

Gral, out of skeletons to fight, casts Dissonant Whispers on Valeria’s captor. It fails, but he damages it, and he uses his bonus to wooble Valeria out of the water. She takes 3 psychic damage as things get not Water Weird, but Key Weird, and she shlorps out of the water and hits the ground hard. Ow. Meanwhile, Shoshana finally manages to squirm free, dodging an AOO to go hide behind the tanks.

Gral loads up his heart-seeking crossbow bolt, hoping it’ll target a skull just as well, and nails the floating troll head for a chunk o’damage. Unfortunately, that means it’s noticed him, and he gets picked up by the big ol’ water hand. Aethis continues to twerk, thrashing the monster with its slappy tail.

Clem pulls her greatsword and strikes decisively with Great Weapon Master, severing one of the elementals from its water source, and it collapses into harmless water.

Shoshana, finally able to use ranged attacks, shoots the remaining one with a blast of cold, hoping to freeze it. And it does, icing over. Gral makes an athletics check to break out of the crumbling ice sculpture, and manages not to become art.

We stand in the dripping cavern once more. A-Luxor flits around happily, not sentient enough to notice there was a fight.

Valeria burns her new candle, and we take a short rest. The light of the holy wax candle is pleasant and it seems to keep the darkness and dread of this place away. Also, we don’t get a pile of taint, which is nice. Eventually the wick reaches its last, seeming to burn far faster than a candle should, but for a short time it was bright and cheerful in this dark, dank place. The joyful, flickering flame departs and we are once again left with the dark and the wet, the sound of rushing water and old ghosts.

We must pick a path. For lack of any differentiation, we go left. There’s a pile of skulls and bones piled up on the side of the tunnel. (Valeria grabs a troll vertebra as we pass by. It is quite old. It’s a T11 anteclinal vertebra, in dog anatomy terms. It’s the one that’s best for stabbing, apparently? We don’t have time to unpack this, Dr. Valeria’s Player.)

Shoshana rolls a nat 20. With her excellent darkvision, she sees another carving. Most of them have been in Troll – most of the party didn’t know trolls had written language, but here it is. The rest of this part of the cavern seems to be propped up by a few not-especially-sturdy wooden support pillars. We hear some scrambling coming from our left, and a pair of ghouls with axes rush out of the side tunnel.

Shoshana pokes her head out toward the noise and does a wink-and-finger-guns. One hit, one crit. Both ghouls instantly melt from acid. The DM complains because they were gonna chop down the support pillars and drop the ceiling on us in a fun puzzle fight, but NOPE LOL. You’re gonna need tougher enemies than that! (Shoshana’s player immediately knows she will regret saying that.)

With the ghouls out of the way, we take a closer look at the carving, its lower half reading in Old Valdian:

“His mother was a River-Queen and Daughter of the Wood, and her love suffused him with such life that no spear nor axe could fell him, unique among the Trolls. He feared not the touch of flame or acid, as no wound upon him could cause lasting harm. As he grew, he became the great champion and defender of the woods. For the first time, the [unintelligible] had a King.”

This seems to be a continuation of the first set of troll-runes. We want to show Dr. Kjeller, or perhaps Dr. Galvan.

Shoshana makes a Knowledge!Religion check. The Way of the Woods has a large but loose pantheon of wood spirits. The most powerful are affectionately referred to as Baba and Gramps, the grandmother and grandfather of the woods. They have many children, who are powerful wood spirits in their own right. If Urdemak’s mother was known as the River Queen and Daughter of the Wood, she would be one of the children of Baba and Gramps, which would have made Urdemak a wood troll demigod. That certainly explains the bit about not fearing flame or acid.

We listen ahead. From the rightward path we hear something scratching against stone. On the left we hear the sounds of rushing and dripping water, and wailing. This place seems, unsurprisingly, to be chock full of undead. Gral does a stealth ahead to the left path and doesn’t see much. The wailing is from a lot deeper in; whatever’s making it just has a darn good set of lungs.

Sneaking over to the right path, he sees something very interesting. There’s some sort of man-made structure! There’s carved stone pillars and smooth, rectangular construction. Huh, maybe the undead have construction tools? Also, he sees a large creature. It’s wearing a cloak.

Shame it’s spotted Gral.

He can barely see it, but he can feel the thing’s gaze upon him, sapping the life out of him. “That is NOT A FRIENDLY THING,” he hisses back to us.

The Bodak, as the DM calls it, slithers toward Gral and uses its Withering Gaze, trying to crumble him to dust. Despite a save, he still takes a hefty chunk of damage.

Shoshana aims a Fireball down the tunnel, roasting something that’s crawling out of a shadow and charring the Bodak. More skeletons and ghouls are pouring in, and the ones that avoided the blast squeeze their way out of the side tunnels and begin to funnel down toward us. Gral casts Bane upon the Bodak and two of his minions.

Clem charges ahead, keeping her footing on the slippery rocks, and cleaves a skeleton apart. Valeria throws a trident from a distance, forking another in the ribs. She holds her hand out, and glowing rose vines extend from Kyr Marius’ gauntlet to snap the trident back to her for another throw.

The Bodak steps forward, its eerie breath rattling out of its round mouth, and turns its terrible gaze on Valeria. Valeria’s holy aura defends her, and she only takes half damage.

If we want to make direct attacks against it, we must either avert our gaze (granting disadvantage) or make a Con save vs 3d10 damage. Shoshana sidesteps the decision with a Shatter spell, aided by Gral’s Bane, that destroys the second skeleton and bloodies both the ghoul and the Bodak, luckily just missing one of the support pillars. The ghoul charges Clem and misses, which is a mistake, since Valeria is right there to Sentinel it. She forks it with the trident like she’s picking up trash on the side of the road, and tosses it lifeless (un-lifeless?) into a corner. The Bodak hisses in displeasure. “Uuuuuseless…”

Gral uses Phantasmal Force to convince the thing that he is charging into melee with it, even though he’s staying well clear.

(“The Phantom of the Orc-era is theeeeere, insiiiiiide your mind…” one of the players quips.)

Clem heads on in with a Great Weapon Master attack, able to avoid its gaze as it turns to attack the illusory Gral. With a mighty swing, she takes a huge chunk out of the strange creature, tearing through its rotting robe.

Valeria risks the CON save against its horrible stare, and passes. She throws her trident twice – a nat 20 and a nat 1, natch. The trident clatters against stone as the thing dodges out of the way, and then she yanks the trident back with her glowing vines, burying it in its back and shredding its rotted flesh. She is mildly a Fire Emblem character now, so she gets to do epic crit poses. Victory!

We cautiously emerge into the chamber that’s now been vacated. Valeria can recognize the style of construction! With A-Luxor’s light, we can now see that the Bodak was scratching at a carved stone door. Wait, this is Aquilian architecture! Valeria would know that style anywhere. There’s brick, and a bit of a frieze of eagle, and the columns are carved with legionnaire motifs. It’s simple, as Aquilian style goes. A heavy stone door is set into the center of the wall. We investigate it and, of course, check it for traps.

Valeria crits her investigation and finds the mechanism to open the door. It looks like the mechanism is broken, but with a bit of fighter-and-paladin muscle we can get the door open, no problem. Valeria doesn’t read much Old High Aquilian, but there’s writing on this. Something maybe like “Place of…” something.

Is it the nuclear waste message? “This is not a place of honor?” Only time, and reckless decisions, will tell.

With a nat 20, Valeria realizes something important. The writing wasn’t part of the original design. She can tell there was some sort of latent spellwork, like a low-level Stone Shape, that was set up to supersede the carving that was originally there. Something happened to trigger the spell, and a bunch of letters engraved themselves over the stone. Valeria’s not sure, but she thinks it says something along the lines of Containment Breach.

Uh-oh.

Shoshana copies down the writing, so we can double check with Lucinius, and then we crack that bad boy open.

There are four huge coffers here, like treasure chests. One is open and empty. (Shoshana’s player gets excited, assuming this is where they got that Warden mummy! But no, the DM said coffers, not coffins.) There is a sunken hollow in the center of the room, which has only a metal grate covering the opening to the water close below. Gral can see heavy chains dangling into the flowing water; something was once chained up there, but the chains have now been broken. Hmm.

Maybe this troll king Urdemak is the Pale King, and this is where he was imprisoned?

We think about it, but we’re doubtful. The Aquilian structure postdates the construction of the rest of this place, pretty substantially. This isn’t part of the troll tomb; this is something the Aquilians placed within the tomb site centuries later.

Our investigation reveals no traps. The coffers seem like some kind of foot locker? At the end of room, there is an altar with a bird on it – an altar to Oberok, flanked by austere stone lecterns. Valeria knocks over the statue of Oberok, because Rack’s sacrifice wasn’t for nothing, dangit! (Archaeologists Hate Her!)

In the carvings on the walls, we recognize a repeated word. It’s the word Lucinius pointed out in the mummy’s tattoos, the one he told us meant “Warden.”

Lucinius would be So Mad at us for ruining an archaeological site, but he’s not our dad. We find 400 old Aquilian gold coins. Valeria can easily tell us that we COULD use them as gold, but they’re more valuable as collector item. We roll a ONE HUNDRED on the loot treasure hoard table and nearly win a Rod Of Beating The Game. Instead, we find in the next locker a set of 4 Aquilian icons, each depicting an Aarakocra version of the four lesser gods, as they were before the Deicide. Rack the Soldier (which is weird to us), Lethe the Smith (without martial accoutrements), Torme as an owl-faced bird holding a tome, and a small, insignificant crow-like figure wrapped in a cloak – surely an old version of Guile.

In the third locker, we find a book. It appears to be written primarily in High Aquilian but with a lot of diagrams. Perhaps a training manual? Most of it has translations into Old Valdian, it seems! Shosh takes a look at the text. It’s titled: Warden’s Training Manual: The Spear and the Spell.

This is a magic item. If we train with it for a week, we gain advantage on saves vs each other’s attacks. Interestingly, it’s been modified to work for non-Aarakocra and translated, which means it was yet another collaboration between the Aquilians and the people they supposedly never invaded.

Meanwhile, Shoshana rolls well and finds a surprisingly well-preserved scroll in the lectern, with high Aquilian calligraphy inscribed on it. It feels magically inert to Shoshana – this is no spell scroll. Valeria rolls poorly on an Int check and doesn’t recognize most of the words. But the bit at the end is a common phrase.

As far as we can translate, which isn’t much, we read:

“First Prisoner, Item #5

Containment Procedure: [Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet] waters blessed by local spirits [consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor] influence of the prisoner.

As per request by [unintelligible], [incididunt un labore et dolore] disruption [magna aliquia].

Description: [Ut enim ad minim veniam] First Prisoner.

Let the Vanquished be forgotten, let the Victorious reign eternal.

Glory to Oberok.”

The scroll is damaged, but it doesn’t look like intentional damage, it’s just Real Old. This is important as hell! It’s clues!

With a nat 20, Valeria realizes something about the door. Based on the way the rest of the door is weathered, in this wet cave, the Containment Breach message is comparatively very new. Within-the-last-couple-of-years new, compared to the ancient ruins. Maybe around a decade old? A little less?

That’s not too far from when the first stirrings of the Curse arose. This could have easily happened after the Curse began – or perhaps simultaneously.

We wrap up our exploration. The Aquilian structure is at a dead end, so we backtrack and begin to go down the tunnel with the wailing. We come across a third carving, though cracks and erosion have made parts of it illegible:

Man, no wonder the Pale King set up shop here.

“[unintelligible] that the Great Wyrm came. The sky filled with flame and fury; the wood burned with the Wyrm’s wrath. Urdemak led the Woods against the great Wyrm. He [unintelligible] the spear [unintelligible] aloft by a dozen giant eagles and [unintelligible] onto the Dragon’s Back.

Urdemak’s claws tore open the Dragon’s throat as it was filled with terrible flame. The fire, straight from the dragon’s heart, scorched Urdemak’s flesh from his bones. As the dragon’s death-spasms faded, the defenders of the Wood gathered around, awaiting their King’s regeneration.

But so thorough was his destruction by the dragon’s flame, bane to trolls, that he could not call the power of life to restore him, and so instead, the king’s grasping soul found only Death”.

As we move past the third carving, the sounds of rushing water echo through the dripping, dank cave. Gral��s keen ears hear something underneath that, clattering and clanking in the passage off to the left. He Mirror Images and we move ahead. Sure enough, there’s a big ol’ skeleton in plate armor waiting for us.

Valeria charges in, but as she passes by one of the piles of scattered bones, a skeletal hand snakes out and grabs her ankle. Startled, she fails to wrench her claw out, and she topples to the ground. The DM is pleased we are FINALLY next to one of the bone piles during a fight, we’ve avoided them like three times by chance. Valeria pushes to her feet and smacks the pile with a wrench, scattering the skull pile and sending the bones pinging off the rocks, but she’s lost her move on the skeletal knight. Gral throws Faerie Fire at it, but it dodges with practiced ease. No other enemies seem to be illuminated by the spell.

Clem charges the skull knight, smashing down on it with her Warhammer. It parries with its longsword and slashes down on her with a Blinding Smite of dark power.

Squeezing out of the rocks like a roiling dark mist comes a wailing, ghostly figure. The wraith drifts to Shoshana and grips her from behind. Her maximum HP is reduced by 21. That’s a LOT for a sorcerer! She chokes and pales as the life drains out of her.

Valeria decides she does not like this wraith thing that just ate her buddy, and mightily smites it, bloodying the cursed thing. Aethis twerks at a second pile of skulls that is swiping at Clem’s feet and smashes it apart, coming away with a hand clutching its tail. It derisively shakes off the weakened bones.

Gral throws a Dissonant Whispers at Ser Spooks the Skull Knight, and makes it afeared. It tries to flee, which gives Clem a chance to swing at it.

As Gral connects with the mind of the skull knight to frighten it, he gets flashes of this guy’s life the same way he sees into the Allsoul. This was originally a Paladin of the Order of the Hammer who left Valdia. There’s images of fighting pirates? Much of it is first person view of wielding a sword, smoke billowing from it as his Blinding Smite summoned Lethe’s flames. This guy’s maybe decades dead – not centuries, but not yesterday either. And the armor is clearly ceremonial rather than practical – something he might be buried in. Seems whatever’s haunting the Trollstones is recruiting from Mornheim’s catacombs.

As it tries to run past Clem, she catches it with her Warhammer, dealing it a terrible blow. She gives chase, dropping her hammer and drawing her greatsword. This thing’s armor was once a set of glorious full plate, but much of it has fallen away, and he’s not defending himself well – like he’s using a shield that isn’t there anymore. Aethis snaps its jaws shut on the Skull Knight’s leg, grappling it. It tries to drain Clem’s life force, but she shrugs off its magic. With Great Weapon Master, she brings her silvered greatsword down. The shock of the blow crumbles its cracked bones apart.

Shoshana’s claws manage to catch in the wraith’s mists, tearing holes through it. Gral runs toward the wraith with his silver dagger out, shoving Shoshana out of the way and plunging it into the wraith with the help of his Psychic Blades.

He summons the power of Blank Mask, a covert ops orc bard from the Asciension War. As he strikes through the wraith, the ghost of a hooded orc with a blank bard mask appears, grabs Gral’s dagger, and pulls the wraith’s head back to slit its throat like an assassin. The dagger clatters to the floor as both Blank Mask and the wraith fade away.

The way stands open, and there is another inscription on the wall.

“The power of Death filled him as Life had before, but, as Life begets Life, Death must spread itself, and Urdemak, now a thing of rot and decay, proceeded to lay waste to those he once protected. His great strength and will to live magnified by the cold grip of death. Eventually, the children of the Wood, the sons and daughters of the great ones, took to the field against their nephew. Many died, but eventually the thing that had been Urdemak was defeated.

The Trolls constructed a great tomb of many large stones to house the body. His mother was reduced to tears [unintelligable], and with those tears flowed her wish that none would ever suffer as she had suffered, that none would see their children returned as twisted servants of death.”

Well that certainly explains…literally everything about Mornheim.

Valeria reaches out and grants a blessing from Rack upon her friends with Aid, which our HP totals all very much appreciate.

We short rest again in the warden’s outpost, Gral singing a Song of Rest, and all take 4 taint. We return to the passage of the fourth tablet and find our way forward.

As we approach the tomb itself, we can hear a voice ahead, speaking modern Valdian. “They’ll be here any minute! Wake up, you old idiot!”

Gral can sense something up ahead, similar to how he senses the Allsoul. If the Allsoul is a rock concert, this is a kid on a triangle. But for a single soul to even be audible? That’s astounding. If that’s a single voice, that’s a voice of immense power.

“I know you’re in there! You ingrate! What, afraid you’ll make your mother sad? After everything I did for you,” a sodden-looking figure in ratty robes is shouting, waving his arms in frustration.

As we make it into the huge chamber, we can see he is dwarfed by the imposing standing stones. Massive stone sarcophagi tower in a semicircle over a burbling, whirling spring. To the side, an enormous rock landslide partially buries the skeleton of a mighty dragon.

Every inch of this cave wall has been carved with Troll words, depictions of life and deeds of Urdemak. Given that the centerpiece is a pretty epic mural of Urdemak fighting the Great Wyrm, we can guess where the dead dragon came from.

One of the sarcophagi has been broken open, and someone has placed an enormous troll skull, massive even for a troll, on top of it, turning the tomb into a huge stone altar. A small, human-sized silver crown is placed upon its head; we recognize the same style of crown from the Pale King tapestry we looted from the castle.

Somebody’s turned this place into an altar of the Pale King. Possibly that little dude over there.

Valeria would like to object to that, preferably with violence. Gral would like to alter that altar.

The skull must be Urdemak, first and last king of the trolls. The crown, though – perhaps it was the thing that was being held in the Aquilian chamber?

The little man still hasn’t stopped complaining. “Wake. Up!” He throws a rock at the skull and misses. “Useless ingrate!”

As we approach, armor clanking, the figure turns around and groans. “Oh. You again.”

I’m sorry, have we met?

Shoshana sarcastically waves hello. Gral rolls insight. It’s not trying to hide who it is. Gral’s not sure whose skin it’s wearing, but it’s that frickin’ dybbuk again.

“What are you trying to do here?” it complains. “I put a lot of work into this place!”

Shoshana stops waving and flips him off.

The dybbuk raises his voice, in that spooky cadence necromancers use for sounding dramatic. “Urdemak!” it intones. “These interlopers have violated your tomb! If you would, rise up and destroy them!”

The skull does not move.

We roll for initiative anyway.

The dybbuk moves first. “Fine. You won’t kill them yourself? I can still make use of you!” It begins to chant, mumbling quickly with pronunciation that sounds archaic even for Old Valdian. Something about “Guardian of the River Morn, servant of my-“ It switches language, but clearly it’s summoning something. The dybbuk deftly steps back onto the altar and gestures as the waters begins to writhe and roil and spin, rising to engulf the massive skull and claws from atop the altar.

Now if you’ll excuse the DM, he needs to add one more thing to the initiative order. This thing, he calls…the Pale Spring.

As this thing’s health bar grows across the top of the screen, we recognize it looks similar to the Water Weirds on a far larger scale. More human and troll bones rise from the pool into its swirling mass, but Urdemak’s mighty skull and claws form the cornerstones of its shape.

If we’re coming here to put a sword in the water, the DM figured the water should have a chance to object first.

Gral slaps Clem with an inspiration and makes a joke in Orcish along the lines of “who pooped in the pool?” Shosh rolls her eyes, but it fails its save. Let us be clear: you, sir, are stank water.

The Spring raises itself up and the chamber begins to flood. Its claws seem to be wreathed with some kind of horrible necrotic energy. We all manage to keep our feet against the huge wave it throws at us, except for Aethis, who was swimming instead of standing. The gator is dashed against the rocks and bursts into a cloud of sparkles, gone until Valeria can resummon it.

Valeria, outraged, charges forward and hurls a trident, her gauntlet allowing her to whip it back a second time. She also casts Shield of Faith on Shoshana. Shoshana, who is aggressive but no fool, casts Mirror Image on herself and tries to hide behind a rock.

Clem tries to slog through the deep water, rolling good Athletics to avoid it being difficult terrain, and whiffs both her attacks, sword slicing harmlessly through the water – until Gral’s bardic inspiration kicks in. The bones seem to flow into place to form armor to block her swings, but she manages to crack some femurs.

It uses its legendary action to crit Clem. It’s facing the other way, but the troll claw flows through its center as a new watery arm grows out and rockets into the drow.

The dybbuk leans casually against the empty sarcophagus. “Y’know, if you would have shown some gratitude and killed them, this could all have been avoided!” It wiggles its hands and some skeletons crawl out of the cracks in the rocks and form out of the mounds of bones. “You! Throw things at them!” it commands them.

It spares a glance toward the dragon skeleton. “No. Don’t even think about it. We’re not there yet. I know better than to trust YOU.”

The Pale Spring’s claws surge with energy, giving it an extra d10 on attacks. Both Clem and Valeria get slammed as the bones hurtle toward them on powerful jets of water.

Valeria gets up in the Spring’s face and smites it. After all, it’s both undead and an elemental. As Valeria raises her sword She-Ra style, vines grow around it and down into the water. s she strikes into the mass of water, The bones try again to form armor but the glowing rose vines grow through the cracks, wrapping around the bones and crushing them to powder. It roars with anger, and for the first time, the dybbuk looks genuinely concerned.

Gral rolls perception at the DM’s request. That note he heard before, he hears it clearer and louder now. From the skull, from the claws, echoing from the unbroken stone sarcophagi. Gral has talked to powerful ancient spirits before; he gets the unmistakable vibe that Urdemak is deeply enraged. But there’s no animosity toward us; he’s angry at the way this dybbuk has disturbed his rest and dared to use him.

Shoshana squeaks an “I’m sorry, Clem” and casts a fireball toward the melee. The chamber lights up with flames and rattles with a mighty KABOOM. The dybbuk is pretty scorched and any mook skeletons in the way are gone to ash, but Clem manages to dodge the worst of it. Steam rises off the Pale Spring as it turns to retaliate, the frigid water coming to life and sucking Shoshana under. The bony fingers of the Pale King wrap around her and in her terror she falters – and lets the Pale King gift her 10hp in return for 2 taint.

Clem rushes at the Dybbuk, intent on destroying the one who turned the Red Hand into a death cult, but the Spring strikes at her as she runs, knocking her unconscious. She takes 3 taint as she falls toward death, into the Pale King’s domain.

Gral’s nearly out of spells, but he throws a Healing Word at Clem. He channels an Orcish drill sergeant yelling “DID I SAY IT WAS NAPTIME, SOLDIER? GET UP, SOLDIER, YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO BLEEEED.” Then he draws his sickle and goes in! His Psychic Blades barely scratch it, rolling low.

The Pale Spring readies its claws, charging them up again to strike with extra damage. Clem dodges, narrowly avoiding another killing blow, but it manages to slam Valeria hard against the rocks.

The dybbuk orders the remaining skeleton to throw something at us. Its aim is not great. A clavicle just sort of clatters toward us awkwardly.

Shoshana leans back and lets raw electricity course out of both of her hands, blasting her usual twinned Chromatic Orb at a much higher level. The dybbuk is booted completely out of its flesh suit. We see the familiar floating skull in the bell of the jellyfish as the body it was wearing falls apart. The Pale Spring takes a heavy hit too, the electricity surging through it in a brilliant crackle, steam rising. It retaliates, trying to drag Shoshana down into the undertow, but she hangs onto a sturdy rock and keeps her feet under her.

Clem pushes herself to her feet, Second Winds, and buries her sword into the currents. It’s got more bone fragments than bones inside now, and she manages to take a chunk out of one of the huge troll claws. It swipes back, but feebly, for minor damage – which allows Valeria to strike in with a Sentinel.

The dybbuk’s lost its body and the Pale Spring’s nearly down; it’s not gonna stick around. It woobles away down through the cave floor, eluding us once again.

Gral throws the last of his inspirations into a Psychic Blades. A ghostly circle of orc heroes raise their lances and plunge them into the water, all at once. The elemental lashes out, flailing as the circle of orcs presses inwards, its claws passing through the specters even as they crush its bones. It falls, reduced to simple water, back into the spring, and the two troll claws wash back down into the central pit.

The waters recede and we are left standing in the tomb of Urdemak the Troll King. Wait, no, there’s still a skeleton mook there. We give it a sternly worded Go Away.

Valeria runs over to Clem, patting at her for 15hp and healing herself 15hp as well. We managed to turn around fast enough to avoid one of the fight mechanics. If the dybbuk got desperate, it would have awoken the dragon. It hesitated when Clem went down, and then Shosh nuked it.

We all take a deep breath. Clem’s a bit miffed that she didn’t get to beat the crap out of the dybbuk for possessing her old friend, but such is life.

We set to moving the piles of bones out of the water. Shoshana uses her Mage Hand to remove the crown from Urdemak’s skull, since nobody wants to touch that thing. The skull is suffused with necromantic energy. To Valeria’s Detect Magic, the crown is lighting up like a bonfire. Gral’s getting vibes from the skull, though – it’s feeling a lot more chill with the dybbuk driven off.

It takes some elbow grease and ingenuity to place the enormous skull and claws back into the open stone sarcophagi and close them again.

We roll against Taint for exposing ourselves to the necromantic energy of the fight. Everyone succeeds.

Hey, what do we do with this evil crown?

We talk it out. Judging by what we’ve seen down here, it sounds like the River Mother’s blessing on this tomb and these waters was what was stopping all undead from rising in Mornheim. The Aquilian containment zone worked by submerging the evil undeath crown in the blessed waters.

It looks like the dybbuk, or another agent of the Pale King, managed to remove that blessing and turn the tomb into an altar of undeath. Valeria’s ritual will slow down the undead and stop the Curse from poisoning the city through the water, but it won’t restore the blessing of the River Mother. Submerging the crown, at this point, would just start tainting the water again. We decide to put it in a foot locker in the Aquilian structure; at least it’ll be contained.

While we worry about the crown, Valeria begins her ritual. Shoshana has coached her on the pronunciation of the Old Valdian incantation. There is a section that’s invocation of the Power; written to reach out to Grandmother and Grandfather but Valeria switches to Draco-Aquilian to invoke her patron Rack.

She raises the sword we prepared, anointed with the druidic poultice made of the plants we gathered in Bad Herzfeld, the vine of the moon lily wrapped around the sword like a chain of Rack. As she reads the words aloud and drains power from the scroll into the sword, the writing on the scroll melts away.

Standing on the altar where the skull used to be placed, Valeria strikes the sword down, sheathing it into the water. It stays upright as it leaves her hands. The moon lily’s vine grows upwards, blooming into a massive flower above the water, its roots extending deep down into the spring.

The sickly, murky look fades from the waters and they once again run clear. The purified water begins to flow down through in rivulets through the tomb of Urdemak and down into the River Morn.

Valeria has Achieved Her Quest! +1 Inspiration!

We take some time to admire our work and clear the Pale King’s trappings out of Urdemak’s tomb, but soon it’s time to leave. As we turn to go, Shoshana places her hand on the stone sarcophagus holding Urdemak’s mighty claws, and pauses as she feels a wave of overwhelming power.

It feels like gratitude.

As she blinks stars out of her eyes, Shoshana sees her hand atop the king’s tomb, overlaid by the ghostly shape of a troll’s heavy, sharp claws. She blinks again and the image is gone, along with the strange sensation, but as she flexes her claws she feels like something has changed.

(Shoshana has received a boon: Claws of the Troll King! Grants an extra d4 of damage to the Primal Savagery cantrip, with an additional d6 of damage for each sorcery point spent, up to 3d6. Each additional die also heals the caster that many hit points. Requires attunement.)

We climb our weary way out of the caves. Luckily, it seems we’d already cleared the area of nasties, or they’re avoiding the newly blessed waters, and we’re mostly undisturbed on the way out. We are drained, exhausted, and of course absolutely soaking wet.

As we hike back to town, we see the clear waters flowing through the still blighted land of Mornheim. Maybe it’s our imagination, but the area around the river seems just a little less Tim Burtony. It’s been several hours; the sun is almost down as we hurriedly drag ourselves to the safety of the walls. Near the city, we see a ragged group emerging from one of the catacomb entrances. It’s Lady Aubrey and her crew; they look quite scorched except for Mercedes. We, on the other hand, look quite damp.

Aubrey squints at us. “You’re back? The fuck’ve you been up to?” She hasn’t been home to find out we showed up.

Valeria chirps, “We Purified the Water!” You can almost hear the capital letters. Shoshana just points at Valeria and nods. “What she said.”

Gral, thankfully, is a master storyteller and actually gives Aubrey the deets as we schlep back to town.

“…And you found this scroll in my house?” she asks, once he’s done. We nod and hand over the scroll. The spell incantation has melted away, but the instructions on spell components still remain. Aubrey’s obviously taken aback by what she sees. “…this is my mom’s handwriting. I don’t…you’re gonna have to tell me everything. We should get inside the walls.”

She composes herself, back to business for now. “So did it work?”

Valeria nods. “Yup. We weren’t able to restore the blessing, but the water won’t be making everyone sick anymore.”

“Wait, wait, the water was blessed?”

Shoshana nods. “Yep, uh, the Trollstones is this big troll grave, and there was a blessing from a Child of the Woods to prevent her son from rising as undead, and the Curse seems to have broken it-“

“Why does it feel like you learned more about my home in a day than I’ve known in my entire life?!”

“Uh, we went…real deep. And fought monsters about it.”

“Yeah, I’ve gone real deep! I’ve fought monsters! You know what I found out? I found out there’s SUPERGHOULS.”

When we get to the walls, the old troll gardener, Skulbjor, is guarding the gate. “Oh! It’s dem! Hey, where’s your chomper?” he asks, looking around for poor exploded Aethis.

“…Don’t worry, they’ll be back!”

“Oh good, dat’s a good chomper. How was your hunt, Lady Aubrey?”

“Well the thing is dead. Again.”

As we drag ourselves inside, Gral approaches the old troll. “Skulbjor, how familiar are you with the legends of this place?”

“Well, I grew up here,” he says. “I’m older than most anybody what lives here.”

“Have you ever heard the name Urdemak?”

Skulbjor considers for a minute, his face scrunched up in concentration. “No, I don’t know dat one. Where’s he buried?”

“The Trollstones were his tomb. He was a great troll king, whose power was perverted by the undead in this place. His spirit was angry, but I think we were able to put it at peace.”

The troll considers this quite seriously. Finally, he nods. “Dat’s good to hear. One thing the previous troll told me is dat it is a very old troll tradition that there must always be a troll in Mornheim, and to never ever mess with the Trollstones. Lady Rosalind went there a lot. She went there the day she got sick, even. I found her there, yanno. Brought her back to the castle myself, but she never woke up.”

Man, do we have a story for him later.

While walking, Valeria takes moment and thanks Shoshana for helping with the translation and pronunciation of the spell, and helping save the town. There’s hugs. 😊

The two adventuring parties stumble into the gates of Mornheim as the sun sets, sharing stories. Skulbjor looks out over the hills for a long moment before closing the gate. “Urdemok. Wow, das interesting.”

Valeria and Gral roll CON saves against the Pale King’s taint. Clem and Shoshana, meanwhile, have gained enough taint to receive an Offer.

#the cursewood #mornheim #valeria argent #clem haxan #gral omokk'duu #shoshana bat chaya #aubrey von mornheim #skelbjor #The Pale King #Session recap

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whipplefilter · 7 years

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Let's say Cruz goes to a party (gets drunk and everything) unbeknownst to Lightning. She comes back and he finds her at the entrance of the town, looking very exhausted. She even vomits in front of him. What does he do? Does he yell? Does he panic? What happens?

Oh man, this was a tough one, because in my mind, Cruz is a very Good Girl™! But it was interesting to think through the circumstances and how they might fall out. Thanks for the brain-teaser, anon! And since this is kinda long, there’s also a Fanfiction.Net version available for ease of reading!

fic: Flowers in the Desert

Lightning’s yelled at Cruz before. He’s championed her; he’s consoled her. But this is the first time he’s ever lied to her.

–

It was a music festival. One of those desert affairs she’d heard so much about but never attended. She’d liked the idea of them–blazing sun glinting off of everyone, music everywhere, all the time, of all sorts. Apparently it happened every year, though Lightning hadn’t seemed to know much about it. (Cruz is beginning to suspect that outside of racing, Lightning’s life is deeply boring. But he seems to enjoy it well enough.)

Fillmore had had a bit more intel–in that he’s familiar with both deserts and music–but his grasp of the music scene dwindles where anything past 1973 is concerned. He’d only told her that if she likes music, she should totally go, man. Nothing beats music against red rock, resonating in the canyons, murmuring low when the sun goes down.

And so Cruz had gone.

And so here Cruz is. She makes it to the edge of town, because when all other options are desert, Radiator Springs is not hard to find. But the edges of the buildings pulse in and out like crayon sketches and the road doesn’t feel right beneath her and suddenly, she is very afraid that she is going to hurt something. One of the buildings, a statue–or, Heaven forbid, scrape the lime-white plaster of the Doc Hudson museum facade. Or maybe it’d be worse, and she’d hurt a car. What if she hurts someone?

What if?

Cruz pulls to the side of the road, sits in a sizable tumbleweed, and cries.

She must doze off, because immediately, the sun is up and Lightning’s in her face. When she squeaks, gives her engine a startled rev, Lightning must decide that she’s okay, because he backs up.

He asks three questions in rapid succession. “I thought Fillmore said you were gonna camp out for the night? What’s wrong? Did you get lost?”

Why he’d think she could get so lost she wouldn’t know Radiator Springs from a mile away, she’s not sure, but it sounds better than the reality. Now that she’s awake, last night’s alcohol is quickly becoming this morning’s hangover, and the reality feels horrible.

It’s not the nausea caught in her throat, though that’s there too.

She’d messed up. What had been fun now felt stupid, she’d lost control, she hadn’t been careful enough. She’s responsible–she is. But she hadn’t been, and she’d driven here drunk, and it all just felt so. Stupid. It was all just stupid and reckless and stupid and childish. She hadn’t been the kind of girl she knows she is. She wants to cry again.

“I just wanted to come back,” she says. It doesn’t clarify much, but at least it’s not a lie.

Lightning eyes her quizzically. “Are you okay?” he asks. But before she can answer–before she has to lie–he says, “Never mind. Maybe you should head back to town and get some real sleep.”

She must look awful, but maybe she just looks like she spent the night in a tumbleweed. Maybe he can’t tell what he’s looking at. Cruz isn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. She doesn’t want to disappoint him; but she knows that if he doesn’t know already, she can’t keep this secret. She’d rather he just know without her having to confess.

She looks down at her tires, and her gaze flicks to Lightning’s. Dirt track tires. He must’ve been headed out to the butte then.

“Can I go with you?” Cruz asks. Her voice sounds small. In her mind, the track beckons: It is retribution. It’s forgiveness. She can shed the night and all will be well.

“You don’t need to ask, you know,” Lightning points out. “Willy’s Butte doesn’t have a waiting list.”

He smiles, but a question lingers underneath it. A minor interrogation.

Still, he lets her follow, because it is dawn and it’s summer and it’s going to be a hot one. Because this is his time on his track and even in her cotton-headed hangover haze, Cruz watches him get visibly antsy about getting out there right now, right this moment, no more detours. If Lightning doesn’t get his track time, he loses his mind, and truth be told, it’s all he’s thinking about right now. Any of Cruz’s potential transgressions fall to the wayside in the face of it.

At least until they pick up speed.

Cruz initially figures a few laps will be a great way to wipe the slate clean and feel a little more alive–because what isn’t cured by vigorous exercise? But for all it clears her brain it doesn’t do the same for her pipes.

She spins out, and is violently ill down the dusty side of the canyon.

And Lightning, well. Of course he sees, and now of course he knows. The worst part is, he doesn’t seem terribly surprised.

Had he known, then? This entire time, had he known?

He advises her to let it all out. She’ll feel better faster if she doesn’t fight it. He strokes one of her front tires with her own, and part of Cruz wants to lean into this, wants to let Lightning offer some kind of absolution and tell her she doesn’t need to feel bad about what happened last night, and make it so it’s like it never happened.

Part of her just feels worse, because she knows she doesn’t deserve it. She holds herself to higher standards than that.

“I didn’t think–” she starts, hiccuping. Her mouth tastes like dirty oil. “I didn’t think that–”

That, what? That she’d get that drunk? That’s just an excuse.

“I didn’t think,” she says, and stops. It’s the only real way that sentence should go. “Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” says Lightning. And it’s true. He’s not yelling. Lightning, incensed, has a tendency to rant. But he stops rubbing her tire, and doesn’t say much more.

“Maybe you should go back to town now,” he suggests.

“I’m sorry,” Cruz blurts out.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I mean, not to me, anyway,” he says. “Look, it’s fine, Cruz.”

It occurs to Cruz that he’s lying to her. (Lying for her?) She knows it’s not fine, and surely he does, too.

He takes her home.

–

He’s avoiding her. At first Lightning’s his ordinary kind of scarce and Cruz is asleep, then he’s busy on the Cozy Cone phones. But the whole town tends to get quiet around siesta time and even then, he doesn’t come looking for her.

“But he was sittin’ right there with all of us at Flo’s. Didn’t you notice him? Though between you and me, that blue’s harder to pick out in a field than the red so maybe–”

“I know he was there, Mater,” Cruz revises. “But you know how sometimes he’s talking with you but he’s not really talking with you?”

Mater blinks at her.

“He looks at me different,” Cruz confesses. He does; she can tell. It hurts to admit it because the admission makes it real. In Cruz’s worst nightmares, which she’s been playing and replaying for herself all day, this is what changes everything. One night of stupid, stupid mistakes and Lightning McQueen never looks at her the same way again.

Mater blinks at her again. “Maybe he just looks different on account of the blue–” he starts.

“Mater, I said he looks at me different! I messed up! And now when Mr. McQueen looks at me–”

“I heard you, I heard you!” he says. “I’m just saying maybe his face looks different on account of the blue. He’s gotta be your crew chief now, ain’t he?”

Cruz furrows her brow. “Yeah, but–”

“But shoot, I wouldn’t worry to much about it,” Mater assures her. “If you think the worst he’s seen out here is a little hullabaloo leaking out from the desert, you ain’t been here long enough!”

Mater sinks lazily into his suspension. “Plus ‘ol Doc always said Lightning was the worst thing to ever happen to this town. Right up ‘til the day he died he was saying that! Lightning ain’t mad. You just got a little Radiator Springs on you now, like the rest of us!”

Mater gives her a cheerful jounce, and her headache knocks back to her temples. The spots where her mirrors used to be itch.

–

Ramone just laughs at her. “Look, I never get mixed up in this kinda stuff. I run a body shop, and I’m not tryna moonlight as a gossip mill, you know?”

“I mean, I know he’s not mad,” Cruz continues, ignoring Ramone’s gentle objection. “I’m just not sure what he is. I just–”

They can hear the roar of Lightning’s engine from here, echoing off the Butte in the still calm quiet of the desert.

“Ramone. He went without me.” Cruz’s tongue feels thick.

Ramone just shrugs. “So go catch him! The road ain’t closed.”

“But–” She’s already interrupted his day once.

“Look,” Ramone sighs. “I’ve gotta do some designwork for that Weathers kid today, so–”

“Cal?”

“Fancy planter boxes. He says they’re for a friend. Anyway, you can’t keep skulking around here afraid of Lightning. You’ll get lonely, girl! No one’s afraid of Lightning.”

What he means is, stop being pathetic. She knows that’s what it looks like. Sitting around, moping. Not confronting her tangle head-on. She’s probably given all the advice she’s been getting a hundred times–a thousand. But when she closes her eyes she’s swerving down a desert road and throwing up on a tumbleweed. She feels so dirty.

“Are you Catholic?” Ramone asks.

“I’m sorry, what?” It’s so out of the blue. No one’s ever asked her that before. Except her one aunt, but that’s just what she says when she’s disappointed in you. Are you Catholic, or dead to her?

“Are you Catholic?” Ramone repeats, and says, “'Cause maybe think like, propongo firmemente nunca más pecar–you know, that sort of thing. But hey, you didn’t hear it from me.”

–

Lightning sees her. He’s wandering around the track more than he’s racing it, but when she pops over the horizon he picks up the pace, slides around a few more times with real speed, then drops off to nothing, letting the dust settle. Cruz feels it pepper her cheeks.

“Hey!” he calls out to her. “How was the music thingy? Did you have fun?”

“It was ‘fine,’” says Cruz, as she dips down into the canyon and joins him on the track.“But you love music,” says Lightning.

Cruz doesn’t join the charade. “Mr. McQueen, pretending this morning didn’t happen isn’t going to help anyone.”

Lightning’s cheerful, if somewhat empty, expression falls. “I didn’t want you to feel bad,” he says.

“Well, I feel terrible!”

Lightning grimaces. “It’s okay, Cruz, I–”

“But it’s not, though,” Cruz interrupts. “It was stupid. I was stupid. If I’d been in the city, or on an Interstate, driving like that I could’ve– I mean, if someone else had been out on the road, I could’ve– I didn’t even have my headlights on, I could’ve–”

“I know!” Lightning shouts. Then, quietly: “But what am I supposed to say to that? What am I supposed to do?”

Cruz doesn’t know. She just wants Lightning to know.

“I’ve never been in charge of anyone but myself before,” admits Lightning. “I don’t know how to do this. I guess… I feel responsible that like–”

“But this was my mistake, not yours.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have had to–”

“I’ve been trying all day to figure out where I stand with you. You kept looking at me like–”

“That’s what I came out here to figure out! 'Cause I don’t know how I’m supposed to react, okay? Am I your friend? 'Cause Cal’s gotten drunk and ended up on top of Willy’s Butte before, so it’s hard to judge– And Bobby– Or am I supposed to feel like your crew chief? Am I supposed to suspend you? Is that even my call? This isn’t the Cup. Or your mentor–”

“Friend,” Cruz cuts in. “That’s the part that’s most important to me. Mr. McQueen, you never have to be responsible for me again, but I want us to always be–”

“Whoa, wait. You can’t get rid of me that easily! I’m gonna show up and coach you whether you want me to or not.” he teases, fake-angry. But Cruz doesn’t want fake-angry.

“Then be mad at me! Yell at me!”

“You don’t need me for that,” says Lightning, the levity gone from his voice. “I know you, Cruz.”

“A DUI is a crime.”

“Yeah, and if I were Sheriff, maybe this’d be a different conversation. But that’s not my job. And I guess–” Lightning looks past her, towards the red sky as the sun drops beneath the sand. “It’s not my job to make things go away, or try and–I dunno, protect you when I can’t. Or shouldn’t. It’s my job to let you be responsible to yourself.”

“But I– I–” says Cruz. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Does that sound good?” Lighting asks.Cruz rocks back and forth, deliberating. “Eh, delivery was so-so. I feel like it could be catchier, you know?”

“Oh, come on–”

“But it feels good.” It feels clear. Open. Absolute.

It feels honest.

#cruz ramirez #lightning mcqueen #mater #ramone #cars fanfiction #pixar cars #cars fandom #longpost #whipple words #sidebar: imagine cal spontaneously commissioning Ramone's designs for random eveveryday objects he then gifts to all his friends #cw: alcohol

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mrninjapineapple · 7 years

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Fallout 4 Word Prompts - Toddy Leviathan Saloon Juniper

Here’s another 4 word prompt I did a while back. It’s a bit longer than the last one but I hope you all enjoy! :)

The Last Plank was full to bursting, every chair and table packed with people, all craning their necks to get a good look at Marcus and the Mariner. They were sat at the bar, blankets around both of their shoulders as their teeth chattered noisily in the silence.

Mitch placed two glasses of brown liquid on the counter before them, a thick layer of purple skim floating atop both.

Despite his obvious need for warmth, caution tempered Marcus’ reply as he picked up the strange brew and gave a cursory sniff.

‘What’s in this?’ he asked.

‘That’s an old family recipe,’ said Mitch proudly, nodding at the viscous liquid. ‘Whiskey, hot water, and tarberry syrup, all garnished with a couple mutfruit slices.’

The noxious potion bubbled in response.

‘Well,’ Marcus thought to himself as he eyed the glass. ‘It sounds almost like a hot toddy. Just with dirty water, weird irradiated fruit, and no honey…’

He mentally prayed to every God he knew – even mentioning Atom for good measure – before downing the entire concoction in one big gulp. His eyes began streaming as he felt the fire make its way down, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed hot shards of glass.

‘Smooth’ he managed, whispering hoarsely through gritted teeth.

As the feeling subsided, he became aware of the eyes upon him and turned to the Mariner.

‘I suppose you all want to know how it happened, then?’ he asked the room, sending a murmur through the gathered crowd. ‘How we killed the Red Death…’

Looking deep into his glass, he heard the chattering from the Harborfolk around him.

‘What happened?’

‘What was it?’

‘How big was it?’

As he sighed, about to begin his tale, the Mariner put her hand on his. She imperceptibly shook her head; a slight motion which only he saw.

‘I’ll tell you all what happened,’ she said, her expression grim. ‘What really happened…’

All eyes turned to her as the voices grew silent, the creaking wood and sloshing waves loud against the quiet.

‘We took the boat out slowly,’ she began, her tone as morose as her expression. ‘Avoiding the rocks and sunken ships, we came upon the island and saw the red light. When we finally moored the ship and got onto the island though-‘

‘We had no idea what we would actually be facing!’ Marcus interrupted, rising from his seat, all eyes shifting to him. ‘It crawled out of its cave with a great howl of rage, shaking the whole island! We saw its legs first, then its body, and finally the giant head of the great leviathan wormed its way from its burrow and we realised we were staring up at… the Red Death!’

The Mariner rolled her eyes at the melodramatic performance, but Marcus had the crowd enthralled with his story.

Continuing, he told them how the stalwart pair fended off the beast, at one point the Mariner holding it off with nothing but a broken oar whilst he danced and waved to get the creatures attention. His tale grew wilder as he went on, from utilising junk as weapons to a horde of super mutant pirates entering the fray, much to the crowd’s constant amusement.

They also played their part to perfection, their gasps and yelps punctuating the fantastic tale at just the right moments.

Marcus finished with the final breath of life of the Red Death, as it flailed wildly, broken oar handles piercing its hide and riddled with enough bullet holes to make a super mutant look away in disgust. His audience jumped to their feet, cheering triumphantly as they knocked their glasses together, laughing at their vicarious victory.

The Mariner turned to him as the crowd shouted and applauded, her narrow eyes contradicting her small grin.

‘What can I say?’ Marcus shrugged. ‘The people wanted a real story.’

‘Real?’ the Mariner laughed. ‘Like how I “fought valiantly against the foul creature, using only my wits and a rubber duck taped to the end of an oar to stay alive”?’

They both shared a real drink, laughing together as the crowd died down and dispersed.

After a few moments, they noticed that someone was behind them and turned to see that Small Bertha had joined them, hands on her hips as she gave Marcus an incredulous look.

‘Did any of that story actually happen?’ she asked, a little too loud for Marcus’ liking as a few other patrons glanced over to listen in.

He drew in close.

‘Look, Bertha, I’m going to level with you,’ he said quietly, the general bar chatter ensuring his privacy regardless. ‘We told everyone what they wanted to hear… what they needed to hear. You understand that, right?’

She eyed him for a moment before replying.

‘Of course I understand,’ she answered, nodding slowly as if realising a great truth. ‘Got any more stories?’

‘More stories?’ he said, sitting back on his stool. ‘Everything has a story to it, you just have to ask the right questions. What do you want to know?’

Her eyes went straight to the western revolver on his hip and he knew that she had approached only to learn more about it.

‘This?’ he asked, unholstering the weapon and twirling it around his finger expertly, revelling in Bertha’s awed expression.

‘Oh brother…’

The Mariner seemed less impressed.

Marcus asked the girl if she wanted to hear about how he got the revolver and chuckled at her energetic nodding as she took a stool beside him.

‘Well, it all started in Dry Rock Gulch, far away from here, in a place called Nuka-World…’

Marcus sipped the ice-cold bottle of refreshing Nuka Cola Wild as he sat in Doc Phospate’s Saloon. He raised an eyebrow at the familiar taste of the brew as it reminded him of Sunset Sarsaparilla, a popular beverage from his pre-war days, nodding in appreciation of the spicy aftertaste.

As he enjoyed a pleasant conversation with Mackenzie Bridgeman, the saloon doors swung open, the wooden clattering alerting the patrons as they all turned to face the newcomer.

Deputy Codsworth hovered in, a gun-belt tied clumsily above his thruster and a cowboy hat atop his head. A small star-shaped badge had been welded onto his front and he seemed to hold himself with more pride than usual.

‘Good aftern- I mean, howdy, sir!’ he said, his western accent quickly becoming one of the few wonders of the post-war world. ‘I’ve been runnin’ for a mighty long time to find you. Word is, there’s a no-good, yella belly just waiting to test your skill out by the ol’ livery.’

‘Buddy… I think you’ve short-circuited’ said Marcus blankly, prompting a laugh from Mackenzie.

The Mr Handy unit hovered closer and lowered himself until his eyestalk was at the same level as Marcus’ face.

‘Sir,’ he whispered. ‘That’s just my Southern accent. It’s really me… Codsworth! Sorry for the deception but I believe I’m rather taken with this whole dramatic persuasion. It’s really rather fun!’

Marcus sighed.

‘I know tha-’ he began, before pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

‘Well,’ Codsworth replied, tipping his hat and speaking at a normal volume once again. ‘Some outlaw callin’ himself One-Eyed Ike has challenged you to a duel… sir.’

‘My my, Overboss,’ chimed Mackenzie from the stool beside him. ‘Looks like its pistols at dawn.’

Marcus sighed again.

‘Fine, let’s get this over with…’

They left the saloon, two on foot, one hovering in mid-air, and headed down the dusty road. As they reached the middle, a protectron slowly began to saunter out of a large wooden building to meet them.

‘There he is,’ said Codsworth, his Southern drawl still going strong. ‘Ol’ One-Eyed Ike himself! No good, yella belly varmint!’

The protectron walked into the middle of the street as they stopped, eyeing him with suspicion.

‘Howdy partner… took your time… heh heh heh,’ droned One-Eyed Ike, his mechanical voice grating. ‘You ready to… test your shootin’ skills?’

‘Sure, but can we hurry this along, I really-‘

Codsworth turned to Marcus.

‘Sir, you must indulge in the drama. I fear One-Eyed Ike will never become a deputy again at this rate,’ he said, his eyestalk zooming in on Marcus’ confused expression. ‘Allow me to explain. Sheriff Hawk felt that Dry Rock Gulch could use some drama to drum up business again, and had a cracking idea. He conferred Ike’s deputy status to me and made him an outlaw, only offering him his former position if he is able to defeat a genuine gunslinger in a duel.’

‘…And he chose me?’ Marcus said, sighing for the third and, he hoped, final time that day. He cleared his throat and remembered the time he had pretended to be the Silver Shroud, fighting crime across the Commonwealth with his sidekick, the intrepid reporter from the Great Green Jewel.

She always hated being called a sidekick.

He felt a pang of worry as he thought of her venturing around with Nick and Curie, chasing another story, but he cleared his mind and focused on the ridiculous task at hand.

‘One-Eyed Ike, I presume? They call me Mar- I mean… Butch… Butch Cassidy, and this here’s the Sundance Kid,’ he said, pointing his thumb at Codsworth. ‘Heard you been lookin’ for me?’

‘I see that iron on your hip… Butch… We draw on three… May the better man win.’

‘Oh… I intend to.’

Mackenzie and Codsworth moved to the side of the street as bystanders followed suit, everyone peering from windows and doorways, eagerly anticipating the action.

‘Knock ‘em dead, Butch’ shouted Codsworth before slipping back into the shadows beside Mackenzie.

The street grew silent.

The wind whistled through the dusty street, sending a tumbleweed rolling towards the saloon. From his position at the side of the road, Codsworth began playing a sampling of music from the Dry Rock Gulch archives, which Marcus recognised from pre-war radio spaghetti westerns.

The music continued as the pair eyed each other, Marcus’ steely gaze meeting the focused camera lens of One-Eyed Ike. As the song began to swell, Marcus unbuckled the holster to his 10mm pistol and time seemed to slow.

He watched as One-Eyed Ike drew his own revolver, as he raised his own weapon. He had the pistol aimed at Ike’s chest… but the handle slipped slightly from his grip.

As he fumbled with his pistol, he heard a shot and felt the blank round strike his shoulder.

‘Looks like I won… partner… Too bad… Now, I gotta go see the Sheriff… See you around… Butch.’

With that, One-Eyed Ike trundled away and the bystanders began to return to their normal activity. Codsworth and Mackenzie sidled up to Marcus.

‘Bad luck Butch, we’ll get that varmint some other time’ said Codsworth, before hovering close. ‘Sir, don’t forget… It’s only me, Codsworth. I’m not really the Sundance Kid.’

Mackenzie chuckled and Marcus holstered his pistol, the trio retreating into the saloon. As they entered, Deacon approached, holding out a bottle to Marcus.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I saw what you did for Ike out there. I’ve seen you take out everything from radroaches to behemoths and you’ve never messed up a shot.’

Marcus took the bottle with a shrug, feigning ignorance. In reality, he was thankful that nobody realised that his pistol had jammed. He made a mental note to repair the battered weapon as soon as he was able.

‘Fine,’ Deacon continued, grinning. ‘But you should know by now, nobody can’t get anything past me.’

‘Really?’ asked Mackenzie, a smile growing on her face. ‘Not even me?’

Deacon’s cheeks grew hot, a crimson stain spreading across.

‘Well… obviously I… y’know…’

As Deacon floundered, Marcus examined the cold bottle of glowing, deep purple liquid. It had no markings or label but had a strangely familiar aroma as he drew it up to his nose to smell.

‘What is this?’ he asked, interrupting the awkward exchange between the couple.

‘Oh, right,’ said Deacon, thankful for the intervention. ‘That is a genuine bottle of Nuka-Gin. Only one of its kind. Apparently, Bradberton was some kind of genius with these things. Made a ton of products that never made it to the shelves.’

‘Hey Butch, I think that-’ Codsworth faltered at a stern look from Marcus. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s becoming something of a habit. I shall purge my addiction chip later. What I was trying to tell you was that Miss Sierra would want to have a look at that, I’d wager.’

Marcus eyed the Nuka-Gin, remembering the last time he had tasted genuine gin. It was back in his army days, just before his retirement. He could still remember the distinctive taste of juniper berries melded with the myriad spices added during distillation.

‘I’m sure she won’t mind if I just took a sip’ he said with a small smile.

He put the bottle to his lips, savouring the feeling of the cool liquid as it ran down his throat.

He instantly regretted his decision.

The acrid tang of burnt metal assailed his nostrils as the noxious concoction burned his tongue. He spat the drink onto the floor and stayed there, doubled over with his hands on his knees, until the retching had subsided.

‘So… you liked it?’ quipped Deacon as Marcus regained his composure. ‘Look, at least we know why Bradberton kept it off the shelves now. Silver linings.’

Marcus gave Deacon a cold stare.

‘That. Tasted. Like. Sh-’

Gunfire from outside the saloon interrupted him.

Moving to the window, he could see a group of raiders at the far end of the street, firing wildly into the air as they approached.

‘Stay here’ he said as he walked out, leaving his companions behind.

The street once again empty of bystanders, he found himself facing a small group of raiders. There were six in total, all of them in matching cowboy outfits save one, who wore a darker set, bulky with extra armour beneath.

‘You the one who cleared those lily-livered pinheads outta Nuka World, boy?’ asked the lead raider.

Marcus merely nodded, acutely aware that the group’s attention was focused solely on him.

‘Then you’s the one who’s been sayin’ Dry Rock Gulch is yours,’ continued the raider. ‘See, this here gulch is mine. Name’s Mad Mulligan, and you in my house, boy. So, I think s’only fair that you… compensate me before you leave.’

His eyes flicked to the exposed stock of Reason, still strapped to Marcus’ back. He drew the revolver from his hip and gestured to the rifle.

‘That’s a mighty fine weapon you got there. Now, I’m a reasonable man… so how’s about you throw it over to me or I take it from your cold, dead hands?’

Marcus unstrapped Reason, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. He noted the positions of the raiders, what weapons they had, any cover they could utilise, and any exits they could run to, all in a fraction of a second.

‘This old thing?’ he asked, holding up Reason. ‘No, I have an offer for you… Mad Mulligan. I like the look of that revolver of yours. How about you give it to me and you can leave… just walk away with your pals there? Or… I can take it from you?’

Mad Mulligan and his crew began to laugh, confident in their numbers.

‘You must be one duck short of a shooting range, boy! I’m gonna enjoy taking that gun!’

Marcus smiled as he flicked the safety off his rifle.

‘I’d like to see you try…’

‘No way you said that!’ exclaimed the Mariner, who had poked holes in Marcus,’ logic throughout the tale. ‘That’s something you think of afterwards and shoehorn into a story.’

Marcus began to protest but Bertha caught his attention.

‘What happened next? Did you kill Mad Mulligan? And his men? Is that how you got his gun? Why did you try ancient Nuka-Cola?’

All valid questions.

Marcus laughed, easing back on his stool as he drained the remnants of his beer.

‘Well, kid… they all saw Reason in the end.’

#my writing #writing prompt #my oc #marcus #fallout 4 #MNP fallout 4 word prompts #MNP OC Marcus

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