#or fucking the gigantic place of radio city

[tonguetyd]

Oh my god we’re gonna have Missing Limbs at Red Rocks.

We’re gonna have Missing Limbs with the acoustics of Radio City and Massey Hall.

Oh I am once again unwell.

[arahusk]

Teamwork Makes the Dream Work

Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk, Niffty, Vox, Valentino, Velvette

Word count: 5378

Ao3 link: [here]

-

The spats between Overlords in Pentagram city could be called the very definition of petty. 

It’s one of those things from his prime that Husk can say he didn’t really miss at all. Just one unintended slight, or a little extension of one’s territory into another, a sale of a faulty product or even just a small rejection, could start a whole gang war. Other sinners, or even other hellborn, would get caught in the middle of it. Such spats left things in ruins, or destroyed afterlives, making it a nightmare to rebuild again.

The V Tower is effectively wrecked, but the Vees themselves are still standing, still high and mighty, as they loom above the wreckage over Husk, an overeager Niffty, and his bitch of a boss.

Whatever set either of these fuckers off this time, Husk had no damn clue, but the ache in his shoulder told him that he’d be paying the price for it either way.

“You really thought it would be like last time?!” Vox shouts from above a pile of disfigured television sets, red spittle dripping down his screen. His face is cracked, but not enough to mess with the hypnosis that was moving demons from underneath the rubble, weapons of all kinds in their hands. “You’re stuck in the past while I’ve been innovating! Because that’s what technology does, you red piece of shit!”

“You know, you’re yelling right in my ear,” Velvette grouses, just a few strands of her dyed hair out of place.

Smartphone in hand, she barely glances at it when she swipes a thumb down. It seems to send a signal, one that opens up a hidden door and more sinner monstrosities in broken high heels and tattered dresses turn up with murder in their eyes, drugged out of their minds.

Valentino isn’t doing much except looking mighty pissed at his coat being ripped at the back. He cocks the trigger of a bedazzled gun, grinning fiercely. “He’s just having fun, Vel, honey. Though he fucking owes me a whole new wardrobe after this.”

Husk in particular hates that guy. For a lot of things, but right now for the bullet he left in his damn shoulder.

“What next, Sir!? Can I try to get that bad boy again?” Niffty is, of course, living this up, and at least her rabid speech makes Valentino look a bit unsure.

Husk waits for the next order. There would be no point in refusing, and he and Niffty would just have to continue this stupid war until enough of them keel over.

Except, even with the onslaught already coming for them, still climbing over ruined wires and broken letter V’s, Alastor still doesn’t say anything. Husk risks a glance, finding the Radio Demon standing still, hands over his mic, looking straight ahead at nothing.

His coat’s even more frayed than usual, and the fight had left his hair a bit messy, but he’s the least worse off. Even Niffty had a scratch over her cheek, and blood running down her fingers…from accidentally stabbing herself with her own needles.

The demons are still heading their way towards them, and it makes Husk a bit nervous. “Er, boss? We doing something?” No way he just summoned them here just to have one stupid last stand.

At that, Alastor picks up his head slightly. He looks over at Husk on his right side, then at Niffty on his left, who is still bursting with energy at the seams. After a moment, he looks forward again. “Right. Looks like we’ll need a bit of an intermission!”

With that, he makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, keeping his other hand on his cane. The shadows that spring out from the ground range from tiny, impish beings to gigantic ogres, all with stitches connecting their limbs and smiles carved into their doll-like faces. Another gesture with his fingers, and they propel forward with the help of dark tendrils, clashing against the demons so that it becomes just another chaotic brawl. 

And more tendrils shoot up, closer to Alastor’s feet, so that they converge on each other, surrounding the three until they are all encased in a slightly transparent dark shield.

“Oh, this old trick again?! You’re so boring!” Vox clenches his fists, directing his hypnotic gaze at them. “Get out here and fight! You cowardly fuckass–!”

Another gesture, and the shield becomes solid black. Soon there’s no more sound from outside, and the only light that exists comes from the strange red glow of Alastor’s cane.

“Finally, I can think for a bit,” Alastor mutters.

Husk looks around in confusion, while Niffty ooo’s and aaa’s at her boss’s powers. She pokes at the shield with her bleeding fingers. “Hehe, it’s sproingy!”

“So are we just twiddling our thumbs until the Vees tear this shield down?” Husk asks a bit more bitterly than he intends. The wound on him is really stinging now. “If we’re not fighting, then at least get us the fuck outta here.”

“We are not doing that,” Alastor says, cracking his neck sharply to glare at Husk. “I haven’t won.”

Husk blinks. Then, slowly, he grits his teeth. “Oh fuck off.”

“I can win for you, Sir! Just let me at’em!” Niffty raises up her hand, waving erratically. “I almost got that bug boy too!”

“Niffty, dear, you’re swell. But I still need to think—”

“What, we’re just gonna stand around while you mull it over? I’m fucking tired and I just wanna go back home and drink.”

“You can drink yourself to death anytime, Husker. Now let me just—”

“Ohhh, sure. You’re right, I’d rather die from getting mauled to death by some brainwashed cultists outside!”

“Maul! Maul! I wanna do some mauling! Can you let me, Sir? Please?!”

“If I wasn’t bound to you, I’d be hauling ass and letting you deal with this shit yourself!”

Suddenly, pressure.

The chains appear out of the air, latching onto both Husk and Niffty’s necks. Husk stiffens, while Niffty is bouncing up and down on her toes. But both effectively quiet down, all while Alastor looms above them with a tight grin on his face, a hand gripping both chains, making them rattle. The static feedback sounds even louder within the small, dark space.

“I said, let me think.”

Husk should have stayed quiet, and he almost does, but both the anger and blood loss is probably getting to him. “Finally caught yourself between a rock and a hard place, huh?” If only because of the man’s pride and nothing else.

Alastor doesn’t respond. The feedback keens just a bit higher, but only for a moment before he turns around, slamming the end of his cane into the ground.

Niffty is still waiting eagerly, but she leans over to Husk, whispering loudly, “He’s gonna have a really fun idea!”

Husk scoffs. “If you say so, little lady.” He doubts hard. At the most, Alastor is probably planning for them all to go on a suicide mission and hopefully get Vox along the way. His defeat from Adam must still be a big sore spot for him.

The sound finally builds from outside like a rolling wave, which means the deadly mob is probably getting closer. And still, Alastor stands around like a fucking moron, tapping his fingers against the mic. The hell did he expect would happen from this?

Both bored and aching, Husk groans. “You fought Vox by himself last time. Don’t know why you thought fighting all three would be any easier.”

Then, he feels the chain tighten. But not to throw him to the ground like he half-expects, but from Alastor turning around. “What was that?”

His boss is being really damn obtuse for some reason. “I mean, it’s three against one. Not like me and Niffty even count really, at least not anymore.”

Alastor stares, then tilts his head a bit. “Is that so?”

Husk gestures to the chains he and Niffty were leashed to. “Binding contract, remember? Your memory getting spotty now?”

“I love being tied up though!” Niffty cackles, her bright eye shining with adoration. “Best deal I ever made!”

“Speak for yourself,” Husk grumbles.

In his heyday, maybe Husk could be more of a threat. Heck, from what he heard of Niffty, she’d also been a force to be reckoned with. But not many really remembered the power of the Needlewoman and her love of pointy things.

Alastor pauses again. He’s considering something, though Husk can’t really guess as to what. A new strategy to get at Vox? Maybe cataloging through his arsenal of abominations to unleash a counterattack. Or maybe just thinking up a way to get Husk to shut up.

Then, Alastor shrugs. “Well, I see no other way then.” He brings his hand up, the chains laying slack in his palm, and snaps his fingers.

Husk feels it right away. The weight lifting off his neck. He widens his eyes and looks down, just in time to see the fragments of metal and chain links fall away into nothingness.

He’s free. 

“You and Niffty have been released from your contracts. You may thank me later!”

Niffty also looks down at herself, then at the ground, then at the air again as she tries to piece together the links that had once housed her soul. “Oh no! Does Sir not like me anymore?!”

Husk stares, and stares. He then lifts his eyes to face Alastor. “Excuse me, but, what?”

Alastor just grins. “You now have your full power at your disposal again.” A small twirl of his cane as he faces them fully, unmindful to the ruckus outside. “Though perhaps not as much as when you owned souls.”

Husk still has no idea what to make of this. It’s almost like the door of his cage has been flung open wide, and he’s not sure if he should head for it. And as he feels Niffty grip his arm, also shivering at her newfound freedom, she seems to be feeling the same way.

And then, Alastor grins wider. He reaches out his hand. “Which is why I propose we all make a new deal instead.”

Of course there’s a fucking catch.

“You think I’m that much of a sucker?” Husk blurts out. He points a claw at Alastor. “This is some kind of trick. No way you’d let us go that easy.”

“Don’t throw me away, Sir! I can be better!”

Alastor remains motionless, hand still outstretched. The sounds outside are growing louder.

“Instead of working for me, how about we all become business partners? Is that enticing enough?” He quirks up an eyebrow. “All those souls you once owned will now be back at your disposal.”

Husk now really wonders if he’s not just been knocked out and having one hell of a coma dream. Alastor, the Overlord who sees everyone as beneath him. Alastor, the Radio Demon who would rather go to war than take the offer of joining the Vees’ team. Alastor, the narcissistic prick who would probably gnaw his own arm off then ever seeing anyone else as his equal.

But then, Husk pieces it all together.

“You know you can’t win by yourself,” he says. “Not unless we’re all at the top of our game.”

Alastor’s right eye twitches a bit. His frazzled hair makes it look all the more menacing. 

“Motherfucker. You’re that desperate.”

“I believe I already told you,” Alastor says quietly. “I won’t be humiliated.”

But Niffty, who has now climbed to the top of Husk’s left wing, gasps with happiness. “That means we’re all going to get married!”

A record scratch echoes around them, one that makes Alastor’s fingers move back and forth. Then, “Whatever works, dear!”

“For the love of—” Husk glares, and he does a small, experimental search through his soul. It’s faint, but he does find something. It’s been locked away by door and key, one that he could only scratch at but never get through. The pit of his soul where a sinner’s power grows, but how it can grow even more with another couple of souls at his fingertips.

From Alastor’s palm, a green flame erupts. It has shifting faces in it, merging from all the souls he still held onto.

Husk can’t help but look into the fire. It’s enticing. It’s addictive. And the fact that this would be an even playing field this time…

He once thought he didn’t miss being an Overlord, but suddenly, he feels so hungry.

“What makes you think we’d accept—”

“I want to be a beautiful bride!” Niffty cries into his ear.

“Ugh, fine. What makes you think I’d accept this? I could just walk off right now. I can break through your dumbass shield and never see your ugly mug again.”

He probably didn’t even need his old powers to do so. He could see the shadows begin to fade, how the spiderweb cracks spread behind Alastor. His boss—no, his ex-boss was running out of time.

Still, the only thing Alastor did was reach out further. A finger pressed underneath Husk’s chin, bringing up his gaze.

“Because I know you.”

Husk swallows. Even without the damn chain, he feels immobile.

“You’ve always been a greedy kitty. It’s why it was just so easy I could even get your soul in the first place!” Alastor laughs a little, as if reliving an old memory. “And I know how much you also like to win.”

The thrill of winning can be so intoxicating. 

Husk watches as the shield cracks even further, until a part of it ruptures, giving them a view of the outside. He sees the ruins of the V Tower again, and some of the shadows getting decimated by brainwashed sinners. He hears gunshots, and knows Valentino is probably having the time of his afterlife, which frankly irks him.

Niffty is salivating as she sees the carnage, and he feels a particular heat from her. Her pupil dilates, and her sharp teeth elongate. Her limbs, already thin as twigs, seem to get even thinner, like the sharp points of rusty needles.

The Overlord of all things sharp and stabby. Rumors say she typically cut apart most of her acquired souls out of habit, which probably made it all the more easy for Alastor to win her over.

Alastor ignores the commotion, even that of Vox’s unhinged ranting that they could hear once more (“Oh, finally showed up again?! Well, here’s another fucking thing! Your bob haircut is tacky!! I’m gonna shave off all that shit!”), and just keeps his gaze on Husk and Niffty.

Though, Alastor has already won Niffty over long ago. So it’s really just Husk.

His finger slowly slips from out of Husk’s chin, momentarily breaking a spell. His hand is now held open again, palm facing upwards.

“Now, how about it, dear? This time, you don’t have anything to lose.”

Husk’s wings rustle. Then they stretch—and then they grow bigger. The Lucky Gambler, once a big name back downtown, could push out a bunch of low-rollers from his casino with a beat of his wings alone. And that didn’t include the natural luck on his side, dodging a fatal blow and rolling snake eyes right between a demon’s own eyes, so that all that was left of them was brain matter and an empty wallet.

Niffty is breathing harder. He can also hear her rapid heartbeat, which is going so fast it’s like a hum.

“Equal partnership, between all three of us,” Husk states. An explosive whizzes right past them, blowing up another section of drywall from the tower. They all ignore it. “That means neither of us can order around the other. Unless one of us is into that.”

Niffty is practically frothing at the mouth, her spittle getting on Husk’s fur. 

“We get access to all the souls, not just those we used to own.” Husk raises a thick eyebrow at Alastor. “If you want us to be business partners, then we’re gonna share the wealth.”

And he expects Alastor to refuse. The man barely wants to share his own alcohol case back home with anyone besides maybe Rosie. No way he would agree to share his entire stash of souls. He’d probably eat them all first.

But Alastor doesn’t do that. He looks at Husk with a certain glee he can’t even name.

“And no loopholes, or hidden clauses, none of that shit,” Husk goes on. “If you want our help with this fight, you’re gonna learn to be a team player. Okay, partner?”

Oh, how he knows Alastor hates being on a team that’s not just him and him alone, more than anything else.

But the Radio Demon is such a proud abomination, so he keeps his hand out and smiles tightly. There’s also something else in his eyes, something beyond the bloodlust and the power hungry gaze. It’s so intense.

It’s excitement.

These are uncharted waters for Alastor. He has no idea how this will end, but it’s probably one of the most entertaining things he’s ever experienced.

“Fair enough,” Alastor complies. The flame in his hand grows brighter. “So, is it a deal?”

Niffty is about to launch herself right into Alastor’s palm before Husk grips her tiny—but shifting—body in his hand to steady her. Then, he gives a nod to Alastor. He holds out his own hand.

“Deal.” He glances back at Niffty. “You still in?”

She nods rapidly. “Deal! Deal! Let’s kill some bad boys!”

Husk clasps Alastor’s hand, and Niffty slams her tiny one on top of both of theirs. It’s almost akin to some weird friendship handshake. 

Light flickers around them, sealing it. Another explosion goes off, this time right at Alastor’s back. It singes just a bit of his hair. 

His grin widens, and his eyes become dials, turned all the way to the right. The feedback blares.

“Shall we?”

—

Niffty, in her Overlord prime, is a terrifying, beautiful thing.

Her smile is enough to rival Alastor’s, which says a lot. She’s more spindly, more quick, and her love of pointy things has deadly consequences for nearly everyone else around her. Husk wonders if she ever heard the phrase to not run with scissors, or if she did and just decided to take up on the challenge to its extreme.

She has gigantic as fuck scissors that could cut a demon clean in half, spraying blood all over the place. She gives a laugh before she runs over to her next victim on needle-thin limbs, sometimes running on all fours which makes her even more uncanny, like a spider that had been constructed out of wires. She’s a slasher flick brought to gory life, and she’d probably cut apart friend along with foe if he didn’t pointedly get out of her way.

Maybe it’s the sudden surge of power that makes her crazy, because Husk also finds himself going insane over it. Even so, it’s a red-tinged blur of adrenaline and luck on his side before it’s finally all over.

What he can gather out of the fight between Niffty and Velvette was brutal, but somehow, it’s the aftermath itself that’s even more unnecessarily violent.

“Stop that!! You’re messing it all up!” Velvette shouts through a mouthful of blood. 

Niffty uses her scissors to cut apart Velvette limb from limb. Though there’s blood and guts, Velvette’s body is absolutely abnormal. There are ball joints that connect her elbows to her arms, and her knees to her legs. Except Niffty was just sawing through what seemed like plastic that still housed blood inside.

“I used to always love playing with dolls,” Niffty whispers as she takes out one of her needles. “I loved pulling them apart then putting them back together again. Wanna see how?”

“Nooo!”

Husk makes sure to turn away while Velvette continues to scream and Niffty continues to laugh. At least she’s having fun.

Sitting against a piece of rubble, where he narrowly avoids the electricity of live wires that hung from nearby, he draws a pull on his cigar. He keeps a few of the things in his pockets when drinking isn’t doing much for him after all. Then, he puffs out the smoke at the downed face next to him. 

“Shame you can’t shoot for shit,” he says. His wings stay large, casting shadows over the cracked tiles and bodies of sinners that would probably regenerate in the next month, give or take. “Those glasses really just for decoration?”

Valentino is snarling through what’s left of his teeth, then coughs up a glob of blood. Both his antennas have been ripped off (for Niffty’s collection) and his stupid expensive sunglasses have been shattered. Some of the shards have embedded into his face, making the Pimp Overlord wince. His own wings are spread out, pinned at the edges by playing cards that are wicked sharp. They’ve already been half-sliced, along with the guy’s double-set of arms, which were laying around who knows where.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, gatito.” Valentino coughs again, raising up his face to give Husk the most obnoxious sneer. “Voy a matar al cabrón hijo de su puta madraaaaaaggh!”

Valentino’s screaming, along with sizzling skin, could be heard across the ruins. 

“Cállate la boca, pendejo.” Husk twists the end of his cigar further into Valentino’s eye. Further, and further, until it’s effectively ruined. Now he definitely can’t see for shit.

And further out there, he can see his boss’s hulking back—most likely relishing his victory. 

Valentino eventually did quiet down and went still, which Husk took as the opportunity to stretch his legs and flick away the cigar. It arcs in the air to land right onto Valentino’s back, giving another dark patch to his already burned-up coat.

Husk walks. His ears flick. Then he quickly shifts to the side to avoid a bullet that narrowly misses his head.

“Damn, guess having one eye was the best thing to happen to your aim.” With a turn, Husk grins at the bug who trembles while he holds his last bedazzled gun in his already mangled hand. He knows how his own eyes shine like gold coins, as dazzling as casino lights. “Hope you can shoot these away, for your sake.”

But Husk always has a good throwing hand when it comes to his dice, and the newly revived Overlord’s luck is still going strong as it explodes right at Valentino’s befuddled face.

Now, he can finally shift his attention to Alastor who’s busy playing with his food.

Vox huddles before the looming dark tower that is the Radio Demon. His face could also barely be even called a face anymore, the cracks so numerous, corrupting the video feed of his eyes and his mouth. It just fragments into chaos, the visual quality flickering, then fading, before flickering again, as if there had been a sudden power surge.

The TV set that was everything about him and more, looks ready to fall right off his shoulders and clatter to the ground.

“You… I hate you…” Vox grips a hand against the side of his screen, and tries to push it back in place. There are numerous other monitors hanging from a partly collapsed wall behind him, but more than half of them are dark, and the rest are flickering or giving their jarring blue screens of death.

Alastor, further craning down his neck, says nothing. But even Husk could see from here that his grin is absolutely euphoric. It covers nearly the entirety of his face, with his eyes bright red and highlighting Vox in all of his pathetic defeat.

Between his giant, curved fingers is his mic cane, looking as tiny as a toothpick in comparison. He holds it near Vox’s head.

“Speak into the mic, old friend.”

Vox trembles, then he lets loose with a tirade—or as much as he could. His own feed is too corrupted to get anything out right anymore, buffering at an embarrassingly slow rate. “I-I-I-I fu-fuc-fucking-g-g-g HATE y-y-you!! I-I-I-I’ll r-r-r-ip yo-o-o-ou a-a-p-p-art!! A-A-A-l-l-as-s-s-s-tor!!”

A pillar of shadow juts from the ground beneath, impaling him straight into his chest. Vox then just hangs there, his blocky head tilted to the right, his screen an array of colors before it also goes as dead as the rest of his empire. 

Alastor opens his mouth, his rows of teeth as big as slot machines. Husk can only imagine that his mouth is just a dark abyss, with nothing inside, because the Radio Demon is always hungry, all the time. Husk braces himself for the inevitable crunch, the final curtain for this TV mogul Overlord.

It’s all still for a moment, Vox hanging over his ultimate death, before the shadow that he’s impaled on suddenly throws him to the side. A small crash of glass and metal, followed by a spark of electricity, before going quiet again.

When Husk blinks, Alastor is back to normal, fixing up his bowtie and tucking his cane under his right arm. “He would just taste terrible.” Then he turns on his heel, facing Husk with a curious gaze. “Husker! Looks like you’ve put on a bit of weight!”

“You talking about my wings, asshole?” Husk shakes his head, before he also goes back to normal, a few loose feathers rustling loose to float in the air. He puts his power back into the pit of his soul, and his eyes burn less, no longer seeking out lady luck and her guiding hand. 

He takes a quick look around the ruined V Tower, with piles of corpses and machines littering the ground. Husk spreads his hands wide. “There. You won. Happy now?”

Alastor’s eyes are alight with jovial red. An upbeat jazz number plays from his mic cane, one that was more on the swing side than usual. “Incredibly!” he answers.

Niffty turns up just then, her head rising from the rubble and breaking apart the cement cleanly. She’s only the long, spindly creature that had cut up bodies for a moment, before she finally reverts back to her tiny self—though still covered in an immense amount of blood.

“That was amazing!! Let’s do it again!” Niffty pops up further, freeing her legs before she runs up to Alastor and grabs at his coat. “Can we? Can we? I want to keep fighting in gang wars like I used to!”

…Husk then recalls an old story about the bloodbath massacre in downtown around the 60’s, before his time, much of it perpetuated by an Overlord that was said to be manic and off her rocker. Had that been her?

Alastor pets her head fondly, like she’s his loyal maid once more. Husk doesn’t expect much to happen. His ex-boss, now partner, got his victory and probably wanted to savor it without them haggling him. Lone wolf and all that.

But then, Alastor faces Husk, still with that happy grin on his face to go along with the happy tune. “You know, that did go rather swimmingly! Perhaps this truly was the best route after all.”

Husk raises an eyebrow. “I would hope so since you’re the one that came up with the arrangement in the first place.”

“Yes, yes, but I was going to double-cross you once this was through.” Alastor nods like that’s a normal thing to say. “You both are truly professionals! I didn’t even notice the other two all the while I was dealing with Vox.”

“Back up a sec, you were going to what now? You promised no loopholes-!”

But Niffty quickly overtakes the conversation, keening happily as she once again lifts up her giant scissor. There’s a bit of familiar red hair on its sharp edges, along with dried up blood. “Now that we’re all married, we can go paint the town red!”

Alastor nods again. “Right as rain as you always are, dear Niffty. Except for the marriage aspect, but whatever makes you happy!”

“Hey, partner,” Husk nags a bit, catching Alastor’s attention. “So you’re saying you want to stick with this? I’ll forgive the whole double-crossing shit if you keep giving us the fair share.”

At that, Alastor lowers his eyelids, but doesn’t do so as a threat. It’s almost like he’s so pleased with what Husk is saying, with how he looks. “Share the wealth, of course.”

Then the Radio Demon looks around at the rubble, which is when another V logo falls off the wall to crash into a million pieces. And then is promptly set on fire, for no discernable reason.

“But first, we should make our base of operations, as by the bouts of combat, we have won this very valuable territory!” Alastor taps a claw against his chin. “Now, if only we had a name…”

“We really need one?” Husk asks.

“The Vees did!”

“Yeah, and the Vees are also dead as fuck.”

“Silly boys!” Niffty wags her finger at them, now slinging her giant scissor across her shoulder like it was a loaded shotgun. “Everyone knows when you’re married that you go by the last name! Mr. and Mr. and Mrs. Radio Demon!”

“That’s a mouthful,” Husk tells her. “Also no.”

“Ah! I got it!” Alastor snaps his fingers to telegraph his obvious eureka moment. “We should call ourselves the A’s!”

“...No? That literally makes no sense with our names.”

“Well, if we get the right papers for the official name changes—”

“What name would I even get?! Husk is just fine, dammit!”

“Touchy, aren’t we?” Alastor leans suddenly very close to Husk, patting his shoulder. “Then how about the Aces?” He pokes at him. “Because of your card tricks?”

Husk considers, very briefly. He then gestures a so-so motion with his hand. “Eh. What does that even have to do with Niffty?”

“Well, I’m just spouting out ideas. Not like you’re helping!”

“Okay, fine. How about the Wild Cards? Got a nice ring to it.”

“Now, now, Husker. This isn’t all about you!”

“Oh, and the A’s name wasn’t just all for your ego!”

But the smile that’s on Alastor’s face is almost genuine, almost thrilled at Husk’s clapback. Of course he’d be happy after a murdering spree of dozens of souls, including that of one of his rival Overlords that could never shut up. Alastor then pulls in both Husk and Niffty into a hug, one that’s a bit tight around Husk’s ribs. He seems to particularly rub his cheek against Husk’s, enjoying the feel of the fur. Asshole. 

“My dear partners! As long as you never disappoint me, we’ll be going straight to the top!” Silence, then static laces his voice just slightly, distorting the soft jazz that had been playing. “Right? You won’t disappoint me?”

Niffty nods while Husk rolls his eyes. “Then don’t disappoint us, either. If not, we’re voting you out.”

“I’ll always vote for Sir!” Niffty instantly proclaims.

“Niff, can you work with me a little here?”

Alastor chuckles, still holding them in his group hug, despite the fires starting everywhere and the smoke filling the air. “I see big things coming our way for sure!”

Husk glances around again. “If you mean the fire that’s starting on the south exit and heading our way, then yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Indeed! This place ought to be condemned!” With that, Alastor laughed, unhinged, neck cricking and cracking. “Haha! Hahahaha!”

“Burning alive with my husbands is the best thing a girl can ask for!”

“Seriously, can we go?”

By the time they do eventually leave, the newly teamed up Overlords still hadn’t decided on a name for themselves. What else would we even call ourselves that Alastor would want? Husk thinks once they’re back outside on the streets, watching the tower burn itself out so they can ‘redecorate,’ as Alastor calls it. The Radio Gang? Radio Trio? That’s stupid. But it’s gonna be something that makes him the head honcho for sure.

Yet, as Husk watches the smoke curl up into the red-tinged sky, hearing Niffty still laughing and Alastor hum along to his tune, he can’t say he hates it. 

Maybe like his new grinning partner, he’s just as oddly excited about the future.

[ittybluebell]

Roommate | Daredevil G/T | Chapter 2

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Finch didn't consider how they survived ‘stealing’. It was borrowing - they only took what they needed; what wouldn't be missed. Finch didn't borrow with malevolence. Well, not much, anyway - it was easy to resent the humans that had so much while borrowers struggled. And there were definitely things a borrower didn't need to survive, per se, but dammit, couldn't a person want nice things? The beans wouldn't miss a strip of fabric or the odd bauble. It would go to good use, anyway!

It was laughably easy to borrow from this bean. Finch was reasonably cautious in the beginning, but they quickly learned that they could get away with a lot. Borrowing food in the same room? Easy squeezy, done and did. The only threat was making too much noise, but Finch padded the soles of their boots so that was a great big non-issue.

Was Finch balancing too close to the proverbial ledge? Oh, yeah.

Were they gonna keep doing it? Oh, yeah. The adrenaline rush was crazy.

What reason had they to stop? The bean wasn't aware of them and got rid of the traps - Finch must've been doing something right. They were on the hottest borrowing streak in their life. Now, obviously, they didn't take too much, but Finch wasn't worried about their next meal and that was every borrower's goal. An honest-to-dirt stock of food. Finch got so lucky with this place.

The tell-tale guilt came back. Faces flooded their mind: faces they were supposed to protect and cowardly abandoned. The grating snarl of grinding metal, of brick and wood falling and the screams-

Finch snatched up their thimble bucket. Shower, they decided. It was time for a shower.

Later when Finch went out, there were strawberries on the counter. Fucking strawberries. How could they resist? Sure, the human was right there, but when would Finch get another opportunity like this?

The human's name was Matt. Finch overheard it from a phone call with another man. 'Froggy', they believed that one was called. A bean with a proper name.

Finch crept into the open, not bothering with that time-consuming ducking and hiding nonsense. His back was turned. Voices from the radio filled the apartment. Finch had the advantage. It was fine. It was fine. Hairs on the back of their neck stood on end and their nape vaguely prickled. A borrower's warning system, triggered by a bean's proximity, and just another sense to bombard their brain with information.

Was the man's head twitching their imagination?

Finch reached the countertop and grabbed a strawberry. They backpedaled. For such a large being, he moved with such ease and speed. It was easy to forget how big a human was till they were in the same room. Finch stuffed the strawberry in their bag and climbed down. They took a final peek at the bean before slipping into the crack behind the fridge.

Finch was learning how much they could get away with. They were testing the waters. Taking food right out from under his nose? Oh-ho, no other borrower would dare. But Finch did. They froze, statuesque, when he moved around the apartment. A dangerous but thrilling game of lights on-lights out. He lumbered and stomped like one of those gigantic movie monsters that terrorized cities. His steps shook the floor, even when Finch was safe in their shack under it. And when Finch was above... they could feel their bones rattle with each thundering impact. The random smirks he sometimes wore were unsettling. Like he was sharing a private joke with himself. Finch tried not to think about it.

Matt was making tea.

Matt. It felt odd not referring to him as simply 'the bean'. A name was personal; it was a connection. It was unsettling.

Matt was making tea. Finch wanted one of those sugar cubes, normally sealed in a jar with a lid too heavy to even consider lifting. They peeked out from behind the fridge. The bea- Ma- he was standing there with a kettle, pouring water into a tall mug. Finch swallowed. If they were human, he would be one of those skyscrapers that reached for the clouds.

He turned around. Finch jogged to the discrete handholds they'd made in the side of the counter. Even a sighted bean wouldn't notice the indents - they made sure of that. Finch had yet to make the same accessibility for the island, but it was top of the to-do list. They climbed, unable to see the bean. They heard crinkling.

When Finch peeked over the countertop, a sleeve of cookies was in the bean's grasp. Finch's vision tunneled. Damn. Fresh cookies…

No, stop, bad! Get the cube, get out. You have food at home.

Finch pulled themself up and over the edge. They watched the bean closely, looking out for sudden movements or changes on his face. The open jar stood between themself and Matt.

Easy. No problem. Just don't make a sound and everything will be fine.

The bean in question was fighting to contain his astonishment.

Matt's intrigue piqued. Tiny was getting braver. With every moment spent in his presence, they grew more confident. It nearly drew a chuckle out of him. Tiny was cocky - cocky that they were getting away with all this, and that he remained ignorant during their escapades. That's why he could only sense a bare trace of fear on them: they were underestimating him. They were assuming a blind man couldn't possibly know when someone was stealing food and office supplies right under his nose, even making a ladder in his furniture. That was vandalism. Matt tracked Tiny's soft steps on the countertop, closer and closer, as he placed a few cookies on a plate. Did they think he was that oblivious? Matt was honestly a little offended.

He wondered how far they would go if he kept up the act.

He walked away - suddenly, he needed something from the fridge - and they took the opportunity to scale the jar and snatch a sugar cube. He heard shuffling fabric as they stored it somewhere - it seemed to be a mini duffel bag. They paused next to the plate of cookies and walked away with a sharp exhale. Tempted, but deciding they didn't want to risk it. Priorities.

Matt returned to fish out the teabag. Tiny froze. A fawn response. Matt was familiar with it. It never worked. This time, though… he let it slide. He felt bad scaring the little guy. Then again, they had the audacity to steal right in his face. A little surprise would be good for that ego they were sporting.

Tiny snuck away, down their makeshift ladder and into the floor once more. He heard the release of breath followed by a relieved giggle. Alright, it was kind of endearing, letting them get away with shit. Matt would never deny his soft spot for those in need. Matt allowed himself a secret smile. He broke a piece off a cookie and dropped it next to the fridge. He didn't know there were so many weak points in his apartment. He should probably get that checked out.

Despite cleaning up the glue traps, there was one the bean forgot about. Maybe there were others. Maybe it was intentional - awfully convenient that it was in a spot Finch rarely traveled by, and also very conveniently below a drop with poor visibility.

How did Finch know this?

They were stuck in the damn thing, that's how.

"No, no, fuck," they hissed, lifting either leg. The glue was unfairly strong and the edge too far. They didn't have any rope to throw. The nails that Finch climbed with were useless, and the rubber bands tied around those too pliant for any length.

Regardless, Finch detached the rubber bands from their belt. Clutching them tight, Finch threw a bent nail at the edge of the trap. The metal recoiled and dragged straight into the glue. Finch swore a vehement streak. They tugged, but the elastic had zero resistance. It was stuck just the same as Finch. Their single remaining nail burned like a rod of fire in their clammy palm. They desperately searched for some kind of ledge. Furious tears shone in their eyes.

When they'd dropped down and felt the floor squish under their feet, they were merely annoyed. Then they heaved and pried and pulled till sweat coated their face and the severity of the situation dawned on them. They were stuck. They hadn't felt so helpless since that building came down. That fucking building. Anger rolled in their gut for being so careless and stupid and not trying hard enough.

The glue was like one of those tar pits they'd heard about: the ones that trapped mammoths and dinosaurs and preserved their remains. Finch had never seen a fossil. To humans, dinosaurs were the titans that walked the earth. Finch would've liked to see a skeleton of a creature to earn that title.

Finch was going to die here. The human had doomed them. Really, how long would it be until he remembered the trap existed? If he remembered it existed. Finch always pictured a brave or exciting end: eaten by a bird, in battle against a rat or spider, run over by a car. Here, slowly wasting away... hm. Acceptance washed over them.

Time passed. Not once did their grip on that nail loosen. They could do nothing but think and wait and wait and think. Every choice and regret hit them in succession. Was their life flashing before their eyes? It felt far longer than a flash.

Finch was replaying their biggest regret on loop when the front door shutting knocked them out of it. Oh, goodie, the orchestrator of their demise was home from work. Abruptly, Finch realized they never got to try one of those cookies.

Something was different when Matt got home.

He couldn't put his finger on it. He put his cane away and shrugged off his jacket. There had been a tangible shift in the atmosphere. Wary, Matt walked around and scanned his apartment. No new scents - nobody had broken in. Matt tried to ignore it and spread out the papers from their case on the table. He was trying to take his dedication to his job seriously this time - letting Karen and Foggy down again wasn't something he could stomach. Foggy, especially, had hurt too much to bear.

Matt was too distracted. Finally, he realized what was wrong.

Tiny was silent.

It wasn't uncommon - there was the odd time they went down to another apartment, a result of Matt lacking in the goods department. Nothing worrying.

Suspicious, Matt did another sweep. No, he found. Tiny was still here. They were... quiet. Not moving. Somewhere under the stairs to the roof. Their heartrate was elevated. Their breaths were quick, stuttering, with an undercurrent of sniffles. They sounded all too much like someone Matt wouldn't second guess saving out on the street.

Tiny grunted under strain. There was a strange noise under their feet, like mud.

Matt jolted as if electrocuted. He forgot a trap.

What followed was Matt lunging for the loose floorboard. He tried to estimate how long they'd been stuck. Since he left this morning? The pungent scent of glue wisped into the air and guilt twisted inside him. How could he forget? Were there others? How long had Tiny been there?

There was still food in their stomach. The smell of strawberry and wheat cracker was fresh on their breath. Matt felt a tinge of relief, replaced by guilt again - not nearly as long as he'd feared, but any length of time was too long.

Tiny's reaction was one of their squeak-yelps and a subsequent stabbing.

Matt hissed, "Ow," and flinched back when something sharp stung his finger. Tiny made another motion to defend themself and Matt withdrew his arm. "You know, most people don't attack the person trying to save them," he said, mildly put out. He understood he was an actual, literal giant here, but give him some credit.

Alright, so he should have announced his intentions first - that was on him.

Matt said, "I don't want to hurt you. I'm trying to help."

"The hell you are!" Tiny bellowed with all the ferocity contained in their little body. It was an unexpectedly Herculean amount. "Who set the traps in the first place, huh? Then you come in tryin' to snatch me up like a damn claw machine. 'Help' my ass!"

"I'm trying to help. I'm sorry about the traps - really, I am. I thought I got all of them out. I'm truly sorry. Will you let me fix this? Without stabbing me again? Please?"

A contemplative silence fell over the two. It was only respectful to ask: as someone who'd been stabbed and shot and hit more times than he could remember, Matt could handle a poke or two. But he didn't like being grabbed without his consent - why would someone who's just a few inches tall?

What even was that weapon, a nail?

...He should update his vaccines.

"You don't plan to lock me up and reveal me to the world for fame and wealth or ship me off to scientists that'll experiment on me?" Tiny asked suspiciously.

That was... shockingly specific. And all completely valid concerns. "No."

"Liar."

"I'm not. In God's name, I swear I'm not lying. Would I be trying to gain your trust if that was my goal? Why would I bother?"

"I guess... you just don't want me to stab you again."

"Oh, for- I owe Foggy several apologies if this is what he deals with."

Tiny agreed to let him help after admitting they were prepared to die anyway - ouch - and that being captured by a 'bean' - what? - really couldn't be worse. A win was a win and Matt didn't argue, reaching under the floorboards to rescue them.

It was a surreal experience for both parties. Feeling a tiny, human body fit in his hand, and for Finch, a massive hand wrapping around them. They were stiff as a board, bracing against fingers as wide as their torso. For every borrower, this was the worst case. This was the nightmare that made children hide under the covers. A human had discovered them - was holding them. Finch resisted the urge to bite and scrap and do anything in their limited power to free themself. A second hand pressed down on the edges of the trap and then Finch was being pried off. The glue was reluctant to let them go and threatened to claim their boots as a prize. Finch squawked and fought to keep them.

"Shit," they blurted. "Oh, sewers. Fuck me running. Mother of termites. Pissberry."

The glue released. Matt lifted both borrower and trap out of the floor and got up from his prone position.

He was holding a tiny person. He could hardly believe it, but feeling was believing. All of his focus lasered in on the small being. How their chest rapidly expanded and fell, the thrum of their terrified heart against his thumb and ears. How delicate their bones were as his fingers closed around them, thin as a bird's. A bag was slung diagonally across their back, the items inside pressing into his palm. Their clothes were handmade, stitched together with large thread - thankfully with textures that didn't make him gag. Were those overalls? Or maybe a jumpsuit. Buttons on their flat front dug into his thumb - small, yet still bigger than their hands. And their hands... they were miniscule. Teeny fingers pushed at his own, digging into the creases of his skin and their prints indecipherable. Shoes scraped the underside of Matt's fist, sharp points on the toe of each boot threatening to scrape him up like the furniture they were fashioned to dig into.

Everything about them was fascinating. But he couldn't help noticing how pronounced their ribs were.

Finch remained tense as Matt carried them to the kitchen. Trapped in his clutches, they could do nothing but let him. What happened now? The cautionary tales never got this far. Being caught was the ultimate end for all those stories, with the killing and torture reserved for the footnotes and overactive imaginations of listeners. Finch weakly struggled, knowing they couldn't possibly escape but not wanting to just sit and take it.

"Here. I'm putting you down," Matt said. He lowered his hand and released Finch before walking away. "Just a second."

Finch tried to book it. Their shoes peeled off the countertop like prickly burs and they cringed at the sound and sensation. Taking a single step was a harsh, sticky ordeal. "Damn," they muttered under their breath.

"Going somewhere?" asked Matt, more lighthearted than he had any right to be.

Finch shot a glare at him over their shoulder. It didn't matter that he couldn't see it. All the better, actually: they could show as much vitriol as they liked without repercussion. "Yeah, chuckle it up, twelve stories. I wouldn't be here if you didn't set that shit up."

Matt disposed of the trap and sought out a roll of paper towel, which he ripped and ran under the tap. "You're right. I'm sorry." He placed the damp paper towel near them. "For the glue."

Finch accepted it and glowered the whole time. The warm water rubbed the glue off their soles. A train of curses filled their brain that were one lapse in self-control away from becoming external. One thing had been itching at them; they decided to voice that instead.

"How'd you know where I was? How did you even know I was stuck?" Realization struck. "Or how I even exist. I didn't think of that. Fuck."

Finch watched his features wrinkle and strain before relaxing. Matt said, "That's on you for assuming a blind man won't notice someone stealing right in front of him. Really, it's insulting."

"Stealing? Heh, no, no, it's called borrowing. We borrow things. There's a clear distinction. Beans steal, borrowers borrow." Their eyes widened.We. I just revealed our name. They played up the aggression, rising to their full, diminutive height. "So I got a little carried away. And what about it? You gonna put me in a jar, huh? Oh, no, I borrowed some food. You got plenty! You gonna miss some crumbs? Some string? A bottle cap here or there?" They scoffed and planted their hands on their hips. "You try to survive and suddenly you're stealing. Yeah, lemme go get a human job real quick in your human economy to pay my human bills for my human house. I'll get right on that."

Matt, who was prepared to argue the definition of stealing vs borrowing, was left sufficiently gobsmacked. The lawyer in him wanted to correct their language; the empathy in him knew that they were right. He'd concluded on his own that Tiny had no other options. Many people rarely did. Hearing it made the legal voice pipe down, and also make the connection that Tiny wasn't the same species as him. Which... yeah, should have been obvious. Were they a fairy?

"I'm not mad about the stealing," he said. "Sorry, 'borrowing'. Which isn't the right- anyway. I'm annoyed about the sock but- but that's it. I even left some crumbs around for you. Once I figured out you weren't a mouse. I really don't have a problem with you living here. Well, there's- no, nevermind. You probably don't care about that." He frowned in thought. Would a tiny person living in the walls even know about Daredevil?

Finch's whole face furrowed. "Oh... kaay. That's- wait, actually? Like, actually? You're not lying?"

Matt huffed. "Again, why would I be lying?"

Finch threw their hands in the air, giving them a frustrated shake and gesturing wildly. "I don't know! You could still switch up on me! I can't trust you. Avoiding beans is how I made it this far. I'd be dead or imprisoned or dead if I didn't. I can't trust you. How am I supposed to believe you?" They ruffled their hair and growled. They pulled their bandana down around their neck and played with the smooth fabric, pacing. "I thought I'd be some kind of pet or- or- or experiment. Or dead. I'm so confused. I'm so confused. It's all so confusing."

Matt didn't respond at first. He let their confession sit in the air, giving it the room it deserved as he thought it over. A pet. Something distinctly sub-human; lower than personhood, undeserving of self-determination. Or an experiment - even lower. That was how the world perceived Tiny. That was how Tiny believed he perceived them.

Matt loved nothing more than proving expectations wrong.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Finch scowled up at him, then exhaled harshly. "Goldfinch. I go by Finch."

"Hello, Finch. I'm Matt. Would you like something to drink?"

"...what do you have?"

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AO3

[final-girl96]

Ageless Secrets Chapter Three

May 2010

Yn

Joel and I were on the way to some neighborhood that had the population of two people. I was honestly surprised when Tess asked me to go for her since something came up with another person they trade with. She had been talking to some guy on the radio named Frank. He and his husband Bill lived a few hours away from the Boston QZ by car. I was more surprised when Joel didn't protest about me going with them. He's been ignoring me for damn near a year now.

He only speaks to me in short clipped words. It's been like that since that one night he had come to check in on her and they were drinking and listening to music. Since she was dancing in his lap with his hands on her hips. Tommy had interrupted them when he knocked on the door. After that shit had shifted so damn much. Tommy went off and joined the fireflies. The fireflies were some stupid resistance, they were against FEDRA.

And look, FEDRA fucking sucks. If you're found guilty of anything you're hung in front of everyone. They think they can do and have whatever and whoever they want. I've had the same FEDRA asshole hitting on me every time he sees me since the day we got to the QZ. Joel and Tess kept growing closer and closer; they had more in common. According to Tommy, Joel had lost his daughter, Sarah, on the first day of the outbreak. So they had that in common, losing a child.

They knew each other's pain. They were both hard asses too. Tess spent more time at Joel's place than she did ours. It drove me crazy thinking about what they were doing, even though I didn't want to think about what that could be. I thought maybe Joel had been starting to loosen up more around me that one night. I thought maybe he would get past the age gap when his hands found my hips. I had felt just how much he wanted me before Tommy ruined it all. Now Joel barely looked at me.

I had my headphones on as we walked through the destroyed city, listening to Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) by Eurythmics. I had the right side pushed back off my ear and had the volume really low so I could still hear. After seven years the city was a total disaster zone. In the beginning when the infected got out of control FEDRA bombed the city to try and help contain them. Builds were leaning to the side, almost touching each other. Part of the streets were completely gone and we had to go around.

I was doing more dancing than walking. I had decided that it was better to just be myself and give very few fucks if any at all. Just because the world changed and Somehow even more shitty than it was before doesn't mean I can't enjoy life. I made sure to watch my steps and where I was going. Made sure that I wasn't too loud. I had a knife and my gun on my belt. We were out of the city; there wasn't anything around us.

I had rewound my tape to play Sweet Dreams over again. It just gave me energy and motivation. I turned the volume up just a little bit; not too loud. I could still hear what was going on around me. I heard Joel let out a frustrated sigh. He was definitely annoyed by my high energy. “Will you knock it the hell off!” He hissed.

I turned around, walking backwards, raised my arms out in front of me and held up both my middle fingers while singing along to the song. “Live a little, Joel! Maybe then you would have such a gigantic tree trunk shoved up your ass!” I gave him a curt smile and turned back around. “You're going to get yourself killed one day!” He said from behind me. I just shrugged, “Everyone dies, Joel!” Just then Pour Some Sugar On Me came on. Of course it did, I had my mixtape I took forever to make in my player.

I pulled my headphones fully on my ears and turned the volume up more. I turned my head to look at Joel and gave him a wicked smile. He had his usual bitch face on. Jaw set and brows narrowed inwards. Then I started to sing. We were in the middle of an empty street so I had all the freedom to dance all I wanted.

I twisted my body, swinging my hips, and running my hands up my sides, barely touching my body with my finger tips. I could hear Joel let out a low growl of annoyance. That only made me smile wider. There was nothing more that I loved doing than pissing him off. He was always so up tight, and although I understood why, I just couldn't stand it. He brought my damn mood down and I just wanted to enjoy life as long as possible.

When we got close to the neighborhood where Frank and Bill lived we stopped at least fifty-feet away. “Damn, a whole town to themselves. And look at this security!” I said. I pulled my headphones down to hang around my neck and turned the music off. A man with a gray beard and dark brown hair came walking towards the gate with a smile on his face. “Joel?” He asked, walking to put the code into the gate. Joel nodded his head, “Yeah, that's me.”

“I'm Frank. I talked to Tess over the radio. You must be her sister, yn. She told me you would be coming instead.” Another man followed behind him going on about, “You can't just assume these people are who they say they are.” Frank just rolled his eyes and shook his head. “This is Bill. Please excuse him, he's not much of a people person.” I hummed, “Sounds like someone I know,” I said, giving Joel a pointed look. Frank opened the gate and let us in.

Frank had showed us around the town while Bill worked on making lunch. “It was so nice meeting someone over the radio. Tess seems really nice. We could use some friends,” Frank said. “Is it just the two of you?” I asked. He nodded with a small hum. “Yeah, Bill took me in a few years ago. I fell into one of his traps.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “Well, this place is fucking amazing. It must be nice not having to have FEDRA telling you what to do all the time. Following your own rules.”

“It can get lonely. But we find things to do. We have the whole town so if there is anything you need just ask and we can trade for it. I'm sure there are things we can get you that you can't get or don't have and vice versa. But how about we head back. I'm sure lunch is ready and Joel, you and Bill can talk.”

We went back to the house where a small round table was set up. Whennwe sat down Bill had his gun out and on the table pointing towards Joel. Joel didn't seem bothered by it at all, he just made eye contact with Bill. “Will you please put that away. Yn and Joel are our guests.” Bill looked over at Frank, who gave him a stern look. Bill let out a heavy sigh and took it off the table. “This is really good. Thank you for having us,” I said to try and lighten the mood. “Thank you, yn.”

When we were getting ready to leave, Frank suggested an idea to me. “I was thinking that we could have a secret code for certain things. “I was thinking we could communicate through music.” I loved that idea, so I agreed right away. “Oh, my gosh, yes! I love music so that's perfect!” I said. Frank smiled and handed me a piece of paper. “I thought we could go with the sixties, seventies, and eighties.”

60s - Nothing New

70s - New Stalk

80s - X

“The sixties will be for if we haven't got anything new, seventies if we do, and the eighties if we're in trouble.” I nodded, taking the piece of paper, folding It, and putting it to the front pocket of my pack. “That's perfect. So easily hidden.” After we said our goodbyes and that we would talk soon, Joel and I headed back to the QZ.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 10: crying

slightly more straightforward h/c this time!

summary: set after the ric grayson/joker war arc in nightwing. 

dick’s been missing for two months. jason finds him first, but it’s just the first step in finding how very, very lost dick really is.

warnings: SPOILERS for the aforementioned nightwing arcs. plentiful cursing. moderately graphic descriptions of injuries.

crying

The last time Jason received a family-wide SOS to help them rescue Dick, the guy was a twice-brainwashed mess whose brain was being pulled in opposite directions by the Court of Owls and the fucking Joker, and that was after said brain had been shattered by a fucking sniper’s bullet. (And a period of being left to fend for himself with a broken brain in between, but Jason doesn’t really like to think about that.) This time, he doesn’t know quite what to expect. He can’t imagine things have gotten even worse than the last go-around, but then again, Jason knows from personal experience that there’s no end to the list of ‘things that are worse than dying’.

Besides, the alert came from Babs. And, in quick succession, Tim, Bruce, Duke, and Cass. If nothing else, Jason is curious.

Dick disappeared from Bludhaven about two months ago. The reason the oh-so-precise Bats have the word ‘about’ in that statement is because nobody can really pinpoint the exact date it happened. Donna can recall dropping by his place ten weeks ago. Tim maybe exchanged a few emails or text messages a few weeks ago but didn’t really get alarmed about Dick not responding to his messages until the radio silence stretched for over a month. Bruce had his trackers on (that bastard) but Dick hates them and is known to destroy the ones he finds. And they can’t even really depend on reports of Nightwing sightings in the city because having his brain knocked around and pulled apart like taffy means Dick takes regular holidays from patrols if he’s not feeling particularly steady that day. (Look what being sensible and having a smidgeon of a sense of self-preservation got him.) And the CCTV in his apartment complex was shit, so. 

It’s almost like it was a planned thing, like he was kidnapped, but honestly it’s how things go and how they’ve gone for a very long time: they drift in their own worlds for long periods until an event brings them together, and then it’s back to being scattered across the country again (or sometimes the world, or sometimes the galaxy). Dick is more prone to this than most; he’s probably gone undercover more than any of them, and he’s lived the longest on his own as well. 

Even after the clusterfuck that was the last year and change, it’s nothing new. And if that isn’t the most fucking depressing thing that Jason’s had to think about today, it turns out that not only have the Family figured out where Dick is, but that Jason is the one that’s closest to his location. 

So here he is, shivering, on a particularly icy night on the Gotham docks, scoping out the warehouse where Dick’s supposed to be. It’s not very well-guarded, which either means there’s nothing in there and this is a massive waste of his time, or that it’s a trap and what’s waiting on the other side is a fucking bomb or something even worse. It’s not a great situation to be in either way, and Jason’s got half a mind to have Tim or even Bruce take over--but it’d take too long for them to get there and Jason’s never been fond of the idea of handing over to someone else anything that he could potentially do by himself.

Besides, like he said, he’s curious.

He crouches down at his vantage point overlooking the warehouse and presses the communicator in his ear. “Two guards in front but nothing else; the place is practically abandoned. Infrared picking up three people inside.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another, bracing, ready to spring. “I’m about to go in.”

Tim grunts. “I’ll be there in fifteen, give or take a couple.”

“Twenty,” Bruce says. Then: “Hood, you--” An uncharacteristic pause, and Jason can feel the sudden, uneasy chill across the entire comm channel. Bruce clears his throat. “Be careful. Assess the situation first. Don’t engage alone unless it’s an emergency.”

There’s a thanks for stating the obvious on the tip of Jason’s tongue, but something about the gravity of the situation, the mildest quaver in Bruce’s voice (he’s been missing for two months, god, two months) has him say, instead: “Roger that.”

Jason makes quick work of the guards in the front, leaving them in unconscious heaps on the ground before he creeps in. They’d hardly put up a fight, which just makes Jason’s stomach twist in anxious knots. The anxiety is made worse by the complete lack of resistance when he’s actually inside: there are only two huge, cavernous rooms, and one of them has two of the three people that he’d detected. They scatter as soon as they see him and Jason considers chasing, but now his nerves are stretched so taut that he thinks he’s going to vomit if he doesn’t see Dick now--

The night-vision on Jason’s helmet catches a figure sitting, slumped, in the corner of the room. A chain connects a manacle around its ankle to the wall, and another between the same wall and… a collar around its neck. Jason’s blood is already boiling before he steps closer and recognises the figure as Dick. His hair is long and shabby, having grown past his chin, curtaining his face. He’s shirtless but wearing ripped, stained jeans. His hands are cuffed in front of him, the thin metal biting into his wrists enough to leave his hands puffy and slightly purple from the lack of effective circulation. He looks considerably thinner--Jason can just about count the ribs under his skin--and every visible part of his torso is painted in bruises in various stages of healing. And--

--and he’s breathing.

Well, thank fuck. That’s a start.

Jason crouches in front of Dick and presses his comm again. “Found N. Little worse for wear, but alive and safe.”

He ignores the immediate clamour of questions from the others to focus on trying to get Dick awake. He brushes Dick’s hair aside and gently lifts his chin to have a look at his eyes. 

Dick smiles at him. “Hey.”

Jason is beset by an onslaught of emotion that’s part relief, part incredulity and part anger, so much so that he thinks he’s going to fucking burst with the pressure of it. Of course that would be the first thing out of Dick’s mouth--hey--like he’s meeting Jason for cocktails after work instead of being rescued after two months of captivity and torture! Well he can take that hey and shove it right up his fucking--

“Is there anything else here we need to worry about,” Jason says, busying himself with picking the locks on Dick’s manacles so that he doesn’t snap and say something he’ll regret.

Dick shakes his head. He’s got a shaggy beard going and he stinks of sweat and urine and filth, but there’s a sense of… togetherness to him, like he’d always known that Jason was going to show up at this exact minute and that had always been part of his plan. “They scattered as soon as they got word that you guys were coming,” he says, voice thin and raspy. “I guess not enough of them were curious to stick around to find out why so many capes would be coming for me.”

Jason pops the manacles and collar loose and goes to work on the cuffs. “So you weren’t taken as Nightwing.”

Dick sighs, then winces as the motion pulls on the gigantic bruise around his neck. “I wasn’t taken as Dick Grayson, either.”

The cuffs come off with a click. Jason stares at him. “So… what, you were just some poor mug they picked up off the streets to… torture for shits and giggles?”

Dick is silent for a moment. His eyes flick to a point behind Jason and back again. “They knew me as Ric.”

It takes a moment for the name to click in Jason’s brain, but he finally remembers that it was what Dick called himself during his brain-injured year in Bludhaven. “Why would Ric have enemies?” he says, without thinking.

There’s that smile on Dick’s face again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ric did have a life, Jason. And friends. And… enemies.” He begins to move, bare feet shifting against the floor and shifting his weight onto his hands as if he’s trying to figure out a way to stand up, but barely manages an inch of elevation before he runs out of energy, breathing heavily. “Ric--I used to fight. Street fights. Involved a lot more money and people than I remembered, and… apparently a lot of people felt betrayed when I just up and left the city one day. I’ve been fighting matches here almost every day.” A sudden, sharp grin. “I haven’t lost yet.”

Jason--stops. Utterly freezes, hands midway to helping Dick sit upright, because there’s something terribly, terribly wrong here. “Why didn’t you ever try to escape? And how--I mean, in the first place--”

How did you even get caught?

To Jason’s horror, tears start rolling down Dick’s face. His expression doesn’t really change, so Jason’s not sure that Dick’s even aware that he’s crying, but right now Jason is already halfway to being mortified. “I was on my way back from the gym,” Dick says finally, “and I think I--I blacked out. It happens sometimes.” Dick gives a wet laugh. “Talk about bad timing.”

“And--and what, you blacked out for two months?”

At this Dick’s face crumples, and suddenly Jason gets it: this is a man pushed and pushed to the end of his rope and beyond, utterly exhausted, past the point of caring who knows about it or why. “I guess…” Dick swallows. “I didn’t really see the difference. Between--between here and out there.”

Jason wants to scream, shake his shoulders--a shameful part of him even wants to hit Dick--and tell him that of course it was different outside of this stupid, dank warehouse: he has friends and family and a lifetime of experience to support him while he flies free. It’s ridiculous to even compare the two, and Jason is ready to put these words down to the effects of too much pain and too little food.

Except--

(plucked you right out of one life and stuffed you into another, didn’t they? treated you like a puppet without a past and a future, didn’t they? didn’t let you entertain the idea of a different life even for a minute, did they? punished you for straying, reminded you there was just too much at stake, and that those stakes were always, always bigger than you or your health or your happiness or your future--)

“Dick, I--” Jason really doesn’t know what to say. Tim says, “ETA five” in his ear while Bruce says, “Right behind you, Robin” and Jason knows, just knows, that this isn’t how they would want to see Dick, and more importantly, this isn’t how Dick would want them to see him.

He gathers Dick in his arms and presses him to his chest. Dick freezes for a second, surprised, then melts into his embrace. His shoulders shake, hands coming up to weakly grasp at Jason’s jacket. The sobs reach a crescendo quickly, a pathetic keening muffled into Jason’s chest, before tapering away and Dick is still, just… breathing. 

Jason breathes with him.

That’s how Tim and Bruce find them a couple of minutes later. Dick peels away and somehow musters the energy to reassure them. Bruce helps him up and carries him to the car while Jason follows; just as Dick’s lowered into the backseat his hand shoots out, grasping Jason’s arm in a silent plea. 

Jason gets in with him. Neither he nor Bruce say anything through the whole drive at the tears that continue to pour down Dick’s face, but Jason doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole ride.

[werezmastarbucks]

malé

honeymoon masterlist

word count: 1709

music: fall away by twenty one pilots

You were dead set on teaching him to swim. You can’t have him drown every day: you were going over all the warm places now, exploring seas. You were getting really tired of neverending beaches, but Kai was fascinated with water like never before. You found you could entertain yourself by making him less afraid of it.

As you looked down at the water through the window of your own private plane piloted by the most unstable person you knew, the sea seemed like a picture. There was no end looking at it.

“Hello, this is your very attractive pilot speaking”, his voice flew over the little plane. You smiled like an idiot. This was a fairytale. The whole thing was getting better and better every day.

“In twenty minutes, we will be landing in that city which is the capital of the Maldives”.

“Malé!” you yelled.

There was radio noise.

“You realize I can’t hear you from here, right? Anyway, it’s a decent amount of degrees outside, and it’s high time to change into your bikini and please bring over some champagne because I’m thirsty”.

You sighed, getting up heavily from your seat. It’s been awhile since you flew on a plane, so headache was setting in your head. You had no idea what it took Kai to learn to fly an actual plane. How many times he has crashed before he figured out the airways. And how many fires he’s been in before he landed it safely.

Well, the worst case scenario, he crashes it on the runway and you both burn alive, and then wake up already in the city; not too bad. Life was good.

You did not change into your bikini before bringing him champagne into his ‘pilot room’ as he called it. For a person who knew how some complicated ass machinery works, he knew very little terminology, but then again, there were no people around to tell him.

“Get back. Go away, you’re distracting me”, he brushed you away with his hand. The pilot cabin was all flickering and whistling, and you were not sure that was how it was supposed to be. You went back to your seat and watched the hard land get closer. You closed your eyes as the chassis collided with the ground, and the plane shook and hopped a little. You realized you were laughing, grabbing on the armrest of your chair. The weather in the capital of Maldives was nice.

Kai hit the water with both hands sending splashes all around.

“Let’s just overlook the fact there’s reasonably nothing else to do here”, he chanted capriciously, “but actually die. It’s just white sand everywhere!”

You stood in the water, feeling the tips of your wet hair tickle your skin. The sun was now blazing directly onto the tops of your heads and you asked yourself once again why you get up so early.

One of the worst things about the prison world was the lack of tiredness of hangover in the morning. There was no specific reason for lazy long cuddles. Kai was getting up at ten the latest and ran into the kitchen, excited as fuck about the new breakfast plan. You’d lie in bed in dread, thinking, he can only come up with so many recipes, and what happens when he runs out of them?

“We’re here specifically to teach you to swim”, you shook your finger at him. He followed it with his gaze obediently.

“You’re really hot when you’re bossing me around in your swimsuit”, he muttered. “Alright, let’s do it, tiny bae”.

It was cute how he chose all the gentle nicknames when he grew grumpy. A part of him didn’t wish to talk at all, and the other part, the one that pushed him, helpless, off the cliff, forced him to reach for a kind of compromise.

He was a quick but a lazy learner. Kai was like that one kid in the class who’s positively bored of the idea of studying; he knows enough, and he’s gifted enough. But there’s violent video games, boombox music and skateboarding after school on his mind instead of the terrors of civil war or equations. So, that one smart bored kid gives you hell, unwilling to perceive anything, groans loudly while you speak, and occasionally produces some witty remarks that make you giggle and hate yourself a little.

“Float, float!“

There was no denial you came to like holding his sides and especially his belly as you held him in the water where it came up to your chest. There was something extremely, intimately endearing about the way he allowed you to touch his abdomen, to hold him as he tried to stay horizontal in the sea. If only all those who hated so actively and readily on him back at home could feel his smooth skin under the fingers like you did. He was very human, very vulnerable. He was so human you knew for sure there are organs inside of him, and his heart, a massive strong and stubborn organ, pumped quicker inder your palm as he learnt not to go down. He really was nervous about the sea. And when he finally managed to perform a simple trick of floating on his back, arms outstretched, face above, you felt actually, sincerely happy. You felt truly, purely happy for the first time here, like all the joy finally returned to you. You felt human, too, and standing there, your hands in the blue-pearl water, still and sleepy, tiny ripples for waves running along, you looked at him smiling at the sky. How does one love? That was a damn good question Kai has posed.

You were wearing a happy jungle-green bikini, and you liked the way it was working with your skin. You made long swim-ins into the depths of the sea when Kai got tired of wiggling in the water like a featherless hen. He sat on the shore, a remarkable sight - one single human silhouette against a gigantic beach, lonely, - and waited for you as if he was afraid you’d swim away from him into the open ocean.

“Move your hands! Flap them!” you commanded, “like a bird! Like a bird, come on!”

Kai slipped out of your hands and stood, catching you in the clutch of his arms instead.

“Do you even know anything about swimming?” he requested, “I’m starting to get suspicious the bird technique is not good for sea”.

“Maybe I should just push you off the pier”, you mused, “that’s how they teach kids to swim”.

“Great plan”, he nodded, “but there are no piers here. There’s nothing but water and palm trees. I hate it here”, he added, looking at the sun maliciously. The eclipse came, and the air went cold instantly. There wasn’t any wind here, but still, standing in water while the sun was blocked out by the dark circle, was quite uncomfortable. You stepped up to each other, swayed gently by the quiet waves, and you pulled up to Kai, trying to find solace in his embrace. He was like a snake: almost always cold-blooded. His hands were fine, but he only heated at night, and all other time, he was just lukewarm, like a reptile. And as disaffectionate. Even when he got playful, his eyes were observing.

“Once we get out”, he said, and you stared at his two birth marks on the neck. You recalled seeing them last night, when you woke up in the middle of the night, pulled by something. That still happened occasionally. Kai slept like a dead puppy, his throat pulsating quietly with the pump of his blood.

“I’ll never go at sea again”.

“You’re just upset because you’re failing”.

“I never fail”.

“Then, swim like a bird, Parker!”

You pushed him in the chest, and the water grabbed him.

In the evening, the sun usually sat right into the water. There were no clouds here; Kai was somewhat right about this empty place. But there was certain beauty to the minimalistic design of it. All the surfaces were flat and calm-colored. The pastel sea and the white sand. The even row of the bikini-green palm trees. The blue sky. And nothing else, in the whole world. The radiating burning ball set into the water, gliding over, and the light turned orange from white. At the end of the day, you usually collapsed on the sand, both exhausted and burnt to red in the sun. Sand in hair didn’t bother you much since you had a very good shower at the house you occupied not far away from the shore. On the brink of the city, there were some nice rich people dwellings.

The sand was silky, almost soft, definitely not like the hard grass lake shores of Mystic Falls, big grained, leveled beaches of California or stone coastlines of New Jersey. You wondered what the lakes were like back in Portland and whether Kai ever spent any time there with his family, or with his girlfriend, or even alone.

He’d lay at your side, drained with the honest work he put into exercise, his moderately muscular shoulders going up and down with breathing. The skin on his milky white forearms and the back was going red with the sunburn, but whatever sting he was going through would go away soon after the sun set.

He knew, as he said many times, that there was nobody else here, so he was relaxed. He didn’t have to pretend either, so you discovered Kai was quite capable of resting somberly by you, his fingers playing with the sand that was more like powder, as long as you played with his hair. The wetness of it, the sight of the back of his neck with short black hairs, his exposed neck with the silver chain under your wrist, was something you knew was one in a lifetime experience.

You were lying snuggled against each other on a huge, enormous empty surface of the earth, warming up in the evening light, your bodies sighing with the heaviness of close, but never coming summer. And nobody even knew.

I like it here with you.

[if-you-built-yourself-a-myth]

As the World Falls Down

Robbe sat in the hospital waiting room all night, even slept in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs near the front entrance. He couldn’t bring himself to return to the flat—how could he meet Milan and Zoë and tell them what happened, especially since they would beg to know the surprise as soon as he pushed through the front door? He left his backpack at the hotel suite. It didn’t matter. The cleaning staff could pawn off all his belongings to the highest bidder, so long as he could see those bleach-blond waves and look into a pair of brown eyes. He needed to know how Sander was doing.

Around four in the morning, Britt went home. She didn’t see Robbe sitting only a few feet away as she exited. He wanted to hate her for everything she’d said to him hours earlier, but she looked so tired and sad that he couldn’t conjure the emotion. Maybe he would be able to later. He couldn’t picture her getting any sort of retribution for her actions, just the tears streaming down her cheeks and the hopeless air that followed her into the city as she retreated. He pitied her.

The woman Robbe had seen in the ambulance—Mrs. Driesen, he guessed—gathered her own belongings to leave a few minutes later. Robbe was surprised to see her with her purse, jacket, hat, and scarf, heading towards the double doors. He expected she would spend the night with her son as he rested on medications in a hospital room. He jumped from his chair to stop her.

“Is Sander okay?” he asked. He hoped his hair wasn’t too messy. This was not how he envisioned meeting Sander’s mother, not even in his wildest nightmares. She looked like Sander might look, minus the bleached hair and snarky smile. 

She blinked at him. “Who are you?”

“Robbe.” Robbe extended his hand for a handshake. “Sander was with me when…” His voice caught. “I just want to know if he’s okay.” He paused. “Can you let me see him?”

Mrs. Driesen moved her mouth helplessly for a second, looking for something to say. She finally settled on a clipped sentence. “You should ask his mother, when she gets here.”

“She’s not here now?” So the woman was not Mrs. Driesen. It must be Mrs. Ingelbrecht.

“No, I gave her a call. He had Britt listed as his emergency contact.”

“Oh, thanks.”

He took a step back and watched her leave. That meant Sander was all alone, in a gigantic hospital, right after one of the most traumatic experiences of his life.

No way in hell was Robbe letting it stay that way.

His mother took a turn for the worse a year ago. He watched her lay in bed day after day. He knew she was scared to be by herself in the room, frightened that everyone she loved would abandon her and the world would continue without her in it. He did not want to imagine Sander feeling the same way. Robbe knew his life was better with Sander, just as it was better with his mother as a part of the story.

He headed straight to the nurse’s station in the center of the waiting room. “I’m sorry, what room is Sander Driesen in?”

The nurse looked him up and down. “Relationship to the patient?”

“Boyfriend.”

She made a weird face, something that told him Britt had described herself as Sander’s girlfriend. Sander might look like a cheating, two-timing bitch now, but Robbe found the expression funny. He needed something like that. A reason to smile.

“The girl in here earlier,” he said, “was his ex. It’s complicated. I just have to see him.”

The nurse stuttered a little before she replied, “Visiting hours begin at eleven. You can wait in the waiting room—”

No. Robbe had to see Sander now. He couldn’t go back to the flat to face Milan, Zoë, and Senne knowing that Sander was all by himself, even if he knew that Sander’s mother was on her way. He felt tears pricking at his eyes.

“Can I please see him now?”

“If you were family, I’d say yes.” She continued to type on her computer. The click-clack of the keys made Robbe feel even more anxious than before. 

“I have to see him, okay?” he pleaded. Now there were full tears bubbling beneath his eyelids. He swiped the back of his hand across his face to keep his composure. “I was with him. He was with me when everything…” He felt helpless. He had to be with Sander, he just had to. 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. The nurse looked around at the nurses’ station, then pointed down the hallway. “Room 24,” she said. 

-~-

Sander looked smaller than ever curled up in the hospital bed. While his eyes were closed in the guise of sleep, he scratched at an exposed section of his neck with reckless abandon. The walls of the bedroom were painted a calming shade of blue, not unlike the walls of his mother’s room in the institution. Robbe approached as quietly as he could and placed a kiss on Sander’s forehead. He sat down in the bedside chair.

“Sorry,” Sander mumbled without opening his eyes. How he knew it was Robbe, Robbe didn’t know.

“No need to be,” Robbe replied. He tried to slide his hand into Sander’s, but Sander pulled away and rolled over so that Robbe couldn’t see his face.

“I was trying to stop it, I am trying, I can’t get out of my skin…” Sander’s voice trailed off. Robbe didn’t know what kind of medication they put him on, but he was surprised that Sander spoke to him at all. 

Robbe’s mother did the same thing when he went to wake her in the mornings. She would roll over. She would look away. She would stare right through Robbe as if he were made of glass, his father too, and nothing they did could help her. They cared for her until it was no longer within their control. Fuck, Robbe wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. He’d watched as it stretched their family to its breaking point.

This was not something to take lightly. He couldn’t assure Sander that he would always be able to handle his illness with grace and perfection. 

“It’s hot in here.” Sander pushed off the blankets. “It’s so hot everywhere. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not, I’m not.” Sander began to clench and unclench his fists. Robbe wondered if he should call a doctor into the room to give Sander something more, maybe to calm him down. The movement wasn’t violent, though, so he let it be. “Not.”

Britt’s words came to the forefront of Robbe’s mind again. Sander was asleep before he came in here. Maybe everything was his fault. 

Then again, if it was, there wasn’t much he could do about it now but stay.

He decided to  channel and old memory. He had been sitting on the edge of his mother’s bed, stroking a hand through her hair. It was something consistent he could do for her to show her he was beside her, without making her look at him or speak with him. That day was not the worst of days. If anything, it was one of the better ones. He learned how to braid on YouTube that morning and decided to weave her hair into millions of tiny ones. She told him once that she liked to have him near her. She liked to feel that he still cared.

As he made his way to the fifteenth braid, she cleared her throat.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No, I’m alright.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, I…” 

Robbe got up from the one side of the bed and made his way around to other. He sat in the indent his father used to leave behind when he woke up for work. “What is it?” He looked around. “Do you want me not to touch you? I can stop.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She stifled a sob. He hated hearing her cry, especially since it had become the soundtrack to his life. He wanted to make things better for her—at the very least, act as a painkiller for whatever horrible things were happening in her mind. Illness didn’t disappear by the power of love. He knew that, too.

“I—” she began.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want you to feel like, like any of this is your respo—” 

Robbe sighed. She had said this to him before in passing, on the better days when she felt good enough to make French Toast on the stovetop and hummed along to the radio. “Mom, I know—”

“No, listen.” She took his hand, one of the largest movements from the past few days, and placed something in his palm: a necklace, the one she used to wear to church, with a picture of a cherub beveled on the side. She used to say it protected her from demons. Her voice was delicate as eggshells. “You have to understand. None of this is... you didn’t cause this.”

“I know I didn’t, it’s fi—”

“—and nothing, I mean nothing, in my head can change my love for you. Nothing.”

He tried not to get choked up. He wanted to be strong for them both. “I know.”

“I love you.”

After that, she’d gone back to sleep. It was the last time he watched her pull her face under the covers before she left the house completely to go into treatment. He knew, as he watched Sander’s form in the hospital bed, that this wasn’t his fault either. Britt was wrong. It wasn’t fake and it wasn’t caused by him.

Robbe found himself speaking. “I don’t know what Britt told you, just what she told me.” He kept his voice low and soothing. “I want you to know that I don’t care.” Sander shifted in the bed. Scooting further away from Robbe in the chair at his bedside. Robbe continued anyway. “I know stuff is fucked up right now and nothing makes sense to me, but it’s not going to change how I feel about you.” He inhaled. “I thought you might like to know that. Tonight does nothing to change my feelings for you.”

It wasn’t much, and it didn’t make Sander face him again. 

“You’re always going to leave me,” he heard the other boy whisper. “They’re always going to leave me.”

“I’m going to stay here until your mom arrives, okay?”

Sander nodded, more to himself.

Robbe placed his hand on the bed, within Sander’s reach should he choose to grab it. “I love you the same.” He hoped this would be enough to make Sander understand.

[courtxdreams-blog]

✩ besito

SEND ‘✩’ FOR THE FOLLOWING:

Cameron & Vaslek.

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Vaslek.Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Cameron.Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Vaslek.Who trashes the house? Vas.Do either of them get physical? Jamás.How often do they argue/disagree?  Al menos una vez a lasemana, so funny.Who is the first to apologise? Creo que siempre se turnan paraceder y disculparse.

Sex:

Who is on top? Trickybc a Cam le gusta estar arriba, pero seguro a él también.Who is on the bottom? Se turnan I guess.Who has the strangest desires? Vas.Any kinks?  Bueno, aquí vamos. Roleplay con disfraces, bc son actoresexcelentes seguramente. Alguna que otra cosa con el bdsm, bc dominanteVas.  Les gusta jugar a ser multitaskingmientras follan y según mi siamesa a él le encantan las medias de red de Cam. Who’s dominant in bed? Vaslek ¿? Quierodecir Cam is like so cute, pero creo que tiene sus momentos tho.Is head ever inthe equation? Yep.If so, who is better at performing it? Cameron.Ever had sex in public? Aún no. Elbaño no cuenta bc seguro fue besos y manoseo sano ¿?Who moans themost? Cameron.Who leaves the most marks?  Vaslek.Who screams the loudest? Ambos, no es competencia.Who is the more experienced of the two? Están al mismo nivel.Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? FUCK, algunas veces prefieren ‘hacerel amor’ tho. Rough or soft? Ambos.How long do they usually last? Idk.Is protection used? Yup.Does it ever get boring? No hasta ahora.Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? Enel sofá, pero eso no es lo raro, lo raro es que estaban jugando a la play ynunca dejaron de jugar.

Family:

Do your muses plan on having children/or havechildren? En el futuro.If so, how many children do your muses want/have? ¿Uno? ¿Tal vez?Who is the favorite parent? VAS. Who is the authoritative parent? Vaslek.Who is more likely to allow the children to have a day off school? Cameron.Who lets the children indulge in sweets and junk food when the other isn’taround? Vas. Who turns up to extra curricular activities to support their children? Cam.Who goes to parent teacher interviews? Los dos.Who changes the diapers? Seguro Cam.Who gets up in the middle of the night to feed the baby? Se turnan.Who spends the most time with the children? Tratande pasar la misma cantidad de tiempo juntos, pero maybe Cam, por qué no estatan ocupada.Who packs theirlunch boxes? Vas.Who gives their children ‘the talk’?  Meimagino que si es niña Vas le va a dar la platica de manera super incomoda,para que no le den ganas de tener relaciones o tener novio bc celoso af. Si esniño seguro los dos le daban la platica también de manera muy incomoda bc funnyaf.Who cleans upafter the kids? Se turnan.Who worries the most? Cam.Who are the children more likely to learn their first swear word from? VASLEK.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle? A los dos.Who is the little spoon? Cameron.Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? VAS.Who struggles to keep their hands to themself?  Cameron todoel tiempo.How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Idk,por qué siempre se duerme encima de él y probablemente él sea súper “me aguantopor qué no quiero despertarla” seguramente mucho rato. Who gives themost kisses? Cameron.What is their favourite non-sexual activity? Cuandocada quien se tumba a un extremo del sillón y hablan por horas, hasta se acomodanlas piernas encima del otro. O cuando ven películas y Cam se queda dormidacontra él y Vas le acaricia el cabello o la espalda. Y cuando ella lo dejausarla de almohada y se la pasa pasándole las manos por el cabello. Where is their favourite place to cuddle? EN TODOS LADOS, el casoes estar sobre el otro.Who is morelikely to playfully grope the other?  Vas.How often do they get time to themselves? Todo el tiempo posible.

Sleeping:

Who snores? Vaslek.If both do, who snores the loudest? -Do they share a bed or sleep separately? Aveces duermen por separado, a veces hacen pijamadas y comparten.If they sleeptogether, do they cozy up together or lay far apart?  COZYUP. Hasta que se empalagan y cada quien se va por su lado.Who talks intheir sleep? Cam.What do they wear to bed? VASNADA. Cam usa unas playerasgigantes o térmicas bc friolenta y seguramente shorts o bragas dependiendo desus ganas y comodidad.

Are either of your muses insomniacs? Cam, sí.Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? Si.Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Cuandose acurrucan se enredan todos. Who wakes up with bed hair? Cameron.Who wakes up first? Vaslek.Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? Vaslek.What is their favourite sleeping position? ACameron le super encantada dormirse contra el costado de Vas, like con le cabezaen el hueco de su cuello y abrazarlo bc aferrada a él por siempre.Who hogs thesheets? Cameron.Do they set an alarm each night? Sip.Can a television be found in their bedroom? En el departamento deCam, no.Who has nightmares? Los dos.Who has ridiculous dreams? Quiero decir Vas, pero idk.Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Vas.Who makes the bed?  Ladejaban desecha hasta qué el desastre les cansará.What time is bed time? A la hora que les de sueño, a veces hablanhasta la madrugada so.Any routines/rituals before bed?  Cuando están cada quién por sulado se mensajean hasta que cualquiera de los dos cae primero. Cuando están juntosseguro se ponen a ver una película / serie juntos y el primero que se duermafastidia al otro.

Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Cam.

Work:

Who is the busiest? Vaslek.Who rakes in the highest income? Alos abogados les va bien, right? Maybe Vas.Are any of your muses unemployed? Ahora mismo si, bc estudiantes. Who takes the most sick days? Quierodecir ambos por qué prefieren pasar tiempo juntos a hacer algo de provecho,pero maybe Vas.Who is morelikely to turn up late to work? CAMERON.Who sucks up to their boss? Ninguno bc anarquistas los dos.What are their jobs? Vaslekes abogado penal. Cameron trabaja en un museo restaurando obras de arte ypintando algunas otras por su cuenta. Who stressesthe most? Vas.Do your muses enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? Sip.Are your muses financially stable? Sip.

Home:

Who does the washing? Cadaquien se ocupa de sus cosas bc sino terminan peleados.Who takes outthe trash? Vas.Who does the ironing? Cameron.Who does the cooking? Cameron.Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? VASLEK.Who is messier?  Vas.Who leaves the toilet roll empty? Vas. Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Cameron.Who forgets to flush the toilet? Vas.Who is the prankster around the house? Vas.Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? Cameron.Who mows the lawn? Idk viven en departamentos so no es necesario.Who answers the telephone? Elque este más cerca, pero si ambos están lejos probablemente lo dejen sonar.Who does thevacuuming? Cameron.Who does the groceries? Los dos.Who takes the longest to shower? Cameron.Who spends the most time in the bathroom? No se toman el tiempo, so¿?

Miscellaneous:

Ismoney a problem? No por ahora.How many carsdo they own? Vas tiene uno, Cam prefiere cuidar elmedio ambiente e ir a todos lados en tren o bus.Do they owntheir home or do they rent? Rentan.Do they live near the coast or deep in the countryside? Cerca de lacosta i guessDo they live in the city or in the country?  Ciudad.Do they enjoy their surroundings? Yup.What’s their song? Para mi, está. Aun que queda más para Vas departe de Cam.What do they do when they’re away from each other? Vasseguro esta con sus amigos pasando el rato o con Ollie. Cameron se la pasapegada a Helena o bailando o en sus cosas de frikis. Where did theyfirst meet? Enlos departamentos, por qué vecinos.How did they first meet? Cameron lleva todo el semestre sentándose allado de él o él al lado de ella depende desde el punto de vista y él la odiabaasí que así  empezó todo.

Who spends the most money when out shopping? CAM.Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Vas.Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Vas.Any mental issues? ¿No? ¿Sí? Algunos poquitos.Who’s terrified of bugs? Cam, pero los respeta.Who kills the spiders around the house? Vas, probablemente Cam le ruegue que no la mate sino que la saque con cuidado por la ventana.Their favourite place? La terraza de Cam, aún cuando Vas tenga que pasar agachado. Cursi af, pero cualquier lugar en el que puedan estar juntos.Who pays thebills? Por ahora cada quién paga lo suyo ¿?Do they have any fears for their future? A lot.Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Vas.Who uses up all of the hot water?  Cam.Who’s the tallest? VAS.Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Vas.Who wanders around in their underwear? Cam.Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Cameron.What do they tease each other about? Vas se burla de Cam bc es incapaz de decir maldiciones y la asusta cada que tiene oportunidad y Cameron se burla de él bc es malo en francés y cuando se pelean siempre le dice cosas sin sentido que terminan haciendola reír.Who is morelikely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Ninguno.Do they have mutual friends? Un par.Who crushed first? Vas.Any alcohol or substance related problems? Noupe.Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Ambos, ya lo han hecho.Who swears the most? VAS.

[seeingdoubleau]

Seeing Double: Chapter 1

Awakening

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They say you are your own worst enemy. You look in the mirror and see yourself from your own perspective. What do you think? Do you have high hopes for yourself or are your expectations really low? Do you hate yourself with a passion or is your self-esteem as high as the skies above? You you bash yourself for everything you do? Do you say truths to yourself or do you say lies?

Now imagine the saying put into literal terms. A copy of you. Might be exact, might not be. But they are still you. Is this copy really your worst enemy? Or are they your very best friend?

In this situation...

The former is prominent.

NYZ: Red Zone

Gentek Building

Blaring sirens pierced the nightly air, as they always do in the Red Zone; in one place or another. A group of infected had started amassing behind the adjacent blocks and in the nearby streets, just out of sight. Not long after the infected horde began roiling over the Blackwatch defences on the perimeter, James Heller joined in. Now a lone scientist named Evan was cursing under his breath in the deeper floors of the Gentek building. The place was akin to the Parisian catacombs, in the way that it too featured an abundance of bones, with the odd organ or skin sample from infected; unfortunate individuals who were chosen to be test subjects for horrible experiments.

Shaky hands produced a set of keys from a lab-coat pocket, fumbling to get the one fitting the lock. Something was incarcerated in the room, which could only be described as a monster, an “It”. A copy of it was already loose in New York, it would certainly mean the end of the world if the other was also set free from its icy prison. This was increasingly becoming a possibility, especially once the radio of the scientist’s escort crackled.

“All units, this is Fortress 1! The main facility’s gate has been breached. Converge on the gate and engage incoming hostiles. Do not let them in!”

The scientist froze. The main gate had been breached? How?

“Get your ass moving, egghead!”, shouted the soldier from across the gloomy hallway.

Even more panicked than before, he finally managed to insert the key into the lock. With a turn, the mechanism sprang into motion, and a heavy blast door began sliding shut before the room’s prize. But just before it shut completely, the room went dark with a loud clang. The power had gone out.

“Oh no. Oh shit...”

With the equipment and ventilation whirring to a stop, Evan became painfully aware of the heavy footfalls of a small army of juggernauts stomping away on the ground level.

The soldier’s dying screams shook the scientist out of his transfixed state, sending him scooting to the wall. The sound of a wet crunch reverberated through the otherwise still corridor. Hesitant, Evan peeked around the corner to see what had become of his escort. He gasped at the sight of the dismembered soldier and the form of a monster. A large brawler was helping itself to the soldier’s gory remains. Unbeknownst to the scientist, his keys had slipped out of his pocket. The sound of jangling keys was enough to attract the beast’s attention. It was hungry for more.

Evan shuffled into a corner, hoping desperately that if he didn’t move it would pass him. The massive, horned head of a ravenous brawler burst through the doorway, snorting angrily. It sniffed once more before finding its prey.

Once the brawler was finished with its latest meal, it gave the wide room another look. A big door with a small but workable gap was the most prominent object for the brawler’s curiosity. Surely for prying open, perhaps there was more food behind? It approached, gave the door a good sniff and noticed that the air was slightly colder inside. With a satisfied snort, it began clawing at the gap, putting its hulking muscles to use. The door was strong, but against the power outage cutting short the closing process and the might of a gigantic brawler, it stood little chance. The brawler gave a triumphant roar once the blast door gave in. At the very end of the freezing vault was what the brawler considered its next meal. In a large metal tube connected to an even larger tank by various tubes dripping with thawing ice, lay something that looked like a man, though his features were obscured by the condensation on the glass. The brawler clamped down on the pod with its powerful jaws, tearing the hatch off its hinges. The next moment a clawed hand shredded through its throat, and the brawler’s life was cut short.

Zeus Containment Chamber

The hunter’s carcass slumped against the cryogenic storage tube, gargling with blood. Grasping feebly at the tube’s opening, Alex Mercer pulled himself out of his prison and collapsed on the linoleum floor. His hand, which he’d barely managed to shift into a usable weapon, retracted its claws, returning to its normal appearance. Now that the oversized hunter had ceased to live, the only thing audible were his heavy, shuddering breaths. Dazed, Alex shook his head to clear the fogginess. The worst thing wasn’t the stinging frostbite and still lingering numbness, but the disorientation. Where was he? And how long had he been in here? A pit formed in his stomach when he realized; what about Dana?

He gave the hunter another look, which is when he realized that the beast was no ordinary hunter. It was much more muscular, and its rugged facial features didn’t match the typical hunter either. At least you could tell that they were once humans. This thing looked like some mishap between an alligator and a pitbull.

What had happened after Blackwatch captured him?

Something was very wrong… Alex decided he had to investigate, getting to his feet and staggering towards the exit ahead.

He trudged through the hallway, coming across two mutilated bodies; a scientist and a soldier he assumed was Blackwatch, but wasn’t sure. The gear didn’t look like it used to.

He broke into what could have be taken for a run, hadn’t he been frozen. At least his body was loosening up already. After rounding some corners, he came across an elevator— his way outside.

After clambering half-way up the elevator shaft, he noticed the screeching of infected close-by. Great, at least there was food.

Once he reached the door for ground level, he launched himself off the shaft’s wall, crashing through.

“Oh fuck...”

What he found on the other side was a snapshot from Hell. Alex recognized the place now. He was at the Gentek HQ. However, the last time he was in the building’s foyer, the place wasn’t littered with corpses from soldiers and infected alike. An intense feeling of desperation rushed through him. What caused this? He had rendered the infected headless by killing Greene and her horrid pet. They should all be dead! Being limbered up again, Alex sprinted out the severely damaged front gate and into the night.

Outside

If the foyer had been a snapshot from Hell, then outside was the place itself. Fleshy, bloodred-glowing tendrils the size of multiple trucks, wound through streets and up the shattered glass and steel skeletons of skyscrapers, reaching into the night. Grotesquely-shaped shadows danced on every surface with the tendrils’ pulsing bioluminescence. The sight made Alex even more unsettled than he already was. He looked around in disbelief, half-expecting this to be nothing but a nightmare that would soon end. A Dream of Armageddon like it was back then in Times Square. But when he blinked, he did not wake up. He was already awake, and this awful world was real.

Some of the soldiers —including some blue-glowing D-Codes— were still alive and holding the perimeter against the stragglers, but Alex pointedly avoided them, staying shrouded in the limited light. He was mostly thawed, but didn’t want to test their strength just yet, considering his difficulty shaping just one hand into a claw.

Once out of eye shot, Alex dashed up the sheer face of a slightly leaning skyscraper. The putrid smell of the infected city hit him like a tank shell on his way up. He covered his mouth and nose with his right hand.

From the roof he could see across the burning expanse that had once been Manhattan, a city of some few million inhabitants. Now most of said inhabitants were either dead or reduced to screaming horrors that wandered the streets in search for a meal. Despite the terrifying view and its even worse implications, Alex’s mind kept going back to his sister, Dana. Technically he wasn’t her brother, but a viral copy of the late Alexander Mercer. Nonetheless, he considered Dana family. He had to find her. And maybe also figure out how long he had been put under. So he headed to the last place he’d seen her.

[sowingseedsandshootinghoops]

The Fight For Your Soul: Neil Gaiman’s “American Gods”

Note on the text: I used the 10 Anniversary Edition (with the author’s preferred text) of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods as published by Harper Collins in 2016

This is an amazing book written by a fantastic author. Anyone interested in fantasy or mythology would love this epic story of the battle between the Old Gods of America and the New Ones. 

The Old Gods are modern reincarnations of the gods of ancient mythology and religion, while the New Gods are different manifestations of technology. The powers of each group of gods is fueled by the belief of the people; and when the people stop believing, when there is no one left to talk about the old ways, when all the evidence of that god’s existence has been lost to the sands of time, then that god ceases to be as well: “Gods die when they are forgotten” (651). How this happens, and the origins of the fight between the two sets of gods, is detailed by Mr. Wednesday, who is the reincarnation of Odin, the Norse king of the gods, when he tries to convince some of the other Old Gods of the need to band together and fight the New Gods: 

When the people came to America, they brought us with them. They brought me, and Loki and Thor, and Anansi and the Lion-God, Leprechauns and Cluracans and Banshees, Kubera and Frau Holle and Asaroth [and all the rest]. We rode here in their minds and we took root. We traveled to the new lands across the oceans.The land is vast [ though, and] soon enough our people abandoned us, remembered us only as creatures of the old land, as things that had not with them to the new [one]. Our true believers [either] passed on, or stopped believing, and we were left [behind], lost and scared and dispossessed, to get by on what little smidgens of worship or belief we could find. . . . So that’s what we’ve done, gotten by on the edges of things where no one was watching us too closely. . . . we exist in the cracks of society. . . . Now, as all of you will have reason aplenty to discover for yourselves, there are new gods growing in America, clinging to the growing knots of belief: gods of credit card[s] and freeway[s], of telephone[s], of radio[s], of hospital[s], and of television[s]. Gods of plastics and of beepers and neon. Proud gods, fat and foolish creatures, puffed up by their own newness and importance. They are aware of us and they hate us. . . . You are fooling yourselves if you believe otherwise. They will destroy us if they can. It is time for us to band together. It is time for us to act (175-176).

Technical Boy, the New God of technology, echoes Mr. Wednesday’s message when he kidnaps Shadow, the protagonist who works for Mr. Wednesday, and tells him to deliver a message to his employer: 

You tell him he’s history. He’s forgotten. He’s old. And he better accept it. Tell him that we are the future and that we don’t give a fuck about him or anyone like him. His time is over. . . . He has been consigned to the Dumpster of history while people like me ride our limos down the superhighway of tomorrow. . . . Tell him that we have fucking reprogrammed reality. Tell him that language is a virus and that religion is an operating system and that prayers are too much fucking spam” (70-71). 

Ok, so the New Gods are definitely powerful but do they really see themselves as gods? Gods in the same way that the Old Gods see themselves as gods? Well just look at the conversation that Shadow has with Media, the goddess of television, who is talking to him through the character of Lucy Ricardo from the T.V. show I Love Lucy: 

I’m the idiot box. I’m the T.V. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers around to adore.’ ‘You’re the television? Or someone in the television?’ ‘The television is the altar.  I’m what people are sacrificing to.’ ‘What do they sacrifice?’ asked Shadow. ‘Their time mostly,’ said Lucy. ‘Sometimes each other’. . . . ‘You’re a god?’ [asked] Shadow. Lucy smirked and took a lady-like puff of her cigarette. ‘You could say that’” (221-222).  

We don’t tend to think of modern America as being particularly religious, especially when compared societies of the ancient past. Mr. Wednesday however argues that modern Americans feel exactly the same impulse that the ancient ones did, they just express it differently. Before, the people would feel drawn to a particular place for reasons that they don’t entirely understand, and then they would “canonize” the spot by building a religious site on top of it. Think of the Oracle of Delphi and how it was built above two fault lines. In America, something similar happens. Americans “officially memorialize” things that are sacred to them. Think of about things like the site at World Trade Center, or the creation of a museum dedicated to a particular topic, or how a place of the most intense natural beauty gets further deified when it is made into a national park. Americans feel that same pull towards the divine that the ancients did, they just deal with it differently. For Mr. Wednesday the phenomenon is most obvious in the creation of what he calls roadside attractions: 

It’s perfectly simple’, said Wednesday. In other countries, over the years, people recognized the places of power. Sometimes it would be a natural formation, sometimes it would be a place that was somehow just special. They knew something important was happening there, that there was some focusing point, some channel, some window to the Immanent. And so they would build temples or churches or erect stone circles. . . . In the USA people still get the call, or some of them, and they feel themselves being called to from the transcendent void and they respond to it by building beer bottles of somewhere that they’ve never visited, or by erecting a gigantic bat-house in some part of the country that bats have traditionally declined to visit. Roadside attractions: people feel themselves being pulled to places where, in other parts of the world, they would recognize that part of themselves is truly transcendent, and buy a hot dog and walk around, feeling satisfied on a level that they cannot describe, and profoundly dissatisfied on a level below that (151-152). 

They are satisfied because they are, on some level, responding to that call, and profoundly dissatisfied because they are unable to recognize such places for what they are. They think that they are “just” going on a trip somewhere without realizing that the joy creating by places like Disneyland, the world’s largest roadside attraction, comes from the same mysterious that it always has. But because people allow themselves to just enjoy it on the surface level as a place full of rides and candy, they can’t really appreciate it. Those who can though are able to get something much more meaningful out of the “happiest place on earth” than those who can’t. They can, for lack of a better word, get a more real “experience”. The problem with the New Gods isn’t that they are evil, they’re not. The problem is that they can only stay on the surface, and not actually confront the real issues that are a part of being human. The Old Gods of love, hate, life, death, pain, joy etc know about human life on the level that the New Gods of technology simply don’t. 

And then, after all this build up, there comes the showdown. And it is an epic one. The Old Gods versus the New Gods: the war which had already “begun [even though] nobody saw it” (469). The war had already begun because it is war being waged everyday inside the soul of every man, woman, and child who has ever lived. A myth is a story that serves to explain some mysterious part of our world: of either our human nature and “nature’s nature”. If that is true than what Neil Gaiman has given us in American Gods is a modern, American myth. Because what he attempts to do here is explain different, mysterious, aspects of the soul of a 21st century American. What happens on the battlefield- a fight between two different systems of thought, between two different ways of living, is meant to mirror the fight that happens inside of every person. In the pages leading up to the central battle, Gaiman takes a break from the narrative to tell the reader that 

none of this is actually happening. If it makes you more comfortable, you could simply think of this as a metaphor. Religions are, by definition, metaphors. After all God is a dream, a hope, a woman, an ironist, a father, a city, a house of many rooms, a watchmaker who left his purse chronometer in the desert, someone who loves you, even, perhaps, against all evidence, a celestial being whose only interest is to make sure your football team, army, business, or marriage thrives, prospers, and triumphs over all opposition. Religions are places to stand and look and act, vantage points from which to view the world. So none of this is happening. Such things could not happen in this day and age. Never a word of it is literally true, although it all happened, and the next thing that happened happened like this (643). 

So what has Gaiman given us? A myth, a metaphor, a way in which we can view ourselves. A way for us to look at what we believe and why: a way for us to look at the gods we’ve created, what sacrifices we’ve offered to them, and to determine if we want to keep on worshiping them. The war between the old and the new, between the need to adapt who we are to a set of new circumstances while still needing to hold onto the fundamental aspects of our “old” selves, is one that we all wage everyday. 

People are meaning-making machines. They populate, kill, and then re-populate every corner of their world with meaning, sometimes the old meaning gets replaced by something new and sometimes it does not. Then they hope that the new identity that arises up from the ashes of this battle will be old enough to retain its authenticity while being new enough to adapt to the new circumstances which they have encountered in their lives. If too much of the old identity dies, than what remains is counterfeit. But the new identity is killed off, what remains is unable to grow and adapt to the new circumstances which life presents and will, in time, die itself. One of the greatest torments of life is that the synthesis between these two identities is never perfect and always, in an emotional sense, a bloody mess: 

The paradigms were shifting. He could feel it. The old world of infinite vastness and resources and future, was being confronted else- a web of energy, of opinions, of gulfs. People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust their conjurations. People populate the darkness with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock solid belief, that makes things happen. The mountain top was an arena, he could see them arrayed. They were too big. Everything was too big in that place. . . . Shadow felt sorry for them all. There was an arrogance to the new ones. Shadow could see that. But there was also a fear. They were afraid that unless they kept face with a changing world unless they remade and redrew and rebuilt the world in their image, their time would already be over. Each side faced the other with bravery. . . .  Shadow could see an initial skirmish had already taken place. There was already blood on the rocks. They were readying themselves for the real battle, the real war. (678-680).  

A new identity is about to be born. Both for the individual, in real life, and for America, in terms of the story. 

What Shadow learns by the end is that the gods don’t need to fight each other. That the new gods need the old gods to anchor them, and that the old gods need the new gods in order to be able to reincarnate properly into this new world. When Mr. Wednesday finally dies, he is able to reincarnate into a body, into a way of living, that isn’t so at odds with the modern world. And that’s the point. Don’t be afraid to look at what you believe, to look at what gods you create in your life. What you believe is a reflection of who you are. The point is to take who you are and allow yourself to grow while maintaining your essence. So that one day you can be living like Odin, totally himself and totally at peace in the modern world.